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Oct. 8th, 2003 08:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenTitle: Sleeping Beauty
Author: Moonsheen
Fandom: Sorceror Stabber Orphen
Type: gen
Challenge: virgin series
Disclaimer: Azalie, whatever shape or form she might be in at the time, doesn't belong to me.
Passing over the mountains through a tear in the sky the dragon landed heavily, ground quaking with the force of her descent. She crawled on her belly through the woods, jaws parted and heaving. She left a clear path of torn earth and downed trees as she dragged herself to the lake, pressed her gored face into the mud, and there she fell, tail wound around her body and claws tucked to her chest. There, Bloody August slept, and did not die; No powers were so merciful as to allow it. The body was ruined, bone and flesh twisted around further than ever before, but still as capable as ever--still as loathsome as ever. Dragon hide was tough to pierce, and dragon appetites tougher to quench, but dragon’s hatred was the most unconquerable and for Bloody August, possessor of it all in great horrible abundance, the last probably saved her life. She hated the forests, so weak so easy to burn. She hated the human towns for simply being /human/--and those wretches she hated for reasons that swam at the back of her mind that she knew were there, but burned too much to drag out. Mostly though she hated her flesh, hated it to the very depths of her knobby, dark, leathery core and, to spite her, it lived. Bloody August lived, and Bloody August slept, and Bloody August dreamt that night of stretching out under a cool, crimson sky, and being skinned alive. Scales and wings and muscle peeled off, bit by awful, awful bit—coming away on the blade of a sword, of /that/ sword—until all that was left was her were the quivering, naked insides, curled on a bed of blood and dragon’s skin. Still living, curse it, still living, and ripe with a different sort of hate, the kind that hurt the most, because she could remember then, she could remember.
Bloody August stirred in the hour before dawn, raising her jaws from the mud, wings unfolding as the first shreds of light slid across the dull bronze of the dragon’s head. Bloody August woke, and Azalie snarled and clawed for the sky and fell silent.
Dragons never remembered their dreams.
Author: Moonsheen
Fandom: Sorceror Stabber Orphen
Type: gen
Challenge: virgin series
Disclaimer: Azalie, whatever shape or form she might be in at the time, doesn't belong to me.
Passing over the mountains through a tear in the sky the dragon landed heavily, ground quaking with the force of her descent. She crawled on her belly through the woods, jaws parted and heaving. She left a clear path of torn earth and downed trees as she dragged herself to the lake, pressed her gored face into the mud, and there she fell, tail wound around her body and claws tucked to her chest. There, Bloody August slept, and did not die; No powers were so merciful as to allow it. The body was ruined, bone and flesh twisted around further than ever before, but still as capable as ever--still as loathsome as ever. Dragon hide was tough to pierce, and dragon appetites tougher to quench, but dragon’s hatred was the most unconquerable and for Bloody August, possessor of it all in great horrible abundance, the last probably saved her life. She hated the forests, so weak so easy to burn. She hated the human towns for simply being /human/--and those wretches she hated for reasons that swam at the back of her mind that she knew were there, but burned too much to drag out. Mostly though she hated her flesh, hated it to the very depths of her knobby, dark, leathery core and, to spite her, it lived. Bloody August lived, and Bloody August slept, and Bloody August dreamt that night of stretching out under a cool, crimson sky, and being skinned alive. Scales and wings and muscle peeled off, bit by awful, awful bit—coming away on the blade of a sword, of /that/ sword—until all that was left was her were the quivering, naked insides, curled on a bed of blood and dragon’s skin. Still living, curse it, still living, and ripe with a different sort of hate, the kind that hurt the most, because she could remember then, she could remember.
Bloody August stirred in the hour before dawn, raising her jaws from the mud, wings unfolding as the first shreds of light slid across the dull bronze of the dragon’s head. Bloody August woke, and Azalie snarled and clawed for the sky and fell silent.
Dragons never remembered their dreams.