[P] there was a time when i was alone

[Sloane]

It is her curiosity about this new land that brings her out from the shadows of the Dawn Court. In fact, she’s not even sure what ‘The Dawn Court’ means. She has no loyalties to anyone, no one to pledge her allegiance to. She came here and was pointed in that direction – plain and simple. She didn’t seek out that place intentionally and she chooses not to stay there long. She chooses to meander and explore, something the young mare has done all too well. She knows loneliness. She knows what’s it’s like to survive on one’s own and it is a life she embraces.

And so, the mare wanders.

Her travels take her here and there, everywhere and yet nowhere. She finds herself in the most disgusting prairie. The hills are rolling, the flowers blooming, and there’s not a damn tree in sight. She prefers the shadows, it’s where she feels the most safe. And yet here she finds herself in a while open area and the thought that someone might be watching her is not lost on her. She can smell others and she knows she’s the intruder here. Briefly she wonders if this land is accepting of strangers, or if she is immediately defined as a threat. While she might not be a warrior seeking to take her claim on this area, she can’t deny her lust after knowledge.

She stands in the middle of the prairie, her eyes looking up to the sun. The clouds are rolling above her and she can feel the afternoon heat baking against her black hide. She feels exposed, open and exposed. And there’s a feeling she cannot shake. Someone is watching her. Someone is staring at her, waiting to make their move. She can feel their eyes on her, their breath on her skin. Perhaps it’s just the wind. “Who’s there?” When Sloane asks the question, she expects and answer.

She halts, her body language relaxed and yet, she can feel the muscles of her legs at the ready. She is not here to ruin her hide with a fight. She’s more of a flight risk than anything. Scars were unbecoming. “Show your face.” Her confidence exudes her and her eyes scan the horizon looking for the one who watches her. She is not afraid and her voice shows that. She hates people who stare and say nothing. Then again, she’s really that same type of individual. Perhaps she is the only exception to her hate.

@Isra or @Calliope

[Wormlust]

------------------I have seen the dark universe yawning ---------------------------------Where the black planets roll without aim, The clouds seem to be nothing more than a lurid shimmer of moisture when her wings cut through them like a shark through the dark deep currents. Her feathers lap at the wind as her form eats up the sun and bits salt fall from her like flakes of snow in the winter-chill. Her shadow circles over and over again upon itself and soon all the shadows, clouds and killer and old weary storms look to be only a blot of darkness surrounded by light. Night is not the only hour to fear, to look above and think perhaps the gods seem like little things to fear. Below the mare moves, dark as soot broken up by pearl-glitz when the sun breaks off from the expanse of the hunter in rays of golden-light. Her movements whisper of a boundlessness between bits of flesh and bone and mortality. It feels like a rite (oh the monster thinks in pangs of hunger and lust) to watch the mare move between and shadows and light and the dark reflection of Her. And soon she watches the mare look around, eyes wild and fearless and bold enough to yell out at the sunlight meadow like a lamb yelling for the slaughter. It's not fear that breaks up the whistle of Wormlust's wings as she dives like a dread-hawk. But perhaps it should be. She adores the pillar of the dark mare, the way her soot swallows up the light where her own pale flesh reflects it as sea-froth does. There is something inconceivable in way she never folds her wings, in the way they drag and catch at the ground and flatten everything that is made to bear the heavy weight of those feathers. And in a glint of sunlight a few feathers are red and crimson and almost black with blood. “There are some things,” The voice, her voice, the voice of the first, is a noxious thing that sounds more like gas and sea than a language mere horses should speak. Her syllables seethe in whispers and hunger and a rage she's almost forgotten-- almost, almost, almost. “that you regret knowing.” Closer. Closer. Closer. Still she moves closer.   WORMLUST monster of the sea

@Sloane (sorry D:)

[Sloane]

She can see the way the wings carry the other through the clouds, almost as though she is diving in and out of some sort of consciousness. It’s eerie and yet, it’s beautiful. Sloane was never blessed with wings before, but then again, she never envied anyone for having them. Wings were an easy escape, something that she deemed to be a coward’s appendage. Instead of using shadows to hide oneself or fighting with brute strength, those with wings were destined to run and hide deep within the clouds – a place where not many could find them. Only some could use their wings effectively, using them to grasp at their prey much like an eagle grasping a rabbit. And that is what this mare does…though she is far less graceful.

