{Murder me softly}

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[bg=FFFFFF][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] { The catastrophe is either simple or complex, for which also the fable and action are denominate} The world had retired to bed. It slept silently, some dwelled in the haven of fantasy while others tossed and turned with the torment of returning nightmares. In these wee hours of the early morning the gloom reigned unchallenged, there was little movement save from the wind high above the earth. A crisp breeze carried billowing clouds dreamily across the star speckled sky to occasionally obscure the crescent moon. With a relinquishing sigh, the shadow’s released their asphyxiating grasp, and this mists parted to disclose an elegant and petit form with a moon kissed cloak. The glint of the celestial body bathed the feathery floating gossamer seeds of summer and the lone succubus in a feeble pool of silver. The paper-thin crescents of the mare inhaled the moist scent of dew and clay while her rotating twin spires atop the iron mask of her façade strained for sound. With a toss, Ixchel lifted her artistically chiseled visage to full mast and surveyed the terrain. Soft kaleidoscopes of amber, rust and sulfur swept over the landscape, surveying the land she had heard rumors of in the dark. Looking back, the forest looked like a cavernous mouth- foreboding and ravenous. The dense mist emanating from the tree line twined about Ixchel’s slender stanchions and seeped out into the hills. The Jezebel shifted the weight of her dancer’s bodice to the side, stretching her lean muscles and pulling her scar-laced skin tight across her bones. It was one of those nights that threatened suffocation by darkness. {In a simple catastrophe, there is no change in the state of mind, nor any discovery or unraveling; the plot being only a mere passage out of agitation, to quiet and repose. This catastrophe is rather accommodated to the nature of the epic poem, than of the tragedy} And yet the witching hour was glorious and Ixchel drank it into my every pore. It rekindled her strongest ambitions, and spurned on her most primordial desires. With the exception of her glowing mocha orbs- she was little more than an ephemeral specter of the evening. Over the last fortnight Ixchel had been wandering here and there, avoiding others best she could. But now, this state of isolation state had worn her into a state of boredom. What good was a life of solitude where the only power she had was over herself? If Erebus was willing- she would find some company in these sparse meeting grounds. She chose not to shatter the silence of the crisp evening; she knew she would be easy enough to find by her musky scent... alone on the hillside. Muscles held tense and taught in an alert but elegant stance. Every so slowly, Ixchel drew her serpentine into a crisp arch, taking the time to relish the calm before the storm. A smirk danced briefly on her kissers before fading back into an expressionless façade, for now she would wait for someone to find her. Long tresses of cerise cascaded down Ixchel’s serpentine, like so many tiny streams flowing from the mountains. This, this place was a new beginning. A chance at resurrection and recreation. To be b o r n a g a i n. But what shape should she take? What role should she play in the tragedy of her own life? What had the first act even meant after all? Ixchel’s long exhale of breath slowly turned to a single hissed word Pointless . There was no turning back from the path, it was what it was. What had to be done , had been done after all. That was all that mattered. {In a complex catastrophe, she undergoes a change of fortune, sometimes by means of a discovery, and sometimes without. The qualifications of this change are that it be probable and necessary: in order to be probable, it must be the natural result or effect of the foregoing actions, for example it must spring from the subject itself, or take its rise from the incidents, and not be introduced merely to serve a turn } Idle and unguarded, Ixchel turned inward upon herself, absentmindedly tracing along the ensnaring spider-web of the past. And then, suddenly her restless consciousness staggered along the labyrinthine subconscious… into unspeakable. The bodies mutilated beyond recognition, sightless eyes frozen for eternity in their expression of dying terror. Devilish puppeteers jerked the limbs of macabre figures in a grisly skeleton dance. Round and round they went, truncated bodies and ghoulish faces. Demon dancers. She was trapped. Trapped yet again. Body held rigidly still, the blazing eyes of the infamous harlot stared straight ahead into the darkness, glazed over in her reverie. These visions, these hallucinations flickered in and out. Wave after wave of emotion swept over her- first euphoria, then terror, then indifference and then all three at once. Was it the fantasies of a bored and sadistic mind? Or the guilt riddled conscience screaming out for mercy? Oh perhaps she was mad, deranged, psychotic (choose whatever definition you like sweet’ums)… yet still she had yet to reach the point of incompetency. And then she saw it flash across her minds eye like a lightning bolt- his face, oh his sweet face! Except, the visage of her lover was no longer what could be called a face- it was little more than a mass of crushed and splintered bone and blood. Oh Mephistopheles! All of Ixchel’s feelings of guilt and revulsion for the prior images vanished. This… THIS was why she was what she was. They had all deserved to die in the ways she saw fit, and the others after that… well what did they matter. This was a cold world, and it was only going to get colder. As if awaking from a deep slumber, Ixchel blinked and then slowly became re-acquainted with her surroundings. The breeze had picked up on the ground a bit and it chilled her narrow frame. There would be no re-birth, but there would be revitalization. This was the beginning of the end. {She will make her way down her twisted path until a fork is presented before her, one simple and the other complex, neither appear different, but time will reveal its mysteries. } {m o t s: 1,000} {é g é r i e: budding } {a u t e r: I apologize in advance for this post. It doesn’t have a lot of direction. As I continue to get back into writing I hope my quality will vastly improve.}

