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 Year || 503
 Season || Fall
 Temp || 35℉ (℃) - 69℉ (℃)
 Weather || The iron grip of Summer has slowly faded into the gentler Fall embrace. The morning dew frosts over in the early morning hours and melts by the time the sun hits high in the sky. Many of the trees have traded their lush, vivid green for a more suitable array of red and orange hues. But don't blink, for Winter's cold embrace is fast upon Fall's heels.


Character of the Season

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Thread of the Season
r.i.p. to my youth;

Pair of the Season
Atreus and Fiona

Quote of the Season
"Are there lines she's crossing? Should she toe them or touch them with a pole and stay away wholly? But to avoid such a storm he offers, such a taste of life; to withhold herself from the chance to taste starlight, to love satin and silk and swallow pomegranate seeds not yet offered... She should be stronger." — Moira in
Small as a wish in a well

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The Character


Gender: Female
Pronouns: Female [She/Her/Hers]
Orientation: ???????????
Height:14 hh
Signos: 0 (Donate)

Joined: 05-07-2018
Last Visit: 03-20-2019, 10:59 PM
Total Posts: 0 (Find All Posts)
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malikat alshams
TW - rape

born of dune and storm and sky,
came snake queen sol, darkness’s blight -
a beacon of fury when death was nigh,
who, when all was black, brought back light.


You were not born among the sands.

You drifted – in frothing darkness – for so long. You do not know how you came to be; you have no mother and father, only salt and sea. You swam. It was cold and black, and cold and black, and you knew nothing but the cold and the black.

But you have always been curious. It was the death of you once – twice.

You count your first death as the one that dragged you ashore with nets and knives. You watched them for days, these strangers creatures that darted like minnows along the shoreline, and you made the foolish decision to come closer, to pull your head from the waves that had always cushioned it and meet their gaze. You were a foolish girl. You did not know that they would see the way that you gleamed, like polished stone, and they would wish for your gleaming for themselves.

So. You died once when they pulled you from the water, wriggling and screaming, snapping at the nets. You lost your life when they dragged you to the feet of a young tribal king, a Hajakha, and they told you that you were his. You did not know what that meant, then; you did not know their words, their desires. You did not know anything. And then, worst of all, most unforgivable, you lost yourself when they stole your name from you – the name the waves lulled you to sleep with each and every night – and called you “Sol,” like the three other concubines. Only the first wife could have her own name.

They collared you, clothed you in silk, perfumed you with rich incense. They tied you to his throne and gawked at you – he stroked your hair and horn and hips, and he forced you to lay your head on his flank. When you tried to bite him, they muzzled you. When you tried to drive him through with that long, sharp horn, they drugged you. That night, he took you back to his room. You barely remember what happened, though it would happen time and time again; you don’t want to remember.

This was the first of how many days – of many days – spent in dark and haze.


Oh sun-lit daughter, beloved of your king,
oh slick-scaled serpent to his steel; more vicious a pairing
the sands had never seen. But bitter sting
greets foolish credence – the snake queen, unsparing,

reddened his throat with her teeth.


You don’t remember how much time you spent chained to his throne or in his quarters, dragged dazedly between one glimmering realm and the next; you are not sure if it is the drug-filled haze of forced compliance or the pain that the memories inspire that forces them to the back of your mind, indistinct as distant figures on the dunes in early dawn, but, either way, you barely remember your first year – years – in the palace. But he tires of you eventually, and his boredom grants you some, small freedom. He keeps you chained in a dark room, with the other concubines. They do not pace, like you, or lash out at the servants, or bite at their chains. They teach you to speak and struggle to tame your fear and fury with gentle touches and comforting words of duty and purpose, and you learn that they were raised for this role, and it quietly infuriates you. You are not eloquent enough in your tangled tongue to inspire them to rebellion, so you wait, and you wait, and you wait. You languish, there, and you stoke your resent to flames - if you could burn the whole world down with you, you think that you would.

When they finally lead you outside again, you feel weak and sickly, like a newborn. (Though you have only seen children in passing – you are not sure that you were ever a child.) The sun stings your eyes, and the sand clumps with sweat in your coat and the wild tangles of your hair, and you loathe it all. They polish your scales and dress you in finery, and they muzzle you when you snap at them. A pilgrimage, they tell you, to the sun god. Your king holds your shackles, and, wife at his side, he leads you through the desert; the tribe flocks around you like a swarm of bees, and you snarl at them when they dare tread too close. Your hatred flickers and burns with the heat, and you curse the sun they named you for.

They take you far from the desert, to the forested foothills of a mountain; you have never seen trees before. You have never seen such green, and you are not sure if you love it or hate it, that endless rolling expanse. They pull you up the mountain, and you follow unwillingly to the statues of their gods, and you loathe every last one of them for what they have done to you, for what their people have done to you; the golden one, your twisted namesake, is worst of all. You hate his smile, the golden sheen of his flanks. If you could break the polished stone or steel or metal, you are sure that you would.

He jerks your muzzled head down and makes you bow.

