once more, with feeling

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Silverdust
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Silverdust »

He would not cross the gate. That was odd. The Rogue had walked in, no hesitation—he made the iron scream, announced his presence. This one—appeared. And would go no further. Strange.

But what know she, about the way of Warriors.

Thinking, thinking—thinking all along the nerves, what of his form she kept in her eyes. Wanting less, perhaps, but something else in the tension. Some shift; he moved. Moved just so, but she would not meet his eyes so she knew not where he looked.

But something lifted from her, enough. Some watching thing felt—less. The eyes, then. The eyes it would be. Little like hers, but more. He would be more.

She would keep her gaze down, then, down upon the legs—fire flicker, like the new Silent Song. She would keep her word at the ready. Trickier on the live things, blood things. Would not hold or did not stick. Long she had not used it, didn’t know it was hers. Only just, only now—now that her eyes, that she was no longer perfect. But could give her the very edge of chance. If she needed.

Did not feel, though, as if she would.

Almost…sad. Weighed against something, some violence, and decided it would not be so. But she could not know his thoughts, only his thinking of them. She watched the grass die around his hooves and stayed very still.
You must never run from anything immortal; it attracts their attention. Words not her own. Words remembered. Reminding.

“Your…attribute.” The word was harder for her to recall—so precise it need be. “Cobra? Manticore?”

She had other ideas, but knew not the names for all she had seen. All she had slain. Things that sunk their venom in the land. Made stone in their eyes. Breathed death. Warriors claimed after these. She would know more, should she know that.

He spoke, but not the answer. He spoke as Sanguine did, Brittle did when they worked their will.
Claim it then, he said.

She had meant to—was it so simple, that wanting? Or testing? If her answer more, would she be reweighed? Her name in his mouth made her seem something else. Something beyond her skin. Something she was once in the darkness, in the rush, in the pits where she’d—but no. No longer that, and only this.

Mare in the garden, breaking so slow. Nothing else to do. Nothing more.

Make sure you are remembered.

The stone remembered her mark, the sharpness of her hooves, the sudden of her strike. It would know her by this—it had. In her gaze, though, the fountain. The webs of decay. Dark on the stone. It would stay, this difference. It would sink. And he was here, for he was meant.

“My mark.” She lifted her eyes—to the dark throat, spill of gold, set line of the jaw, the very tip of a fang and no farther. “…I choose it to be yours.”

He knew the bounds; she had shown him. Enter, then. Destroy, then. Your path came here, so let it be. But what she would make of him would depend on this—on control, or release. And perhaps it would not matter, and perhaps it would be ruin across all she had made—but that too was the death dance, and it had been so long.

So, so long.

Songhue
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Songhue »

Basilisk

His answer was as smooth as torn silk, a whisper that rent the air and floated, lingering. It shouldn't come as a surprise to her, not really. It wouldn't be if she was trying to misdirect him. A useful tool, misdirection. There had been a few battles he'd won with it.

But she watched and didn't watch at the same time, moving through the stone as the small hooves landed with perfect precision. Chipping, breaking, marking, claiming. Lock wasn't trying to modify anything about her body, showed no deception in the way she moved.

It may well be she was the perfect paradox, after all. He found himself inclined to believe it, realized he had begun to believe it already when he'd had her proceed. Something in her was wrong, broken or stunted, and it freed him from having to use the caution and restraint he gave everyone else. Even the bondmate that learned when to scream, the one that could be made to suffer in silence, even his willingness hadn't been enough to allow Caustic such freedom.

He'd never thought to find it.

And an invitation, now, words that said more than they were meant to. Her mark there, upon the stone; a wish to share his mark upon her place, a greater gift when it was truly hers. He respected possession. This place, the shaped stone, the metal trees - fence - they were meant for her, these strange constructs with foreign names that were buried deep in his mind.

The way she phrased it, though, brought another set of imagery. Her mark, still, but representing him. Her mark, still, but belonging to him. All that she did, all that she killed, she would do with his name.

Possession.

