once more, with feeling

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Silverdust
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Silverdust »

The wall had pleased him—soft in his voice. Not kind, like the Rogue. Nothing kind—from fountain break to water still, nothing of the sort. Fine, then. Kindness was small in her world. Tempered her Bonds—he was not her Bond, owed no kindness then, this way or that. Would not want, if his body told truth.

Water culled—she felt the little releases, all along her body. Heart, steadier, breath, easier, weight by weight lifting. Unlocking. Time bought. Time precious. She glanced at her flank, quicklike. Singe in the hide, purpling beneath. She hummed a note, pitched so to call it. Sive’s healmark rippled through—she was as before. Save the knowledge.

He meant to mark her. Mark her was—something else.

Could study him in snatches, close as he was, through the water. Marred his features, but not poorly made. Fine, perhaps—could she see. Could she have knowledge of such things. Mane waved gold, shine mare might covet, over all the fangs. Contrast.

She heard the snakes go out, one by one. Save one. Scales on stone, whisper fine.

Duality would not occur to her, as she was. Not the word. Only what formed her—in the deep without, the deep before. She had been owned, and made in that owning. She had been marked, and fractured in that marking. And there was the death dance, always—not like Id, poor Ares-cursed Id, who craved and denied—no, she didn’t crave. She simply was—nothing attached, will or wanting. She felt no passion for it; she felt no guilt.

It had occurred to her, perhaps she should. One way. Or another. And yet—nothing.

She took as it came. To survive. Because there was married to the nothing, only that. She had learned her eyes to do this. Perhaps, a different her would not the body see, would not the dance dissect—to be used, to go on. Perhaps if not her instinct tied to her body so, she would have lost in the dark, the dust, the small pile of deaths.

There, her between. No fear for death, yet unwanting. No love for life, but that it go on. Moment to moment, these two poles weighed. To be singular, as she was—just between.

But she could not say this. Not even know it. She could just—

Watch the snake swim, its intent bleeding the basilisk’s. One eye on it, one eye on him. Purpose was—not killing. Couldn’t call soft. Couldn’t call tender. Could call nothing—nothing like before.

She watched it; felt it. Every nerve along the leg, sparksong down her back. Featherlight.

The death drive said—
he has not earned this by power alone. The lifeblood said—to accept his favor, is to live.

Choice would be hers. And she chose—

The moment before the tongue would touch, and she thought—
Lock. A living necklace make of this. To a point, but no more. Not yet. If she be marked again, her choosing. How, and where. Who.

“Basilisk,” said she. “What mean you here?”

Songhue
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Songhue »

Balance, he told her, and for some - for those few who he truly spoke with - that would have been enough. Not her, though; had he not admitted to himself that he didn't know her heart, didn't yet own her soul? Surely he could admit that he was not so well known to her, as well. She would need more. She had earned it, so far.

Basilisk, she called him. Never his name. Only his power, a title; and he found he liked this, approved. Impersonal, perhaps, but it seemed to suit them. Names could hold power, in the right mouths. Intent, will, twisting a name, calling impulses, enticing. Yes, he would be her basilisk. There were not many who would use his name, not many he had spoken with to have learned his name. This was... Fitting.

He looked at her through her wall of water, watched as she stopped the snake upon her neck. She hadn't shied, hadn't moved away; and yet denied the small flick of tongue. Interesting. This much, and no more. Her choice, then. Choices would be important to her, if the marks he could now see on her legs were any indication. Injured at one point, severely. More than a fall.

There, then, was that something, or a part of it. Independence, the need to choose. It gave him pause, but didn't lessen his interest; no, she would be boring, if she were as his snakes. If she followed, blind.

Very well, then. Choices.

I pushed and you answered, he said, letting his gaze rake over her face, the damage of his eyes diluted by her water. And that, too, was interesting. Did it tax her to hold both, or was she able to remove her attentions once they were in her grasp? Was there a limit to how much she could stop? I give you my touch; my thanks.

He had tasted the touch of magic, a small hint that didn't smell of her save the most distant of associations. Magic not her own, shifting where he couldn't see, doing what he wouldn't know. No fear in her, no hope once he was still, but plenty of will, and a sharp mind that saw so much, so much.