Sloane watches her dive towards the ground, nearly appearing as though she was on a crash course with the earth. It would not have saddened her to see her splatter like a pancake. To see her blood stain this colorful prairie might have been a beautiful blessing. But that does not happen and Sloane is let down by this fact. But she shows nothing on her face, her slit eyes only watching as the mare sticks her landing.

It is not missed on the mare how much disrespect the other has for her own wings. Many think of wings as an advantage in war, a way to flee the enemy only to turn back around and attack from the air. Many respect this thought…but now her. This stranger seems to care nothing for her wings, just allowing them to drag along the grass. She can only be thankful that a few of the colorful flowers are leveled. At least she’s taking some of the beauty out of this meadow. It’s suffocating.

Her voice is raspy and not at all smooth. It doesn’t settle well on her ears and is rather bothersome. Was it so much to ask that her voice at least be appealing? She’s not asking for the world, but she at least wants to tolerate it. “I never regret my hunger for knowledge. Knowledge and secrets can be used as currency – currency that everyone accepts.” Everyone thirsted for knowledge. Secrets could build up or hurt an individual and they could be bought and sold like any other merchandise. Sloane lived for this currency and she was not about to regret wondering just what this individual was. She had never seem something like it before, but she wanted to know more. Even as the mare stepped closer, in defiance, she steps closer as well. She did not fear this individual.

@wormlust

[Wormlust]

------------------I have seen the dark universe yawning ---------------------------------Where the black planets roll without aim, Their eyes meet and she is transfixed on that point of dread, of madness, of darkness and snake slit. It feels like insanity that fire of starvation that flickers in her belly but gives off nothing of heat. Only death boils inside her, only the clamminess of corpses. The blackness of their shadows seems of an unimaginable color, deep enough to trick all the petals between them to fold into slumber. It's a sacrilege to the sunlight this thing between them and when the black mare closes the distance Wormlust wants to anoint that altar of darkness with crimson and iron and silken flesh. Almost does the pit of silence between their words and their breaths seems like a endless place forgotten between time and magic, reality and the dreaming sea. And so she breaks it up with feather-song and sea-song. Her teeth grind against each other where fang-tip meets tip-of-fang. How dry her lips feel! Her smile could be the surface of the moon for how pitted and dusted her flesh feels when she pulls it back to bare her teeth like a feral thing. Her hooves scratch at the flowers and lichen covered rocks between the blades of grass when she closes all but the briefest of distances between them. Her tongue tingles when she watches their breaths turn almost to condensation on the skin of their faces. It tingles and she remembers how very, very parched all of her feels. Wormlust wants the fire to eat away the cold dread of death inside her rib-cage. She wants her, this black mare with fury and arrogance lingering beneath her skin like embers beneath kindling. “Then,” She says in waves of lust and want and need that crash against her teeth and tongue and lips. “perhaps we should see what secrets we can learn from one another.” And in the aftermath of her voice one wing lifts up, up, up and she shakes loose all the dead flowers that gathered between the feathers. The way the petals, crushed and dead and ruined, fall seems almost grotesquely romantic. WORMLUST monster of the sea

@Sloane

[Sloane]

Her eyes are transfixed, unsure of this creature that steps towards her. It’s almost as though the female is trying to be scary, as though she’s trying to make the bones of her legs rattle and shake. And yet, Sloane does not fear her. Sloane knows no fear. Her entire life has been dictated by her ability to meander through life, navigating what life throws her. She cannot be fearful. She must press onward. And that is where her independence comes from.

Sloane explains to this stranger that she has a thirst and knowledge that knows no limits. She’s always been that one that has always been eager to learn. The topic of her learning is ever changing and no topic is left out. Sloane finds that this has made her well-rounded, that it has given her a platform to bond with any others who are eager to partake in her system of buying and selling secrets.

It was this stranger’s answer that has her looking up at the mare with a curiosity that knew no limits. She cannot help but wonder if this stranger simply thinks she’s going to put out for free. She was not a cheap whore working the corner. No. She was a mastermind of her craft – and such mastery came at a high cost. “You don’t honestly think I will simply tell you all my secrets. I don’t give away my information for free.” Her words are spoken in almost a mocking manner. One can sense the humor in her voice, that small laughter that’s hiding just beyond reach. Yes, she’s practically mocking the other, making fun of her in a sense that’s not entirely upfront, but more discreet and hidden. Could she see past her words and find the teasing?