Through the gate, then, and while it rusted and cracked where it touched his nose, the rest of it merely ground out a scream. Not a real one, not one that would satisfy his need, but it screamed, even still, metal ripping over metal.

He had watched, seen how deeply she chipped, how much she took. His mark as well, then. He could leave her something to remember him by; more than stone, certainly. But it was a start.

My mark with yours, he all but growled, and walked boldly through her private possession. The grass yellowed, blackened, leaving a trail of his passage; but it was always so. He turned his gaze to the first she had struck, the one he had found her at, and felt the stone weaken; but he wouldn't look at the full piece. He focused where she'd landed her hooves, high and sharp, an almost untraceable irregularity that was perhaps a bit too sharp, a bit too precise to be weathering.

He lifted himself - not rearing, not lunging onto his back legs, but simply lifting, an unconscious display of muscle and strength. His hoof found where hers had landed, touched the stone - lightly, so lightly - and then walked to the next, turning away before he could gaze upon the small web of cracks that rippled from her precise chip. Weakened, half melted, it looked as if something made of acid had struck at the stone and taken a piece from it.

It was hers, so he would not place the crumbling decay anywhere separate. It was not - not yet - also his. But as he had joined her here, his damage would join with hers, would add rather than compete.

He bit the next one. The stone hissed and bubbled, leaving the perfect impression of his teeth - of the hint of fangs. The stone cracked, a tiny breaking, the damage racing for inches before he turned away and it stabilized.

Black death trailed him. He avoided the shrubbery.

But not her. He walked as if she wasn't there, passing closer, then moving further away. Toying with her a bit, perhaps.

His bondmates, his circlemates, they shared a vital bond with him, a connection that helped them to cope with the death he trailed. Only his eyes, his strikes, would prove truly fatal. His circle mates in particular were almost-not-quite immune to the air that wavered and died around him, so close was their bond. It made them feel ill, made them need rest, made them sick and dizzy and faint, after long enough. With enough time it would do real damage, again. But the magic of the bond curbed the worst of it.

She was not his, not bound to him. Not yet. She would feel his passing in a way they would not. He wanted her aware of him. They didn't share the ties of bonds for her to be aware of him any other way, and so this would do. It was strange to realize that he didn't expect it to frighten her. Stranger still that he did not mind.

She'd cut deeper with her hooves, on this one. He let his gaze linger, put a touch of force beneath the weight of his hoof; the cracks that snapped and ground out from their joined mark ran longer, cut deeper, until there were places where weight alone kept it in the right shape. Not all the way through, not enough to threaten it, but a deeper claiming all the same.

He struck as he passed her again, his head whipping towards her flank faster than the eye could track. A small bite, a faint bruise was the only intent; marking her as they had marked the stone. Finally acknowledging her as he moved through her garden.

Tell me, he demanded, and then scoffed. No. Show me, Lock.

There was something, that something he couldn't define. A weight. More to her than she could say, more than chips in stone. She couldn't say, but she could show him. Someone who was this smart, who was this far beyond the ability to know terror, someone like her was not so simple and mad as this.

He wanted to see how far he could push her, how much she would reveal, before he finally had to restrain himself.
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Silverdust »


Basilisk. Word wrote scales in her mind, long twist of coiled muscle. More fangs, and more than that the leeching death. Had not faced one yet—would not go well. Brittle, Id, both close combat. Hinote, her: second line, also useless. Too close, they need be. Was that the
meant then? That she know this way, his way. What to do, should death be not the claw, the fang, the touch direct. Weakness, there. And Brittle was—

No. Do not think. Act. Learn.

He moved; she watched. He entered; she watched. Not the eyes, never the eyes, but all she could see beyond them. And there was much he told. In twitch of muscle, pulse of blood, small, smallest movement that built to intent. Eyes would be better, but dare not there, now she knew.

The metal screamed and it stayed there. Still air. All the living echoes gone quiet in his wake. No more the frogs, no more the insects. Wary, watchful, or dead. Could be any. Could be all.

She’d not join them—no, not like this.

