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Offline Dragon

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Red Flag [archive]
« on: September 15, 2010, 11:53:10 PM »

She'd come to despise the beaches in all their squalor, salty and oily and moist, painted the colors of a floater corpse breaking through the thinning winter ice. They were not only deadening and utterly disgusting, but so were they a set of chains, fastening heavy as a swallowed stone in one's gullet, manipulating her aging brain into entertaining certain thoughts she'd not normally have had as she thrived filthily on the sticky feeling of death and decay this destitute territory imposed.

It was a struggle, it was a challenge, it was an infection, and sometimes the mornings would come late while she laid motionless in her den, envisioning her own body stiff with rigor mortis and pried hungrily apart by the local predators, calmly and objectively painting a detailed mental picture of it drifting out to sea. Such thoughts were more possibility than they were temptation or disturbance. Anybody who would remember Dragon, lament her disappearance -- perhaps Banebite, though that would be it, as well as verging on optimistic -- would logically assume that she had abandoned the Renegades to fade into obscurity here, that the expatriate would pay for her crimes in this prehistoric purgatory. No fuss, no fanfare, just a withering away. After all, why not?

Conviction was louder, beating its fists against the walls of her stomach, making it ache with murder and schemes, making her lifeless reptilian eyes brighten, lips peel back from enormous plaque-stained teeth, muscles tense to tearing, nostrils convulsing, and like an intravenous needle pumping fluid into a failing heart, the mantra kept her alive, kept her powerful, throbbing a steady metronome of

kill their king. decapitate him. throw the head into a screaming crowd of his supporters. raze their land. devour their children. obliterate inaria. burn the mother down.

There had always been so little time.

And so, stepping out from the rocks on this typical gray-hued day, much like a quiet white-collar laborer ambling to work with a briefcase in one hand and an uzi in the other, Dragon prepared to solidify her operation.


Beryl did not hate the beach, because the beach did not exist.  She closed her eyes and licked lips and tasted the cold, tongue numb to the salt of the seaside air, a desolate wasteland imprinted on her eyelids, etched into every fibre of being and gut and sense for eternity.  Arctara, how beautiful you are with the blood in the snow -- I made you perfect, in your destruction.  all those teeming bodies spoiled the beauty of the simplicity, endless inky night-sky and rolling flat ice and howling wind and a million burning stars.  i cleansed it, with blood in the snow, with an exploding time-bomb, I razed every last defense to the ground.  and now I walk a child's playground, no movement on the chessboard because there's only pawns, no kings or queens or....kingdoms, to destroy.

She moved with a flexing stride, an amble that lackadaisically pushed her forward.  carried her swiftly over the ground, paws devouring the rocky sand.  tail brushed hocks, muzzle extended, demeanor that of any curious, bored passerby -- icy blue eyes might hold an unsettling gleam, bright and shiny with an extra...tinge, but nobody here would take the time to notice.  it was so dull, so wasted, it made her teeth itch.  lips drew back -- hot breath steaming into the air.

Sister had died in a mess of blood and surprise, a straggler from the old kingdom.  Beryl remembered ripping into the belly, tearing the membrane of the stomach lining, pulling out intestines and intestines that were still piping hot as Irene had still lived -- and what a pleasant surprise it had been, to find that meek little sister had borne children! Caring for those children had been fun for a while, but it was time to leave them behind with a contented smile and the sweet aftertaste of imagining their slow starvation without her.  Two down, not so many of the Arctara bloodline to go...

The timber only noticed the Blackblood as unnatural blue eye caught sight of her, pausing in place, the two face-to-face if some distance apart.  Licked lips again, a momentary glimpse of pale tooth, petite in comparison to the other wolf.  Petite...smooth-furred...delicate little monstrosity.  Beryl stood on three legs, the fourth -- right foreleg -- lifting to curl coyly as she waited.  There was something obscenely insolent about the posture, the quiet mockery, a mute dare to the other wolf.  A dare?

Show me something beautiful, that I might murder it.


