nonstop mentality [open]

[J-Bry]

SO YOU STRAP 'EM WITH THE AK, IT'S MOTHERFUCKIN' MAYDAY
THEY SWEAR I'M FUCKIN' CRAZY, AIN'T NOTHING GONNA SAVE ME

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Small snowflakes settled softly in a spotted barrage, one by one dotting the low-cropped ground. The small flurries carried on into the early evening, when the sun was setting presumably behind the peaks of the dark mountains. Dusk crept up slowly, colorizing pastels to the sky and landscape below, and of the discernible dimness there was a lonely presence. The dark dragon took shape out of the encroached shadows, pulling away as if manifesting from the iniquity. She was of poor bloodlines and a disrespectable heritage, but she knew her game and she played it well.

Like a snake, she slid out of the darkness and into the soft flake storm. Once in the light, as uncomplimentary as it was right now, one would see she was in fact a fine specimen for her type. Sleek and stream-lined, she carried her sepia frame well on those finely crafted limbs. Albeit, she was a harsh seductress and a conniving lady, but all the beautiful people are--and she knew she was beautiful. She’d always known that she was simply gorgeous, as vain as it was and as strict as Mother had been about gloating over such things. But Mother was probably just jealous, and that’s why she told her not to relish in sin. But it was a sin to be envious, and it was a sin to express vanity, so technically everyone loses. Brilliant logic, Mother.

Being all by her lonesome was bothersome. Honestly, she liked the silence, the long moments that it brought with it. She just didn’t like it today. Early winter laced the November air, bringing a chill with it that deadened all other noises. Browns and grays were all the grandiloquent vixen could comprehend with her eyesight, and cold was all she could feel, both inside and out. While the fae looked out across the land, over all the empty tombs and wilted life, she held no sympathy or remorse for these dead citizens. It was their wrong-doing, no one else’s; foolishly being in the wrong place, ending up in the particular spot at the wrong time, receiving the wrong lethal shot at the wrong moment. They had died for pity apparently, and they weren’t getting a damn lick of it from her.

So, blindly, the dégagé wraith wound through the seemingly never-ending graves, pausing briefly to glance at the bones that had never decomposed; even bodies had not made it so far, with roaches, beetles, and other insects crawling through their rotted organs and muscle tissues. Unaffected, she moved on, like a dark butterfly floating over the dead bodies. She flitted here and there, sorrowful at only her own misfortunes but inwardly demoralized.

ooc
this is Papillon, for all who aren't familiar with her. Ornery little bitch, she is.

[Tzigany]

((Mm. When I joined 'em I aged Dante & Road like it was spring - that seems to be the default season. If it's winter here Dante's gonna be about 5 and a half, k?))

It seemed like there was always somebody going postal somewhere. Dante had been over hill and dale, and about one out of every ten hamlets had a field of corpses in it. He blew a buzz of air out through his lips and punted one of the bodies, like it was a car and he was looking to see if the tires would come off. Honestly, he worried about the equine race's sanity. It was getting to where he wrote off a nice single murder as kids' stuff.

Honestly.

He turned from the corpse to trudge through the rest of the battlefield. Frost and a light layer of snow crunched under his hooves. He actually had a reason for being there - he was studying cold-mummification. There wasn't any reason behind that. He just had an idle curiosity and way too damn much raw material.

Err, not so raw, anymore. This bunch was kinda dry.

He wandered down the field, idling through and around the clumps of bodies. They'd apparently rotted where they fell - which set the little part of the brain who'd noticed that off on a tangent, trying to figure out what had happened. It was scribbling arrows and x-es all up and down the battlefield when his forebrain noticed the woman.

She was way down at the other end of the field, where - he could tell by the smell - the bodies were... fresher. (Layers of everybody-losing-their-shit. Oh, joy. Is this a favourite spot for lemming syndrome?) She was a pretty dark bay, and in a pretty deep funk. She drifted around, the snow spotting her hair, looking detatched and morose.

Eurg. Considering what his last thought was, maybe he'd better deputize himself to the Suicide Prevention Committee. He picked up the pace and hustled on over, waffling over whether he should shout.

[J-Bry]

overbearing panic attack entrenching my veins
in an hour i'll be okay
i pray this pain will go away permanently someday

In this quiet she often thought about what her father might have been like. Obviously he was a dark, and all the things that a dark was, but rolling the possibilities in her mind was an interesting activity. Had he been savage and bloodthirsty, with no apparent mercy for those below him (and those meaning the rest of the population)? Certainly he could have been a charismatic dark prince, who forced his attraction on whoever he damn well pleased while holding his innocent charm. Or maybe he was a raven, solitary and foreboding, like a pale shadow. Whatever the hell he was, Papillon longed to meet him and prove that his little accident wasn’t just worthless.