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[JESTER]

Oh night...

The darkness caressed him and welcomed his tarnished soul like a lost mother. Cradled in it's embrace, Jester stood still - as close to peace as he could possibly come. Here, in the depths of the forest, under the cover of the sunless sky - he was alone. Completely alone. No prying eyes to unnerve his own. Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs. Yet even as calm as he was, he was not at rest. He was never at ease with himself. No matter where he went, no matter what time of day it was - he was a haunted man. The terrible memories never left him alone. Instead, they condemned him to being this ghost that lurked in dark places - with no regard for the lives of others, let alone for his own.

Before him a gap of moonlight filtered through a hole in the tree canopy, casting a glowing light in a perfect circle on the ground. Slowly he moved forward to stand in the shimmering half-light, lifting his great skull and casting an ireful gaze up into the heavens through the gap - almost as if he was angry with the stars themselves. Fuck Heaven. I haven't gotten Earth sorted out yet. In a rare and tender moment, Jester thought back to his sweet, sweet sister. He thought about what it would be like had he been there to protect her like he should have been. Oh how beautiful she would be - radiant just like the moon she was named after. But Lunar was gone - so was his mother - and so was he.

Cursing never did any good. Verbal abuse was no antidote for this broken soul. In fact - no treatment existed, or at least none that he was aware of. The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and the tales that preceded that; though as the narrator's voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making. Letting out a heavy sigh that misted the air in front of him, Jester moved on. His heavy hooves went silently, despite their size. He had learned a long time before the art of stealth. And now he made use of it in every waking minute. Bad things happened to those who came across this stallion - and so, as an offering of good faith to mother nature, he tried his utmost best to go undetected. The less noise he made, the smaller the chance that something would hear him and come to investigate.

However - it wasn't always up to Jester. It was also up to fate. And as fate may have it - he'd be stumbling across something new tonight. A man kills the thing he loves, and he must die a little himself. He saw her before anything else. He hadn't even picked up her scent. She just ... appeared. Bathed in moonlight, the mare seemed almost unreal. Her coat glinted like diamonds as she moved, and her mane fell about her like a veil. Perhaps it was his mind playing tricks on him, or just a trick of the light, but as she looked around, her fine ears erect on his chiseled skull - he could have sworn that he had seen his sister. A ghost, in the flesh. His skin prickled and his lips quivered - but only for a split second, and then the feeling was gone. Lunar was dead. Nothing brings the dead back to life. Nothing.

He could swear that she looked straight at him as she gazed about. But she showed no reaction and her eyes swept past him like the eyes of the blind. It didn't occur to him how his near black coat must have looked in this darkness. Nothing happens carelessly. He thought about leaving, about backtracking a few steps until he was far enough and then heading in a completely different direction - but something kept his hooves planted to their place. The mare looked jumpy, uneasy as if she was afraid that something was going to emerge from the night and take her. She shifted her weight around and never stopped her observations. If only she knew what kind of a monster lurked in the shadows. Perhaps she would have run. We burn so hard, but we shed so little light; it makes us crazy and sad.