Keep her, he said, and turned his gaze towards the snake, small and speckled, red and black, striped with white, spotted gray belly. It was frozen, yes, but living yet; muddied through the water, he pressed his gaze, his intent, and stopped heart, lung, life, stopped decay, stopped rot. Small things, a tiny death. And there was magic he could draw upon, magic not his own as he breathed that which tasted of autumn flowers, sparked in the water, and watched as the snake flexed - such a small movement - and twisted until it held its own tail. It fit like a second skin upon her neck, a perfect circle. The crimson and black suited the gray of her coat, the white stripes matching her own brilliant counterpoint; it fit her.

When you are ready, he said, his voice almost absent as he turned away, ask her to taste you. Your blood will bind.

A tiny charm, a living death; a snake that would strike at the wearer's will. Small protection from a tiny garden snake, a weak venom and nearly harmless to anything larger than a mouse; and yet a bite was still a bite, the teeth still sharp.

He gave her space, a moment to breathe, to collect - as if she would need such a thing. To move in safety as he ripped mouthfuls of dead grass, scouring the earth where his muzzle touched. Nothing would ever again grow from where he ate, although the blackened grasses around him would eventually heal. So long as he didn't touch anything.

There was nothing so languid in the movement that could be called grazing. He ripped the grass, swallowed, sating a raw need with mouthfuls of ash before moving towards yet another fountain. So many fountains, here, such a strange place of stone and flowering shrub, metal trees called a fence.

This one was full of green, smelled of rot and neglect. His focused his gaze and the green dried, broke apart, died until he could see enough reflection in the still water to please his curiosity. He glanced through the garden as if through broken glass, letting his gaze explore this place that was hers. Why here? It fit nothing he knew of, stone and shrub, metal and water. This was of no alter that he knew.

But as his gaze wandered he began to see; broken and lost, intentionally damaged, claimed with violence. But still, even still, not quite so broken as that. Some fountains were whole, ran clear. The shrubs gave a strange beauty in their wild growth, the fence restrained and seperated.

It suits you, he said, and didn't bother to clarify that he was no longer speaking of the snake he had gifted. He felt she wouldn't need it, wouldn't talk down to her. His eyes had not returned to her but traveled, instead, this place that was hers. This place where their marks had joined.

He had relaxed, but he was no longer handling her as if she were delicate, no longer watching for a fool's attack. The air around him was still darker than when he came; a fly buzzed by and fell at his feet, shriveled and burnt. The snakes still rustled nearby, restless, attentive. One of the statues rumbled softly as he let his gaze fall upon it a little too long within the broken reflection of the algae-lined pool in the fountain. Strange shapes, those stones. Things familiar and yet unknown. Yes, it did suit her.

Her choice, now, what she did. His chance to react.

Show me more.
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Silverdust »

Balance. Deep word—so many things behind it and her unknowing. Context. Between them there was not so much, not like the Bond and Bonded to her. Only these actions and reactions and the garden—broken, reformed, lock and key. But his body said, there was no need yet to understand.

This was to be expected.

Curiouser and curiouser. He looked her, bold through water—she held both in her mind, snaketongue and shield. Easier to do in the garden, could keep five instead of three, perhaps, and not count stone. Water was new; had not thought to try before. Interesting. Learning. That too, was gifted—second intention, under firsts.
I give you my touch. My thanks.

He would touch, as he could. That, too, between them. How must it be, to be like that? Untouchable—and not simply from your own making, but the being. Being as it was. He was.

Could be lonely, but he did not wear lonely—not where she could see. And many thought lonely of her, and were wrong. You are what you are. When she cared to care, she chose; she kept.

As she would keep this, then. This little death around her neck, though the words circling it were—vague. Distorted by water, body one removed. For it broke his gaze, yes, but also her eyes, to read what they read. She would hang on the words now, and the words spoke promise.
When you are ready. Your blood will bind.

There was more he wanted from her; he would wait for it. But what to give, in all that power? She watched him turn from her. To feed. Gouge grass, scorch earth—and it was feeding all the same. So mortal, this—that in all he was, he still needed the eating, the drinking. Other things she knew but did not. Not the body way.