Eyes move from the other towards the ground, watching as the dead flowers begin to pool at the stranger’s feet. There’s something ironic about the death that pools there, and yet, it does nothing to Sloane except make the corners of her lips pull back in a smirk. She finds this whole encounter amusing and yet…strangely romantic. It was a shame the two were not in some sort of twisted romantic relationship. Then perhaps this could have been classified as a date – a death date.

@wormlust

[Wormlust]

------------------I have seen the dark universe yawning ---------------------------------Where the black planets roll without aim, Want (like it always does) gives way to need and then the need becomes this pinprick point inside her and it becomes something else. They coalesce into a single bright and vibrant thing inside her and it burns like a comet, hot enough to burn through an entire sea and leave only desert sand and dead sharks behind. Hunger. It tingles in her jaws and her teeth and her stomach feels like it's inverting upon itself in a tangle of organ-skin and acid. Her mouth could be made of rust for how quivers as it parts. Her teeth could be rusted razor blades for how dull their edges seem without the slick oil of blood to flow between them.  Wormlust remembers how dry her lips feel when the mare subtly tries to mock her and when she watches that violent pulse of life throb at her neck and her legs and underneath her skin just out of reach. “I remember,” She says, and that other wing rises up to join the first until she's just a fury of wing and salt crusted skin And her jaw opens wider with each lift of her wings and her teeth seem like ancient and primal mountains that are hung from the sky instead of earth. The sun seems like such a small thing now, so far over those white and blue and ghastly wings. “I remember how to read secrets from between bone and sinew. I could read your blood like ink and write a eulogy of you.” Those flowers at her feet now seem almost horrific. They seem like prophecies, bits of death scatted about the earth for those wiser than mortals to read. Wormlust remembers how to read those too, how to read bones, rot and dead stars and know which world she must travel to then. She remembers so many things, so many secrets. But now all that is nothing more than the shadow of that bright and burning hunger that consumes and devours and gives nothing but nothingness back. It's the hunger that makes her rear towards sun as if she would devour up all the light of the world as well as the mare and still be hungry, still want and need and burn.  “Would you like to learn?” She asks in a way that seems as wrong as the way her massive wings hold her in some place between the earth and the sky.  And in that place between what is above and what is below, the silence after her words is shattered by the roar of her hollow and wanting stomach. WORMLUST monster of the sea

@Sloane

[Sloane]

Truthfully, Sloane thinks the mare before her is just downright strange. The way she tries to creep, the way her bones creek, and the way her voice sounds. It’s like she’s entered the wrong Halloween movie and this creature is after her. This creature wants her and she can feel it. And yet, it does not scare her. She looks onward with a look that almost bleeds curiosity. She is curious about this mare. This mare might have skills that she wants to possess.

Eyes watch her as her wings begin to beat, her body rising higher. She thinks this might be a scare tactic, but she remains still. Her body is poised and held high, confidence bleeding from everywhere. Eyes look down briefly to see the dead flowers and she cannot help the smile that pulls at the corners of her lips. This whole meeting was fascinating.

And then she speaks and it draw’s Sloane’s gaze upward. She listens to the mare, listens to how she swears she can read her secrets. She claims she can write a eulogy of the mare and Sloane grins. “I should like to hear your eulogy.” It was something she might never get to hear again. For when she dies, there will be no one to mourn her loss. No one will care enough to write a eulogy about her. In fact, no one will care to offer her body any sort of respect. She’ll be left to rot or be scavenged by other animals. There would be nothing glorious about her death.

But there’s that single question, if Sloane would like to learn. There’s something that draws her curiosity to the rising mare. Sloane is all about learning because honestly, it might perhaps pay off in the end. But learning always came at a price. “What would it cost me?” Nothing was free. Sloane had learned this from a very young age. Something told Sloane that she would not like the price the mare was asking for. Something about the rumble of her belly told her that this mare was out for blood. Sorry sugar, Sloane doesn’t pay with blood.

@wormlust