In an act that was very unlike himself, he stepped forward into the light. Unsure as to why he did it, he simply stood there for a moment or two - his dark colossal form in a heavy contrast to her light petite body. And then, out of nowhere, his voice slipped forth through his lips and echoed hollowly around the forest. "Mi'lady..." He took another step forward - his eyes searching over her, counting her scars and her muscles and taking in the movement of her mane. "I find it strange that you wander the darkness alone." His voice was deep and crackled with misuse - but it was a good voice, a strong one. One that could do all sorts of harm.

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[bg=FFFFFF][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] { I've walked these streets, a virtual stage, it seemed to me. Make up on their faces, actors took their places next to me.} The witching power had passed, but the renewed vigor of the wind had snatched away what little warmth was left from the day. The devil’s breath came hissing through the canopy, causing the elder trees to groan at the strain upon their weathered trunks. Unknowing and unfeeling, the squall clawed at the fragile new growth and sent a frenzy of leaves into the air. Diving, swooping and plunging with life like vigor- the zephyr descended upon Ixchel’s frame and sent her tassels up in a cloud around her. Shocked by the rapid drop in temperature, the xanthippe’s slender bodice succumbed to a violent shiver. In a single swift motion every muscle from her crown to rump involuntarily quivered. As she regained control, Ixchel realized that she quite numb from the cold. It felt absolutely delightful. Rudely awakened from her reverie, Ixchel’s mind rapidly re-analyzed her position. The breeze had brought tidings of two things; the first of which her mind automatically registered as the promise of rain, but the second scent was far more complex and had its origins with something undeniably alive. It was first and foremost a heavy musk; but there was also a slight hint of rich cinnamon gave it a luxurious allure and then…a slightly opiate-like complexity. Where had the smell come from? As far as Ixchel knew, she was the only equine in at least a mile radius… And then, in the split second as her mind tried to find a solution to its puzzle, an enormous figure slid from the shadows and she found herself looking upwards at the towering form of a brute who stood a full 3hh taller. Her pupils instantly widened at the sight, and she felt a tidal wave of emotion rise with in her. How in the devil’s name had he gotten this close without her noticing? Ixchel could physically feel her pride smarting, this failure was completely unacceptable. God d*mn it. These episodes, these visions… were starting to become a serious liability. She was determined, at all costs, not to show surprise at his spontaneous apperance. Let him wonder if she had been aware of her presence, let him question if her trance had been a ruse or a fit of madness. Ixchel’s visage remained impassive as it had before, and she took him in as one would take a draught from a glass. { I've walked these streets in a carnival of sights to see all the cheap thrill seekers, the vendors & the dealers they crowded around me} The czar’s pelt was dyed a rich mahogany bay, appendages dipped in pitch and his nape adorned by lengthy nigrescent tresses which flowed as he came forward. His mocha frame was set in a rather rectangular build, with prominent muscles in his hindquarters and a powerfully sculpted back. With a casual flick, Boudicca appraised him: authoritative carriage, various scars indicated battle experience and his lively eyes…acuity. Some of his wounds looked as if they had been deep, others were superficial and there were also a few that looked relatively recent. Yes, the hellion had quite a formidable war-like build. Ixchel started to make the calculations in her mind- his frame gave him the considerable strength and agility, but his size would undoubtedly make him just a fraction of a second slower than herself. In battle he was sure to be disadvantaged in terms of strike speed, evasion and fluidity. However, should he land a blow it would be devastating when accompanied by the strength of his heavier frame. Duly noted- the information was carefully recorded and catalogued in Ixchel’s mind. Ah, but the rest of his body was pleasant to look upon. Sweeping her gaze upward from his sloping shoulder, Ixchel beheld a masculine yet elegant crown with a narrow muzzle chiseled in a manner faintly similar to her own yet … was different in that it widened into a broad cranium. She watched as his ghostly pale blue eyes shifted in their sockets behind the obsidian strands of hair which slightly obscured them. He appraised her as she assessed him, and if he was as smart as his head implied he might be, then he should take care to notice as many details about her as she had about him. Ixchel pointed Arabic auds swept briefly back against her neck and then swiveled to concentrate on the muted yet strong bass voice of the warrior. Nodding her crown once in acknowledgment as she took in his question, a wry smirk crept across Ixchel’s maw as an inkblot spreads on parchment. Her vocal chords promptly issued her hauntingly sweet siren’s song. ” Ah, but, I could say the same for you… my liege.” She paused momentarily, What brings you here in the middle of the night? and then with a playful toss of her crania she fixed her fulvous keen hawk-eyes upon his striking blue ones. Don’t you have a harem of maidens that need protecting? The naiad moved her spritely and wiry frame forwards to close the distance between them. The blood of her ancient desert ancestors coursed through her, highlighting the fragile beauty of her form. Endowed with curvaceous hips and composed of clean lines, at a distance Ixchel looked more like a china figurine than she did a living creature. However, upon closer examination the statue like illusion was shattered, there were too many scars and her orbs had a rather unsettling glint about them. She carried herself with the dignity of an Aztec priestess, clever eyes always watching, serpentine held in a crisp arch of felicity. Yes yes, this was all very interesting. But does he even realize what sort of a serpent he has gotten himself entangled with? {Have I been blind, have I been lost inside myself and my own mind? Hypnotized, mesmerized, by what my eyes have seen? } {m o t s: 934 } {é g é r i e: Meh } {a u t e r: Still looking to find my muse, sorry for this uninspired post. I am looking forward to this thread tho!} Lyrics from Natalie Merchant's Carnival Click here for a listen!