So as the rest of the world drifted off to chilled slumber, she kept afloat. Never thought a butterfly would still be awake as the darkness from Lithadaea Dionysian spread, now did you? It was not unbeknownst to her that there was another presence with her (there already had been; the dead, but they don’t really count) but she didn’t pause to study him right away. She just kept on moving, drifting, until the cemetery drew to an end. The bodies had long since disappeared, and now neatly placed graves were the main source of attraction. Since she had no intention of laying foot inside one of those breeding or birthing lands (she shuddered to think of it), Papillon cast her eyes toward the calico stallion that was working his way towards her. Might as well.

Draft mix… then he’s part dark. Interesting. He looked flashy, but his demeanor told her otherwise. He probably thought he was some kind of droll, someone to charm any girl he met… She resisted the urge to laugh right at the thought. Young and stupid, that’s exactly what he had to be--oh wait. Come to think of it, she was only five… oh, so what, he doesn’t have to know that. Hell, he shouldn’t even get to know her name, let alone her age. And as he grew closer--he picked up his pace, she noted--there was that little thing that went off in her head; don’t act like your mother told you to, don’t act light.

I’m not sure the dead would appreciate your attitude towards their remains. Damn, she loved her voice. It sounded pretty sexy, regardless whether it was to anyone else. Like it was a siren to all the fox. She could have had them all, if no one had disliked her when she was growing up. But then again, she didn’t have any desire to be held down by some pig-minded stud, thinking only of reproduction and how many females he’s got that he can reproduce with. God, men are assholes. But it isn’t like they deserve any respect for walking into death themselves… The sienna fae glanced down at the particular grave beside her, scrutinizing the snow-laden tomb. It was their fault, after all.

[Tzigany]

Dante slowed to a chug. Ah, she noticed him. After a minute of sizing him up, she spoke - deep, chocolate voice, the jibe like a spike of vodka. The draft stopped for a minute, balanced between, Nup, don't think she's gonna try to off herself and Damn, nice voice.

It's a bit of a balance, checking somebody out while checking the area for anything said somebody could do themself in with. He could be excused for not putting a lot of effort into his lines.

"Ehh, occupational hazard." His gaze lingered on her pretty throat. Well, it wanted to linger on her pretty throat, and he tried to let it - in between the sharp little glances he kept throwing the woods. Yeah, I think that's a slope and not a ditch. Pretty damn hard to see in the shade, though. Woah, nice lines.

"Personally I think something's wrong with the system when we gotta look out for massacres on the weather forecast, but hey..." Yes, that definately was a slope, he could pick out the saplings on the other side. Suicide-proofing, check. "...that's just me." He shot a sidelong glance at her face, made eye contact, and held it.

"'M Dante. Wotcher name?"

[J-Bry]

Mm-hmm, exactly what she’d expected. Arrogant little bastard so far… too confident to know any better, and not old enough to realize the difference between attraction and annoyance. Nevertheless, it was amusing to watch him attempt a witty line or two.

So when he said that something about massacres and weather forecast, Papillon simply clucked her tongue--well, whatever a horse can do that would resemble a tsk--and shifted her body against the newly shadowed gray backdrop. Murders are a daily occurrence… why do you need to check the forecast when you already know the outcome. The almost-ebonite femme paused for a second, then started to trudge through the semi-thick layer of snow (which was still falling, surprisingly). Her body felt numb, almost aching really, from the continuous flurries and growing chill. By this time the sun had settled behind the mountainside, and while the moon struggled to pull herself up, the darkness would stay. But that was just fine with her, because once again, she loved the cold.

Papillon paused beside the larger stud, pinning an ear back slightly. Unless I’m mistaken, I didn’t ask for your name. There’s a twinge of surprise in me that you’d even ask mine; but then again, not much. There was that little attitude. The trakehner started back up through the bodies, glancing up at the quiet sky. No stars for the clouds. She stopped--again--all this start and stop was going to give her a headache--and sighed softly. Exasperation, really. Tell him your name, don’t tell him your name. Don’t be a bitch--yes! Be a bitch! Kick him! Right in the temple, you idiot! This stupid light-dark thing was really a pain in the intellectual ass.

If you know the French term for butterfly, then you already know my name. Drop a hint, that’s good. Didn’t hurt or approve of him. But it made her sound like a neutral… way too nice… oh God. Papillon could feel the headache setting in already.