He looked at her with the garden. She let the water fall upon her, and try once more—
Lock. Mirrorcoated she became. Shield her a little more, a little less? Test it—he would. In his way. His nature—from what she’d seen. What he’d told, and untold. She walked from the fountain, along his ruin but not so close. Never close. And watching.

Lines in the body at ease—some release had, some tension gone. Waiting, beside wanting. He cleared a fountain—saw himself? Maybe. Perhaps the eyes not a danger to one that has them; not a power that turns. Or it was. Hard to know without the dancing, and dance with him was—something else. Too new, for that. In time, perhaps. Much to learn.

“Made from me,” she said, to the words, cast far and locked the tremor in the stone. “Soulstuff, seeded. To…heal. My Bond asked, her sister did. So I don’t need words.” Closer she came, to see the fly fall, to see the air die. “Path here is…unfound. How came you?”

Little Pandora, smiled Brittle-in-her-head. Knew again why she’d been named so, to walk just so in the path of those eyes, to see what the water might do.

Songhue
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Songhue »

Clever, so clever. She kept surprising him, and he wasn't used to being surprised. He turned from the fountain as she grew near enough to enter his gaze again, the not-quite-looking at the side of eyes, focusing upon the strange and reflective shimmer that covered her coat. Oh, yes, she was a clever one.

But this, then, the strange place that was hers; it was to save her from speaking? Speaking of what, with whom; was it as she'd said, secrets, stains, sins? Why speak of them to purge them from marking your soul when you could bring something into being which perfectly represented... Yes, that made sense. Bonded magic, always meddling, always changing. No wonder there were those who chose never to bond.

His gaze, diluted, thinned, made softer through the linked-and-locked droplets. Her lines were softer, perhaps, the edges of her stripe a bit blurred, but he could see her clear enough all the same. Clearer than as a mere outline, a hint of color at the edge of vision. Clearer than reflected in the fountain from a distance.

Made from you, to heal without words, without speaking of it. Very well. Your idea, or the bonded's? Hard to say, at this point; she was too smart, by half.

And a question, leading, seeking. How he had found her secret place, this private piece of what she was. It was a worthy enough question, and as she had once again impressed him he rewarded her with his answer.

I needed someone to play with. I followed that need.

He didn't notice how the word play took on a different weight when coming from him, didn't realize that his eyes flashed darker for an instant, that the air pulsed around him just a little with the stirring of his hunger. He did know that his gaze raked over her anew, tracing every curve of her; avoiding her face, for the face may not be so protected as the rest of her.

I pushed and you answered, he had said. They had played, for a moment, a press of powers, a stout resistance. Press and hold, push and break. It had, oddly, helped. He hadn't expected it to.

Shining water tracing her shape, tossing back reflections in the little droplets. Small things he could still do, little deaths; petrifying. Full death, true death, that was harder as the touch of what he was spread thin in the shimmering coat. So long as he didn't press, she would be safe. Mostly.

Only mostly.

Why did you call me in? Your place, your possession; your choice. Why?
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Silverdust »

Break-break-break—soft locking all along her lines. But bearable. Intent, could shift; not past a Warrior, one strange as this. Changeable as Confetti—more grounded than. She read not shatter in his way, his move. Not now. In time, there was difference. Could be. But that the thinking, and nowhere here.

But still she watched, kept her eyes low and sharp. His lines—more like Brittle. Sure strength. Sure will. Clear between what was and could be. Touch Confetti—still, proud, the power as shield so no need for the close and swift. Less Id, but in the ways that killed. Good for her. Perhaps. Until the line crossed, somehow.

And words—understood through her pieces. This, like the Rogue: patience. Different mask; same root. Curious. Questions. “Not…exact. When this made.” She moved past an empty pedestal, half columns. “Could not speak. Not words. Most she. Could not…care, then. Either.”

Words came and went—sometimes she had them, most times not quite. Slippery, slippery, and back to eyes. Her Bonds still made the eyes so easy. Warriors, sure in body—Hinote, simple and loud—Signal, chose not speak—Sanguine, the Bond. This one, the Rogue: both walked line. Both stayed. Waited. Answered.