Sparse, brittle foliage was crushed beneath heavy paws marked with old spoils of battle, and it was only their dying little crunches that foretold her approach. Forelegs, jagged and knobby, would remove from her path with a shove any of the taller obstacles in her way as she'd gradually trudge her way north... until of course company would arrive, coy and vicious, bringing the older female to a mechanical, sluggish halt.

Green eyes, scathing in their emptiness, ghostly as twin carcasses cleansed by vultures, observed Beryl as she postured, calculating, always calculating. Pretty little youth, and did it want to kill her now, with blue eyes burning so sickeningly bright, to prove it was alive as she did now? Likely, and yet the suggestive smell that curled from its sprightly form could be manipulated to deter this deadly interruption. Seize it, make it all yours, and it will bend.

"Shall we talk, friend?"

Aside from the fact that nobody who called strangers friend could actually be genuinely friendly, the inquiry was utterly monotonous, hoarse and soft, never once lilting upward to indicate question. There was no question, as far as Dragon was concerned. Off-putting as she was, there was a certain charisma to the aging beast, something cold and ancient and cunning, magnificent in its enigma, made one want to listen and obey even as it made them shiver.

"We promised you something once. Said we'd give you a paradise to burn away."

Not that this was any huge surprise. Dragon wasn't an arrogant beast by anyone's standards, but realized as one might acknowledge a mere fact that she'd been the Renegades' only real hope of organization or victory, their impressions utterly sloppy and knowledge of warfare meager at best, and had known with equal detachment they'd soon fall prey to the very aristocrats that had victimized them once she departed. A joke in a long line of jokes that believed they were justice yet had neither justice's power nor its audacity.

"I deliver now, my pretty little youth. Prove your life to me. Walk."

Let us discuss unfetterment on the way.


They were the terrorists, theirs was the jihad, murder the infidels not for what they believed in, not for what they conquered, but what they didn't; such a waste of life and limb, such a stagnant existence.  And so the world would end for them, not with a bang but a whimper.  you could only explode powderkegs, never mind pillows, and what are YOU made of? but 'we' was not in existence yet, here was only the forging of a connection, the barest breath of ascension.  it was 'I', that solitary singular dismally isolated item.  How did it feel, to walk so far with only mind for company, to walk among the heathen fools with no drive, no goal, no sense of aesthetic majesty in toppling the tallest towers? content to SQUABBLE, a rabble of the unaccomplished and nondescript?!

If Beryl had not been mad when she had brought her motherland to its knees, not crippled but decapitated, she surely was now.  and yet -- and yet -- kept her wits about her out of sheer spite for the natural course, defiance of the assumption that the sane were the weak, diluted ones and loose cannons like her were...less capable.  The timber observed the blackblood with a detached calculation of her own, less of character than muscle -- and could she kill this other with ease? Older, growing grey-muzzled, but age meant experience as well as brittle bones...larger, but probably slower as well, less eyes as vibrant, as glitteringly saturated as her own, and yet did they house the same predatory tangles of thought?

How kindred these two were at the crossroads.

"Shall we talk, friend?"

Lips stretched in a mirthless grin, dainty paws (calloused on the bottom yet, from miles of exodus) stretching to close the distance between them.  Talk? Why should she? Why shouldn't she? arbitrary acquiescence, and yet the other probably wouldn't care for the specific motivations.  Ears tipping forward, muzzle tipping up, gracefully as if to kiss but in actuality to listen -- and to contemplate a perky hop up to grab at the throat, if the right wind blew.  The blade-edged voice, the enigmatic timbre, that would buy this one's time -- tokens for being interesting.

"We promised you something once. Said we'd give you a paradise to burn away."

Hackles rose, throat arching, lips lifting for tongue to lick over teeth at the thought; the vicious anticipation was pure and wordless, eyes blazing a keen answer to the yet-unspoken question.  Something beautiful, give me an empire, give me a work of art to shred and I'll follow your footsteps, do it without posturing and swaggering and with the senseless-violence aged like wine instead of petty little vindictive notions and I might even stick around,

junkie with a needle before her, yes, just a taste to get hooked again, yes,

"I deliver now, my pretty little youth. Prove your life to me. Walk."

