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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [private]  put my heart where i couldn't reach
    #1

    VILLANELLE

    Villanelle cannot say that she is a kind woman.

    Quiet, yes. Thoughtful, sure.

    But kind? Absolutely not.

    Even growing up with a devoted and loving mother had its pitfalls. Sochi is fierce, powerful, and a wonderful parent - but that ferocity she carries so easily was only destined to be passed on to her striking daughter.

    And her father? He taught her all kinds of things. And while Castile loved her - still loves her - Nell learned far too much of cruelty and violence from him. It shaped her, that fury and flame. Now she is molten hot, the kind of glimmering blue of a fire too hot to come close enough to extinguish.

    Volcanic is the term the near-feral woman has found for herself. She is the blood of dragons, the princess of a fire-breather, birthed of the fierce black and orange of tigers. "Volcanic," she whispers suddenly to herself -

    And tonight she is ready to explode.

    When she finds the behemoth, towering and certain in the way of Victorian castles, Nell's initial reaction is merely to pause and watch him with interested, near-hungry eyes.

    "Hello," the woman eventually settles on, considering her words carefully and deciding this one won't like a flashy greeting. "You look irritated," Nell adds in a curious whisper.




    @[morrowind]
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    #2

    I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --

    There are women like her back where he is from. Women who are carved of flame—made of the very thing that is meant to destroy. He recognizes that in her from the second that he sees her. Watching her with his hooded eyes as she moves through the forest, flickering with the kind of fire that can only be born into someone. It catches his interest, snags it, and he doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he is able to ignore his own frustration for a moment. It is a welcomed distraction when she finally stops near him.

    For a second, he says nothing.

    And then a second longer.

    Morrowind is used to keeping others waiting. He does not mind keeping them on the hook. He feels no rush to answer her—no obligation to answer her own interest. He so rarely saw others as equals who were just as deserving as him sating their interest as he was deserving of them sating his own.

    Finally though, his own desire to learn more overrides the arrogance that stretches the silence out.

    “Perhaps I am,” he rumbles, looking down his nose at her, his features carved from granite and stone. He shifts and despises the way that this mortal body aches when it stands still for too long. The same way that it aches if it is in motion too long. Such a weak, flimsy thing, in the end. He once spent a thousand years standing atop a mountain to watch the storms as they passed, to watch the earth grow and fall away.

    He cannot do such things here.

    “Why would it matter to you if I was?”

    MORROWIND

    Reply
    #3

    VILLANELLE

    Carry a burden for too long and eventually one's back will begin to ache.

    That is what Villanelle feels now, peering into the seemingly depthless eyes of Morrowind: ache. Her spine curves beneath the weight of his gaze, her shoulders crumple, her brain attempts to fold in on itself.

    Of course, the black and blue fighter that the stranger can see does not know this. Nell will sooner die than reveal what hurts her. What she hides is the unexplainable wounds, the ones that sneak up on her when she is sunbathing on a Loessian rock. She grows irritated that the sight of a wicked stranger can stir such emotion.

    Almost annoyed enough to blame him. Almost.

    "It wouldn't," Nell states simply, dropping her chin in a way that feigns thoughtfulness. "I was just making an observation. Why would I care for a stranger's woes?" She is defensive but she tries her best to hide it with a nonchalant tone.

    "Perhaps I want to know why you're irritated. Will you tell me?" She isn't making much sense, now, but the words tumble out of her mouth regardless.




    @[morrowind]
    Reply
    #4

    I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --

    She grows chagrined quicker than he would have imagined, but it does not dull his irritation or stoke in him feelings of warmth and kindness. Back home, he was never known for being the gentlest of his kind. His brothers and sisters had always known him to be too stoic—too serious. He took to himself more often than not rather than join in their festivities. Never quite understood their humor, let alone partake.

    So these strangers in these strange land do not cause him to feel any different.

    “You shouldn’t,” he says simply, rolling a massive shoulder. “Just as I would not care for yours.” It is harsh, perhaps, but it’s honest and Morrowind has always erred on that side when given the option. It was nothing more than gilded lies otherwise—flimsy and useless and ultimately toxic to whoever received it.

    She, however, doesn’t invoke fury in him either so he doesn’t dismiss her or simply leave. She is complex in the way that she waivers between fury and irritation and near apathy. It’s a curious thing and he figures if he is stuck here—for now, at least—then he should do his best to try and understand them better.

    “I don’t know if you could understand,” not thinking that it could be taken as an insult. “I’m not sure that I do either.” He looks back upward before looking down his nose at her.

    “This is a strange place to be stuck. I’m not sure I understand what lesson I am being taught.”