[Tzigany]

"Well, usually so you don't step in them. Watch your foot."

The woman wandered off down the field in fits and starts. Dante followed her out of the corner of his eye, a scowl darkening on his face. Something was fishy, here. The way she moved - slurred and heavy, half a beat off the proper timing. He could see the muscles pull under her ruddy shoulders. They staggered and stuttered and scrabbled around, trying to get a good grip on her bones so she could move. For the most part, they missed. Every now and again a foot would come up and shake with a staticky, irregular tremor.

Cold shock...

Was she trying to freeze herself?

Her voice drifted up the field, laconic and oh so holier-than-thou. "Unless I'm mistaken, I didn't ask for your name. There's a twinge of surprise in me that you'd even ask mine; but then again, not much." That didn't even half make sense. Was she getting loopy already?

She stopped right at the end of the row. Looked up at the sky, sighed, got this sour, crosseyed look like somebody'd attacked her skull with an ice pick.

"If you know the French term for butterfly, then you already know my name." Then she let it hang, obviously trying to get back into the Elegant Queen Bitch swing of things. His other eyebrow scuttled up and hid in his bangs. He wasn't quite sure whether he ought to be nonplussed, concerned, weirded out, intrigued, or exasperated. Stuck in the middle, he made a couple funny faces of his own.

"Nous sommes français maintenant, euh?" Dante turned and followed her down the aisle. Even if she wasn't trying to commit suicide by wintry wonderland, she might end up doing it on accident. That was it, then. Miss Priss could get as bent out of shape as she liked. He wasn't going to bugger off until she was well out of danger of hypothermia.

"C'est Papillon, oui?"

((>.< Brain... equal... dead... Please tell me if I'm reading this wrong. If so, we can just have Dante be jumping to conclusions. :3))

((Edit: Dante said, "We're French now, eh?" and "It's Papillon, yes?" in French. ))

[J-Bry]

it seems the sun is still sleeping
and I’m feeling so lonely
there’s a girl in my bedroom
but don’t you worry, she’s not breathing

And she laughed. Often unheard by strangers, and most definitely herself, but she laughed (rather sweetly, at that). Corriger ... brillant, en fait. Peu de gens que je connaissais me dire cela au sérieux. Sauf que ma mère, mais elle a été baisée de toute façon. Après avoir été violée à un si jeune âge, on ne comprenait elle, si sa perception est allé descente. On ne sait pas me dire pourquoi j'étais son "papillon", mais il peut aussi bien être parce que le papillon était tout ce qu'elle pouvait croire à l'amour et après j'ai été conçu. Mais je m'égare. She sent a quick glance towards Dante, a small grin threatening to overrun her maw. Je suis le seul qui parle le français aussi couramment que ma mère. I prefer not to use it except in private conversations or screaming matches, though. Using a different language to insult a person is a convenience, especially the stupid look on their face; brings much entertainment.

She stopped--she’d been walking on--and looked back towards Dante again, the winter air making her every breath feel bone dry. Et vous, Dante? Certes, vous ne me ferez pas faire tout le parler .. Hell no, she wouldn’t spill her life story, then have him run off. If she was to die of hypothermia out here (speaking hypothetically), then he’s going with her. But he wasn’t making any mistake; she really was getting too cold, and any longer out here and she would find it hard to breathe. Even as a little girl, she’d been prone to labored breathing, and it wouldn’t be any exception if she didn’t get warmed up before night fully settled. Actually, she shuddered a bit, and was tempted to edge closer to Dante. So she did; she waited until he was caught up to her, then she pressed her shoulder (figure out the height difference on your own) to his and exhaled a long train of breath. This was her vulnerability--the one thing she loved could very well kill her. Beautiful irony.

Papillon trembled again, faintly. Damn. She had a vague relationship with this stranger and was already pressed up against him. What a cheap whore I am. She chuckled to herself quietly at the thought. Indeed, she was quite a mess of moodswings tonight. Surely Dante didn’t mind. Feminine company of any sort always pleases a man… Lil knew that well enough. Anyway, he wouldn’t leave her voluntarily--she knew that as well.

ooc
translations: "Correct ... Brilliant, actually. Few people I know tell me that seriously. Except for my mother, but she was fucked anyway. After being raped at a young age, no one understood her, so her perception went downhill. It's unknown to me why she considered me as her "butterfly," but it may well be because the butterfly was all she could believe in and love after I was conceived. But I digress."
"I am the only one who speaks French as fluently as my mother."
"And you, Dante? Surely you do not make me do all the talking.."[/size]