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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


    [open]  If you leave
    #1
    I can beat the night, I'm not afraid of thunder I am full of light, I am full of wonder


    I laid there—like some sort of corpse being engulfed more and more every hour—with my black knotted mane wrapping itself within the snowflakes, and my face flattened against the turf. With every breath I took, I felt the chilled air waft into my nostrils, stinging the inside wall of my nose and aching my throat; like choking, except not.

    I thought about that moment for a long time, as irrelevant as others might see it… I see it differently. I wonder, even now, how my body reacted. What made the sting, why did (with every breath) I feel like my throat was contracting and closing and begging for life to cease right there. How could I feel so close to death, yet be able to raise from the snowy cold terrain and feel life blossom within my body and a blast of heat rejuvinate my insides… it’s things like this—questions like this—that make me wonder. 

    It is memories and inquisition like this that make me stand—here, and now—and waste countless minutes (arguably, hours) pondering rather than socializing.

    I do this a lot. I get trapped inside my mind that spins and turns like a wind turbine in tornado season. Like right now, because I am standing along the Dale border—surrounded by beautiful aged pine trees and inhaling the scents of sweet nature—yet thinking about the time I felt so close to death that the grim reaper could have been hovering above me.

    An itch explodes along my shoulder and instinctively I swing my neck around to sooth my skin. The cooling feel of frost against my muzzle tickles the growing whiskers surrounding my nose. You would think I love the cold, being permanently painted with winter, but sometimes I wish I would touch my skin and feel hot, hotter than a kettle whistling.

    I hesitate, now fully aware of what my intentions are, debating on whether or not it is my time to commit to the Dale. It was seemingly my families decision, but is it mine?

    N E V A
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