And that was it at its heart, wasn't it? Unfetterment... freedom.  but mostly, leaving a mark.  power, in its purest form.  never mind these toothpick constructions of wannabe leaders, politicians with glib words and swaggering steps and packs left to crumble before the greedy jaws of time, let's blow up a effing embassy AND THEY'LL REMEMBER US FOREVER

The thirst in the cracking, hoarse voice was indecent, the extended words and muzzle and stressed accent of greedy anticipation almost a doppelganger for lust, but seduction was nowhere near the intention, no -- pleasure in its basest form, honesty in its crudest form, no pretenses of aloofness or politeness

"I'm not alive yet... but if you're good to your word, I will be."

at last.


Movements were slowed as though restrained by sandbags, everything measured and gradual, bringing perhaps to mind a massive lizard with tired old eyes and a serrated jawline, some relic of a time gone by and looking positively unnatural placed adjacent to all these vibrant fast-moving neophytes spun of hairs and sinew instead of dust and drab brown scales. Like her namesake, even while it indicated nothing beyond a couple of parents who'd likely wanted their offspring to seem intimidating, she was a beast that simply did not belong in this era, or any era at all... yet here she was, standing now before a tactical pawn with its mad smile, a mark of the new where the old knew no such malevolence, and should said pretty youth in its shiny newborn glory choose to attack, she would swallow the infant whole.

Beryl drew closer as Dragon spoke in her soft unchanging voice, and as the timber did, she could smell the chaos on her, the need for wanton destruction, surmised that this was a girl who would dismiss the intricacies of her visions in favor of being fed a diet of stimulation beyond what day-to-day living could grant her and pull-wings-from-butterflies brand of sadistic delight. The renegade was unfettered, but she was greater than a loose cannon, superior to these vicious blood-sucking children even in their power and artistic touch, and so this succubus would be fodder even as she was a most helpful partner in crime, something to shove into the line of fire if it all turned sour, because clever savages were easily replaceable, dollar for an individual chess piece. Perhaps this would change, yet Dragon did have the general belief that her perceptions were of an utmost intelligent design...

"My word is my bond," she replied, a hoarse murmur cold as this wasteland was contemptible, and it was entirely true depending on the day, as were all aspects of this oil-colored creature. She had no reverence for contract, but rejected no code of behavior should it obtain her what she wanted. So as of right now, at this very second, in her brain, it was a sincere promise.

She moved suddenly, a muffled creak of joints deceptively heralding the continuation of her little stroll, schemes rolling spotlessly from one cog to another in the expatriate's mind as she ventured, mulling arcanely over a variety that could easily make a corpse of her should one piece malfunction.

(But what kind of terrorist would Dragon be if she was afraid to die?)

"To Inaria, friend."
« Last Edit: July 23, 2013, 10:15:07 PM by Dragon »
When the low, heavy sky
weighs like a lid on the spirit
aching for the light

And when embracing the horizon
it pours on us a black day
which is sadder than any night

Played by Kotake

[12:08:19 AM] (spear) i am a slave to my memes: i'd rather fight a dragon than dragon
effing hell i love to hate Dragon.

Offline Antianara [Thalestris]

  • Heir to the Black Death, Basilisk of Lykopis
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Re: Red Flag [archive]
« Reply #1 on: September 16, 2010, 10:25:42 PM »
Yaay, ty for reposting this already~

/marks on persona
Listen to me! You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen. We don't need him!

she spreads herself wide open to let the insects in
she leaves a trail of honey to show me where she's been
she has the blood of reptile just underneath her skin
seeds from a thousand others drip down from within
oh my beautiful liar
oh my precious whore
my disease my infection
                          I am so impure

played by tsubasa since 4/28/09.