He had control, though. Understanding the words beyond words. His dying, never deeper. Only where she touched.
My mark with yours. There was a promise to that—it sounded so.

Of what, she could not know. Only know the meaning in his motion—deliberate care, deliberate restraint. Do this, no more. He could do much more—she saw the divide in the strength that was, the strength he could mean. Like Id, in control. But Id’s control like a strangle, spider-thin. This one—mastery. Possession. Himself, under his will.

He bit the stone. She would not be able to. This, their difference. Warrior, and not.

And that she knew, always. From her first fall, she would know. The scars on her legs, through her legs—that would never fade. And so if he came close, she would be away. In orbit, but away. For he was in her place, but they were not the same. Never the same, and nothing between them. No Bond. No guard. Breathe shallow, breathe slow. Make the blood pass quiet and soft and sharpening in the ears, the eyes that once were perfect. Do as you did, before.

There, shift in force—smaller the divide. The black ran deeper. Some promise. Some intent, intent, intent that would echo in the next pass, next pass—

Faster than the eye, if the eyes had not been watching. She let her word go, in case, on what she saw—
Lock. Lock the drive of the neck, the snap of the jaw. But she would not know if it worked, how swift she danced away. She was on the still-white lip of another distant fountain—before she knew she was. Reaction set to flight, beyond her awareness. Simple instinct.

But he was Warrior. She would not forget. Even if she’d escaped the teeth, maybe not what came with them. Poison. His aura around him she could not see. It could’ve marked her. She would look, only she need keep her eyes as they were.

And he spoke. Words she knew, but unclear. She knew to read his body, but that language was not for this. She need words, then. Now.

“Show what, basilisk?” she said it as he had, perfect mimic in tone if not pitch, affect, effect. New word; she’d have to. The Rogue from long ago dropped his words into her mouth. “Secrets? Sins? Stains?”

To tell would take long; he knew. But it need be the words here, for her show had limit. Time, distance, bounds of her body. The seals beneath her coat, she could call—heal a bit, not by much. Could lock her wounds, just a while. Small panacea set in the back teeth, to be broken at her beck. All things meant for the long road, for where they meant to go. Next dawn, or the next after. Prepared for that, but might serve for here.

Not as Warrior, she needed these things. Lest she be marked again. And this was her garden, yes, but her garden was not
her. To mark her was something else.

She’d not called him by his name yet. She’d not yet decided she would. Small power, maybe to naught, but that she’d keep.

Songhue
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Songhue »

She was fast, almost faster than he'd thought. He might have felt hair against his muzzle, might have singed some; but he couldn't see, not properly. No matter. He would mark her, eventually.

Yourself, he called, and there was a power to his voice, more than a simple answer. He arched his neck, gathering himself, and the air around him darkened, intensified with the taint of him.

The snakes came. One, then five, then twelve. Not all were venomous, maybe two or seven; some were nearly harmless. They all came, all answered to him. A power he rarely called upon; it was better to keep it in the wings, better that they not see the fatal bite behind their hocks until it was too late. Few, very few, knew of this particular skill.

He could be everywhere, all at once.

But even these couldn't come too near him. They stopped close, but not too close, surrounding him in a writhing entourage that kept clear of the darkened air, the crackling grass, so dry. A glance beyond the fence, a small press of focus and intent, and a tree withered, died, collapsed with centuries of rot, until even the rot itself died. Dust and ash were left.

His gaze was softer, when he returned it to her; but he did look at her directly, the flank which had been his goal at just the wrong angle. The rise of her ribs as she breathed, the severe stillness of her tail; not even a twitch. So careful, so precise. And not a drop of fear.

He moved towards her, stepping slowly, deliberately. Pressing, testing, challenging. Would she flee? Would she bow, cry that she gave no challenge? Would she rise to meet him, risk her fate? Or something else, something that only her own unique mind would conjure?

Show me you. Who are you are. Who you were. Who you could be. Show me, Lock.