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[JESTER]

A flick of his tail sent long ebony strands dancing across his quarters, the dreaded tresses almost reaching his shoulder. The femme that stood before him had not yet spoken, but she was summing him up and that was for sure. Her aquiline eyes graced every inch of him - while his murky ones watched her with an intent interest, willing her to speak. Hiroshima. When she smiled, it was neither welcoming nor fearful. He could not quite place the emotion behind it, but it did not yet bother him. Ah, but, I could say the same for you… my liege. He stayed quite. She was clearly a female who was used to taking care of herself. There was no fear in her eyes and she had barely even been shocked by his sudden appearance. And after all - no simple herd mare would dare respond to a lone stallion with such... confidence. Though he did applaud her demeanour, he did not grace her with a response just yet.

Don’t you have a harem of maidens that need protecting? In a complete misconstrue to himself, Jester laughed. A deep crackling sound that rose like a fire being rekindled rose from his throat. But it was gone faster than it had come. The stallion corrected himself, clearing his throat and tipping his skull so to move his forelock from his eyes. "No, no, dear lady, no. I am no warden. None answer to me." Wave a way for conversation flow. I'm shoved in your cage, to wage this rage don't let me go. The ghost coloured mare took a large step forward, nearly closing the gap that stood between them. She was so close now that he could feel her body heat on his muzzle.

Perhaps it was because Jester had not been close to anyone in years, or perhaps it was just her forwardness that threw him off balance. But it was immediately clear that he had tensed. His muscles bunched and he squared his great shoulders, raising his skull and one forefoot. You sweaty piggy, you're a bad man what a fucking sad way to go. It wasn't because he was uncomfortable in her sudden closeness, but he really did not want to harm her. It was the first honest and truthful feeling that he had had in ages. But even he knew that his broken mind could snap at any second. "You are awfully trusting." He breathed, relaxing just a little, but not enough. Her wild scent filled his nostrils like the sweet smell of spring rain. He started to imagine what her blood smelled like, but shook the thought out of his head.

This close he could see her scars. She was not as perfect as he had initially thought - but then again, nothing ever was. It seemed that she had been through her fair share of traumas and scraps. And her eyes, oh her eyes. Emerald holes that beheld him with some sort of regal manor - dusted with gold and filled with the knowledge of her years. Yet there was something about them that he recognized. Something feral and crazed. Something he had seen far too many a time, in his own eyes. I didn't think to bring a wash cloth or rub away the dirt. Myself and I we share this barely beating heart of hurt. Was she broken too? Like a switch had been flicked, Jester relaxed.