    MORROWIND

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    #5

    VILLANELLE

    "Hmmm," Villanelle hums out when he tells her she probably won't understand. Intelligent with her naive flaws on top of growing up the princess of a kingdom-destroyer, she does not take kindly to her mind being slighted. Dark, velvet lips press together in irritation. Her silver eyes flash up at him, hinting at the flint and steel her tongue wields.

    In these moments, the iridescent woman wishes she could be more like her mother. So able to carry her dignity.

    Nell only feels small, now. Defensive.

    Morrowind mentions lessons and the tobiano mare barks out a laugh. Those silver eyes flick up to him again, this time holding something close to pity.

    "There is no lesson to be taught," Nell states, teeth snapping down harshly at the end of the sentence. "Beqanna is senseless," this she adds bitterly, thinking that her father's violence and infidelity are not nearly the peak of their land's madness. "But if you're looking for a lesson, the Fae on the Mountain will happily teach you one."



    @[morrowind]
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    #6

    I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --

    He is not dense enough to miss that he has offended her—and if he was less arrogant, he may have apologized. As it is though, he simply takes note of it and moves on. The storm doesn’t apologize for the damage that it wields and he does not think that he needs to either. He simply stands still, like a giant oak, unyielding and still, not disturbed the flash of her silver eyes or the sharpness of her tongue.

    She snaps at him and his tail flicks, hitting massive haunches that still feel so small to him.

    “There is always a lesson to be taught,” he responds with an equal sharpness, not stopping to consider that perhaps the vitriol he has met in this world is of his own making. If he is constantly met with a cold shoulder, or mockery, or steel, would it not stand to reason that he is the common denominator?

    But he doesn’t consider it.

    “If you don’t think there are lessons to be learned, even in this mad land, then you have never learned one,” his eyes sharpen and he jerks his chin haughtily, expecting at least in part to still be considered a god among them, even in this mortal form. She gives him some information though, and for that he softens a little, his expression not quite so cold and unforgiving on the edges of it.

    “Tell me more of this Mountain.”

    An order more than a request.

    MORROWIND

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    #7

    VILLANELLE

    She is a near petulant thing when standing before him, tiny and tense, staring rebelliously up at a once-god.

    What lesson is there for him to learn? Nell almost scoffs, eyes of molten steel slitting to a suspicious width. Like two moons her emotions are carried upon, the eyes give her away. She is expressive, not stoic, so terribly different from the woman she perceives herself as. So terribly different from the behemoth standing opposite her.

    “It’s foolish to look for lessons where they are not,” Nell quips back, though the satisfaction is stiffened by her inability to keep her irritation from her tone. She wonders, briefly, if he’ll tire of her attitude. He certainly doesn’t seem the type—she thinks he’ll brush past her without a thought, if he truly desires so. That antagonizes Nell further: an assumption turned sour as they often do.

    A grin, sly and wolffish, lifts Nell’s lips. She thinks she has something he wants, intoxicatingly delicious. She is back to being a spindly girl, teasing her non-royal counterparts, more vicious than the fire her father spits. Excited ears swivel, the moon-mimicking eyes shift, the grin peaks—she is devilish, perhaps impish, so impossibly misbehaved.

    “It’s a mountain,” Nell states flatly. “It has rocks and dirt, and when you get to the top, the trees grow sparse.” All facts even a babe knows. The woman’s now closed lips twitch.

    After a beat, she sighs, almost disappointed. “The Mountain has magic and Fae. The Fae sometimes grant magic to those that ask—but never without a price. If you go begging for a lesson, I’m sure they’ll give you the exact opposite of the one you want,” she says, as plain as before. Her mouth no longer twitches but the eyes—the eyes continue to give her away, dancing like frantic lovers caught in a tune, twisting with something far too devilish to just be mischief.



    @[morrowind]
    Reply
    #8

    I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --

    He doesn’t enjoy the petulance, but neither does he tire of it. The storm would soon rather tire of the tree that it rips from the ground. Instead, he just feels the whiplash of her tongue like blunted blows against his chest, barely registering the sharpness in her eyes and the vitriol seeping from her very mouth. He angles his head to consider her, trying to understand what she thinks is so foolish of looking for lessons.

    Not resigned, but unwilling to engage much further, he shrugs.

    “If you don’t look for lessons then perhaps it is a waste of my time to talk with you.”

    What fool doesn’t look for lessons?

    It baffles him and he shakes his massive head, but there is something that he wants enough from her that he doesn’t leave just yet. His ragged hooves remain firmly planted in the ground, the mud creeping up around them. “We have mountains like that back home,” he says, the humor eluding him. His mouth furrows in the corner, pulling into a frown. “I hardly see why it’s something to tell me about.”

    But she continues and he grows quiet.

    Fae.

    That must be what he’s looking for then.

    “I do not paying the price,” this is said with steel underneath as he straightens his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height—a behemoth in this form and yet still so diminished from his true nature.

    MORROWIND

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