Full Name: Allanna
Breed: 1/2 Arabian, 1/2 Mustang
Color: Light strawberry roan, with a brilliant white blaze for her father Allan, a light gray heart patch on her right side of the neck, and eleven stripes, going from one side to another: a light gray for Al Sha'ar, a ghostly white for Mourning Glory, a golden for Dear Me, a crème with dark brown spots for Orchestra, a strawberry roan for her mother, a spotted one for Shale, a pure white for Kamikaze, a rich bay for Believe, a blue roan for Omaha, a light gold for Nebula, and a darkest ebony for Saul.
Titles: Light Mythical Empress, Trilogy Heiress
Birth Date: November 6, 2003, 3:54:53 pm in the Beach (31 BQ)
Dam: Satine (Lone Star x Banat er Rih (Ziyadah x Tabari))
Full Siblings: None
Half Siblings: Fallon (male, Allan x Pythia) and Delica (female, Allan x Pythia), Gallows (female, Allan x Epic) and Cade (male, Allan x Epic),
Alliance: Light Mythical
Age at Death: Six
Date of Death: May 28, 2004 at 2:29:47 pm in the Beach (37 BQ)
Cause of Death: Childbirth and Broken Heart
Foals: Jones, a colt by an unknown stallion
Last Home: Dewdrop Deserts
Best Friends: Zedas, Morphine, Skye, Plug, Day Dream, Leo, Gooruden Kaze, Guitara, Kazzer, Spell, and the others in Dewdrop
It was a dark and stormy night. How many stories begin that way? Countless… How many end that way? Some. How many would begin that way, and yet, be about the end? Maybe a few. Well, this is one of those, I will warn you in advance. You need not listen. I free you from listening right here, right now, if you so choose. Advance further if you’d like; close this page and read something else if not.
And so, for those of you who have so chosen to continue, I will as well. It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled amongst the trees; and the melodies of dark angels rang and reverberated throughout the normally silent valley. The air was thick, humid, and held a certain feel of agony. The clouds hung low - thick, gray, tempest clouds. Rain would soon begin to drip downward; first in a small, almost unnoticeable drizzle, and then increasing in fervor until it had amassed into a thunderous storm. And in the midst of the activity, a single horse walked.
She was almost indistinguishable against the backdrop of black, being so herself – at least on this night, though the lighter spots on her back where the rain beat down hinted at a much lighter coat color. She walked with duty; her head was held high and her eyes shone with an obligation. Her mane was a tattered mess, swirling violently around her neck, giving her the look of a crazed witch. In her eyes, along with her sense of duty, shone a malevolent light that glowed crimson. This light rose to the sky, and her mouth parted. She spoke, low and quiet, yet with a sense of strength that could not be easily mimicked.
“I have come. I have not failed you, as so many have me. I have done what is required, and with great pleasure I might add. I bring to you now, sire, your request.”
She stepped back, and with a beckon of her head, a string of horses floated into view. A fluorescent chain bound their legs, and their mouths were clamped shut with invisible muzzles. There were six in that line, all females. The first was a glamorous palomino, healthy and strong in the prime of her life. She held her head high despite the abasement and her eyes glimmered with the cry that could not escape her mouth. She had a dainty head and a high set tail; no doubt carrying at least a bit of Arabian linage. Even captive, she floated like a princess – like the princess she was. It was none other than the firstborn of the former neutral king and queen, a quiet girl with a path of murder, Dear Me.
Behind her was an appaloosa colored mare, no older than five at the most. Unlike the previous, her body light with confusion and uncertainty. Her legs, slender like a ballerina’s, thrashed wildly and yet, to no avail. Her nostrils flared in fright, and her eyes were wide with shock. Gone was the tranquil and serene musician so wild and free, and instead was a cello, its color dim and the strings all snapped. Gone was the carefree child of Sheet Musik and Blister, and in its place was Orchestra, with no sense of control.
Behind the spotted Orchestra, another speckled figure lay captive. She was small – very small – no higher than Orchestra’s barrel. She was a happy-go-lucky girl, always in a carefree mood and never too still. She was always inquisitive, even at her age of nine, and her small Falabella size never once helped out her curiosity. Her eyes were glimmering still, though it might have been only the rain. Her brush of a tail hung limp, though a defiant (or was it excited) shake was given every now and then. Was she furious; did she give up hope; or was she actually eager to see what awaited them? That even this little Shale did not know.