The sun scalds your shoulders, your quivering hips, your gleaming scales. The crowd is laughing at you. Mocking you. You are so high up, but, in the presence of that statue’s inconsequential grin, you are dizzy with the heat. You decide, then and there, that you will kill this king. You are going to kill him.

But you must be patient, and – and clever. Wait for an opportunity. The king summons forth the soldiers, and he stands at the foot of the altar, smiling, as he sends them to fight each other, two-by-two, and you narrow your clever, clever eyes, and strain at your muzzle. You watch them, and you tug against your bindings. He looks to you, for a fraction of a second, and smirks.

He thinks that he is setting you up for humiliation, when he lets you loose and sends you to fight a bulky, scarred soldier. He thinks that this will finally shut you up, break what little fight remains inside of you – he doesn’t see the wildfire that burns behind your bitter stare. He does not realize that the flames are at his hooves, that you will slowly – but ever so surely – cook him alive.

You have never fought a man before, and he is eager to shatter you with his brutality, but you are the daughter of the sea – you move like water and evade his grasp, flick your leonine tail to trip him, glimmer and sway to distract his attention. When he dares to come too close, aiming to ram you with his great, bulky chest, you dip your head, and, when he impales himself on the twisted branch of your horn, you hide your twisted smile. He gargles and twitches like he is drowning within himself, his throat spilling copper-red clumps down your face, and, as you pull away, he collapses. Red pools around your hooves. You lick sweat and copper off your lips, and you like the taste.

Their healers try to save him, – this was never meant to be fatal, after all – but, within the hour, he is dead. You stand as a shadow above them, a harbinger, the darkness of your form blotting out the sun at their backs. The blood dries on your glistening scales, and the smell…

When you catch the eyes of the king, you notice that he looks at you differently – an opportunity, not a trinket. You smile at him, as gentle and alluring as your sharp, sharp teeth can muster, and he smiles back.

That is the start of it.

On your return to Solterra, he does not muzzle you; you do not snap. When you stand against amongst the walls of the Hajakha tribe’s fortress, he demands that the soldiers teach you to fight. You slave away amongst them day after day, and you grow capable enough to match even his most experienced warriors in a fight. By candlelight, you learn to read – meager scrolls of history and warfare and strategy. You become more eloquent, more charming. You see the soldiers and the citizens begin to admire you, now that you are unleashed, and, when the neighboring tribes plunder your people’s traders and kill your scouts, it is you, rather than his generals, that the king comes to for advice. You give it gladly, a cunning word here and there, calmness and brutal ferocity in even measures. You lead his armies into battle, and, when you come back victorious, you quietly suggest that you conquer them, rather than settling for submission. He hesitates, but he bends to you.

You plague your neighbors. Tribe after tribe falls to your banner, to your teeth.

All the while, you are charming him. During meetings, you brush up against his sides and twist your tail around his legs, run your lips lovingly along the dark tangles of his mane. He does not hesitate to pull you back to his room and whisper sweet nothings into your ears and press kisses to the curve of your spine, to let his eyes wander your frame when he dresses you in the finest silks and armor, to keep you at his side when he walks the halls of his kingdom – for you have made him a king - rather than his queen. You are not so surprised when she is found dead on the sands by the battlements; they say that she leapt, and you know that is a lie. You are even less surprised when he holds you the following night, falls asleep with his head pressed against the curve of your shoulder, murmurs that you will be his queen now. You tell him that you love him – that you love him so dearly - and kiss him, tell him that all of Solterra will fall on its knees before the two of you. In the morning, you are dressed in golden silk and fine jewelry, and a crown is placed upon your wanting head. He looks at you with adoration, and he takes you as his wife, his queen. He wants to rename you, to give you something of your own, – as though you did not already have a name, before he stole it from you – and you whisper gently in his ear, tell him to wait for the morning.

You lay at his side in your chambers, and you wait. He whispers his love to you, tangles his lips in the wild curls of your hair, presses the warmth of his skin to your side; you twitch your tail like a hunting cat, tangle it around his leg. You wait.

He turns his head from you for a second, so sure that he has won, and you smile -

You smile like the waves when they swallow a sailor whole.

Your fangs sink into his throat, pulsing blood-red; his scream is a strangled sigh, and he thrashes and thrashes, but you pull him down, and you don’t let go. His eyes roll back white, and you wrap your forelegs round his tossing torso and grip him so tightly in your smothering embrace, and he twitches, twitches, twitches - twitches like a fly. But his whimpers grow soft, and his tremors quake to stillness, and he goes limp and pitiful in your grasp. You let his head fall back against your torso, still warm and bloody, and you lick the blood off your lips and wait for the guards to find you, lying your jaw against his shoulderblade in some twisted act of possession, like he always made you rest against his flank.

Dawn creeps in, and you have not slept at all. The guards come in. They stare at the blood-soaked bridechamber, stunned.

You smile, lazily, and drag your tongue along your teeth. “I believe,” you murmur, so low and so threatening, “that you should bow before your queen.”

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Player Name: Jeanne (Profile)
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