I needed someone to play with.

Play. Sound odd, from him. The way Confetti used it—play flipped and steeped down, down in pit. No lightness. No foalgame or fooling. In Brittle’s long going, Confetti and Id ‘play’—she learned that meaning then, the almost way this one made it. “Need Warrior for that,” she remarked, stepping that much farther. Not fear so, but—question. If she test the tether, would he follow? Or stay, bored. “Your Bonds. Better made than me.”

For she amused him, maybe. Said the lines, some interest, some curious thing. Said the weight around her neck—some possession. That still, strange to her. Or the way of stallions, or Warriors, or maybe just he: wanting. Once, she was wanted. Now—the way of imperfect things. Yet, question continued. Yet, he pressed.

Curious.

“You are here, then you are meant.” She shrugged, kept turned over her shoulder as she walked deeper—sure no walls would bar her, no stone would enter her path. “Would not find…if not so. Do not know why. Find out, maybe.”

Could be many things. Could be to learn him—the way of basilisk, should it count on the long road. Could be to piece her—as the Rogue, some making in the words. Could be the death dance, finding her again. Could be; could be. Reasons wore words—words she’d need, in the place that didn’t. She kept her eyes back, and moved farther. Far and far the garden went with her. No locks.

Songhue
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Songhue »

He smirked as she moved away, still talking, her face still turned to watch him. He could see it in the curve of her neck, the line of her shoulder; luring him. Where would you lead me, snake-bearer? he thought, and stepped forward with an easy saunter. Snake-bearer, indeed, and he the snake caller.

He hadn't understood at first, what this place was. The bonded's idea, or so it seemed, a way to fix the little mare, to make her a bit less broken. To give her words, to remove the pieces that needed removing that blocked the rest of her.

And she held curiosity, this bold mare. Find out, maybe. To see what brought him, what led him to her. To test the water as a rippling armor, held in place around the shape of her. Excellent timing, to hold it before it fully strikes upon her coat, before it changes and absorbs. Little droplets, chained together.

I do not play with warriors, he corrected, the air around him stirring slightly with the hunger of the word as he watched a mouse skitter out from under a bush - where there were snakes, there was food for them. Watched the mouse stumble, tumble. Drag itself, pieces of it failing. The tiny, breathless squeaks of panic as it failed to understand.

One of the snakes came and he turned his gaze back to Lock, this odd combination of bold and broken that had him so intrigued. An easy meal given to his scaled servant, yet even the snakes he ruled needed to move wary of his gaze.

I destroy warriors. There is a word that is shared, saved for such times, when I play. When he kept someone, watched them. Damaged them. There were limits granted, even then; balance.

He moved closer, drew beside her; she might taste a bit of his acid, but it wouldn't be enough to cause true damage. He didn't care about small harms, tiny discomforts. But he was ever-mindful of the permanent breakings.

If you were to say "Mongoose," I would know I had pushed you too far, he continued, the words dropping with all the casualty of ragnarok. If you had your guardian bite me, I would know you sent me away. It had been a small gift, the snake he had charmed with his bonded's magic, but it would suffice for this; for this was the balance, this was her consent. If he pushed too far, she could stop him. If she sent him away he would never return. Until then, however, he would do what he wanted.

He wouldn't listen to resistance. He wouldn't heed her pain. When it was truly too much, she would have to use their word.

My need brought me here. You are better than a warrior, than others. Unique. His bondmates, his circlemates; no, they would fall if he played with them. He would damage them too much, change them too drastically. All save for Eternal, who would change and damage him, for she knew his deepest weaknesses and held a greater power. He was a Warrior, meant to fight; a basilisk, meant to kill. But he was no Rogue, and he was not immortal.

He'd tested her, and he'd approved of what she'd shown him. Unique, indeed - he let his gaze slide along the garden, underscoring the word, these pieces that had been drawn from her to release something that had been locked away, to release the words and the choice to care.

It was almost poetic, the making of this place. If only he were capable of recognizing such things.
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