Behind the vertically challenged miniature, a muddy white horse walked. She looked every bit an old nag, with no clue as to that she had once been trained for battle. Her tail hung limp and her mane was only pieces of hair glued to her neck. However, her eyes were lit with an ember of vehemence that could not be easily matched as she waited silently for the perfect time to spring, to attack, to avenge her freedom and the sleep she had been so rudely awaken from, even if she had to die in the process. After all, what else was a Kamikaze?
Following Kamikaze was a mare colored much like the first in line, a dazzling palomino. Yet, there was a major difference. She acted much like the white mare that was before her, lifeless and hopeless, with not even a sparkle in her eyes. Born of a magician prince and a chaotic battler, she had inherited the traits of none, and she did nothing. She was Nebula; a Nebula that would never shine again.
Finally was a bay mare, about the same age and size as Nebula. She was slender though, yet strongly built. Her mane and tail hung down in rags like the others, and her figure showed fatigue. Yet, a sparkle burned in her eyes, much like Kamikaze. Yet, that sparkle was not of hatred or fury. She did not yearn to attack, and yet, she did not forfeit her freedom. She believed, in her heart, in her eyes, and in her name. Believe believed in hope, and she would continue to believe, she knew.
But all six were nothing but a present concerning the first mare. She cackled loudly, throwing her head back in a throaty laugh.
“There they are; just like you requested. Six souls, to be yours. And don’t think I chose any old nags. Number one there’s a princess – a queen right now if the thrones weren’t so messed up. Spotty’s a musician. Tiny has enough curiosity to drive anyone nuts. Four’s was a warrior lady, but not anymore. Goldie there is a princess as well; my only son’s daughter. And normal is the daughter of the first dark king’s child – the lost, unknown one, in fact.”
She turned to face them, studying them for a moment, and hearing no answer from above, turned back. She straightened her neck towards the sky, and paused for a moment. Then she breathed out loudly and spoke once more.
“Finally, I will reclaim the life that has been lost for me. I will start again, and I will rule. I will reign over Beqanna with an iron hand, and I will be supreme. The others have had their chance and their time. Now, it is my time. I have been cast aside as a worthless piece of junk far too long. I was Lone Star and Banat er Rih’s first child. I was named a poetess before I even was birthed. All my life was planned out for me. Do this; do that. I was the quiet one, forced into a life of peace. My twin everyone knew. That’s Invisible Star’s sister, or that’s Banat’s girl. And then, the pink midget, Satine. ‘Oh, aren’t you Satine’s older sister?’ And then twin set two. Saqr, mister mighty falcon. Go fly away and never come back. Get all the glory, why don’t you. ‘Oh! Isn’t that Banat’s son? Too bad she’s had all girls earlier. Just look at that old one, playing mistress to King Isami. I bet it’s her parents’ title that got her there.’ And Thaqib. Thaqib! What can I say about you? You were the only one I understood, and now you’re gone, and so wronged. Cut and his cheating mistress. Isami and his lies, who had dared brainwash me into baring him a son. This is for you, dear sister. I will avenge you.”
She never even mentioned the final three, who were so beyond her hatred that she didn’t even pretend they existed. She didn’t believe they existed, but if the middle had, it would prove something… something she let known to everyone just now.
“And Mother. Mother! Can you even call yourself that? When was the last time you were motherly? I could not even take care of my own child because of what you had done to me. You’re a whore, and yet, no one says it. All because you’re a princess. You think you’re so special, being miss foreign princess that brought magic to Beqanna, that you need to spread your bloodlines out so. Me, Invisible Star, Satine, Saqr, Thaqib, Batal, Nisr, and Anadil. Eight! And speaking of Nisr, wasn’t he sired not by Lone Star, but by some stranger you slept with?”
She smiled then maliciously, suddenly, as a flash of light shot downward before her. Her eyes narrowed, peering past the pelting rain, at a figure that did not materialize. Instead, only a deep, low voice rang out, through her mind and the minds of the six captives.