The snakes moved with him, writhing, climbing, hissing. This was him; the full of him, his will and intent, his power gathered and brought to the surface. He knew she had some power, herself; he had felt something break against his neck, his jaw, some resistance that had tried to halt him. That he felt it at all was a marker of her abilities. Perhaps it was a small thing, even so, but it was specialized enough that she held some strength in it. Enough to make his jaw pop with the breaking of it. If he were not so strong, if he were not a Warrior, it may have stopped him entirely.

That showed him something, but he would know more. He would know her by her reactions, regardless. How much could he push?
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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Silverdust »

In her garden, he made himself. Gloried, all his power. For what?

Why all these beings to show her what she could not be? What before she was. Before knowing. Before words. Warrior. Elemental. Rogue. Before.

Who you were.

Before her needed not the thinking. Not this watching—ever careful. It had been so simple. Simple see, simple do, everything laid out in dance and dying. The breathing. The body. The eyes. And she had seen everything to pass, everything to be. She’d known. In the surety, she’d known. Perfect.

No longer. Not after Id. Not after Bond.

All that was left—no fear, quiet eyes. Eyes that knew what they could and could not see. Eyes not like his, not quite. Those eyes, she felt. Rake across her flank, her rib. Stutter in the heart. She saw the ruin of the tree. What wished he, that she do so? Ash to ash, dust to dust.

Then why say different. Why show all.

Yourself.

What self? Only this, only moment. Present, always. Here, always. Every memory lived in body. Especially here, here now where he pushed and asked and clawed for something. And the eyes, ever fixing. Fixing on her. Wearing away.

Her. The stone. The tree. The grass. All they touched.

Test.

He’d looked her in the water. It was not so heavy.

How close he came, before—No. Don’t think.
Do.

She knew garden. She knew water, the fountain below her. Enough. Enough to twist-dive, like Id does, hooves light like a blade, spin a wall to—
Lock.

Curtain of water between him and her. Imperfect reflection. What do that, to the eyes that kill? Curious. Maybe nothing. Maybe something else. Things to know. For she wondered, too.

Who you could be.

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Re: once more, with feeling

Post by Songhue »

She was smart, fast, broken of fear; perfect. His lip curled, an expression too dark to be considered a smile, and he moved closer, yet.

Good, he whispered, his voice made soft with approval. The grinding of bones to dust, the fall of a tree into ash. Very good.

The water held, not ice, not changed - simply held. As the stone had held. As his jaw, his neck, had been resisted, held for less than a breath.

The power of holding, then, of locking into place; lock. Yes, of course.

But still, he would know more. Broken of fear, perhaps, yes, but of what else? There was more. The something.

He stopped, gazing at her through her shield, looking his fill. His power softened, spread thin, reflected; it would help. She was earning his respect, this mare that was so strong, so delicate. She would be the first to do so without knocking him to the ground.

This, all of this, was strange, a wholly new experience. He didn't precisely welcome it. The freedom to cast aside the restraint that let him deal delicately with others, the knowledge of an opponent he could freely play with. She wouldn't let a crippled leg stop her, this one; he would be able to watch the knowledge that he could break her at any time, would watch her wait to see if this time would be when he grew bored of their game.

It was unsought, unthought of. He had been content in his existence; content enough, even when his cravings grew. Now here she was, making him see there could be more. Making him see what he had failed to imagine.

It angered him. It enticed him. She needed both punished and rewarded, for nothing other than being what she was. This, then, could be the punishment, his testing. How to reward?

He did not know her well enough, not yet, to customize it towards her tastes, her needs. But he could still reward, in his own way, his own efforts.

The air lightened, his control reasserting itself, and the snakes disbanded. All but one, a harmless garden snake which slipped over the fountain towards her. It could touch her where he could not; it could be his proxy.

He would send it up her leg, across her neck, a soft touch to caress her skin, a small tongue to flick her cheek. If she remained still, if she accepted his token, his approval. That was the crux of it, there; so much depended upon her own independence. And this would determine the last test, would tell him what he needed to know of her mind, her soul.

This would tell him how perfect she really was.
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