“Well done, my poetess. You are much stronger than you appear. These six are perfect, and in no time, I will be released from my heavenly prison into a horse form, and we will rule Beqanna. Release them, one by one, from your magic grip, my dear.”
Again the mare grinned, and not long afterwards, the number one horse – the first palomino princess – was released. She immediately rose up onto her hind legs, seeking to scream out her fury and anger. Yet, not a single sound was released. She was dead long before. She merely collapsed as a strand of lightning tore through her body, taking her soul and heart. The golden girl shone no more.
With frightened eyes, the others watched as the spotted Orchestra was released. Immediately, a clear chord rung out in the night, and just as the last note was strung, she too fell, dead. The small pony was next, and she sought to going down on her knees, begging for her dear life. Yet, it was to no use and she soon rolled over, no longer breathing. As the warrioress, Kamikaze, was let loose, she jumped upward, her teeth bared and her ears pinned, and a crimson glow in her pupils. The lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, and she was no more. The next one, the poetess’s own granddaughter, put up no fight. She would not fight her grandmother, no matter what, and waiting peacefully, she too was struck down and collapsed.
And whilst the massacre occurred, the last mare, Believe, called out in her mind. Again and again she called, praying for some miracle. Please, she added, just before she was released. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as the thunder rang, awaiting what was to come. One, two, three, four, she counted, but felt nothing. Am I dead, she wondered, as she tentatively opened her eyes.
“You foolish loon!”
Blinking, she gasped hard as she witnessed the scene before her. The leading lady was no doubt furious, and her invisible counterpart as well. But right before her, having taken her death shot, was a strangely familiar blue roan mare about double her age. It was Omaha, she suddenly realized.
“Mamma!” She cried out shrilly, leaping over to her deceased mother’s side. “No… this can’t be!” She looked up, glaring at Al Sha’ar with pure hatred. “Why?”
Al Sha’ar merely grinned, shrugging her shoulders in a blasé manner. “She was stupid enough to walk right in front. She deserved it, that idiot.”
And with that, before Believe could even respond, she was shot down. Al Sha’ar glanced up at the sky, a jubilant grin on her face, especially unusual for having just prepared the death of seven others.
Abruptly, she was cut off as a pink thunderbolt hit her from the side, though badly aimed, succeeding in only hitting her rump. She pivoted on her hind legs to meet the threat, furiously annoyed at being interrupted.
“What was that?”
“You know, darling sister. You know what you have just done, and so do I. I know what you have done, and what you will do. This is not the way. Reconsider, Al Sha’ar.”
“Shut up, you baby.” Al Sha’ar growled, her piercing stare on a younger strawberry roan mare. “You’re lucky my friend – the only true hearted guy left in the world – doesn’t strike you down this instant.”
“Ahh, but that is impossible, for your beloved Saul is dead. He is no more.”
The strawberry roan mare now, knowing she had just struck at nerve, began pacing in a circle around her elder sister. “I do not lie. I only love. And it was with love that Omaha sacrificed herself to save her adopted land and her only child, though the latter was sadly unsuccessful. Now I aim to make sure her sacrifice was not for nothing by halting you.”
“Her death could not have stopped Saul. He is much too powerful! He is still alive!”
“If she had not been intoxicated with good and love. You are not alone with magic, sister.”
Satine spat out the last word with digest, clearly not amused that the sister she had looked up to all her life was of hatred, completely contradicting her beliefs.
“As much as I love, I hate those who hate and who seek to destroy others with their hate.”
Al Sha’ar turned her head slowly to follow the red roan’s circling. “I only return the favor. They brought it on themselves. But enough with this time wasting chatter. I will avenge Saul now as I still do Thaqib.”
And with that, she leapt at an off-guard Satine. Her hooves would have instantly rendered the Amazon duchess unconscious, if not dead, had an attack not greeted her head on, delivered by another – a pale, ghostly white mare.
“Ah, I almost forgot, cherished poetess sister.” Satine spoke with sarcasm and hilarity, though anger still lined her voice. “Meet a warrioress friend of mine, whose only child your lover slaughtered.” She paused, almost grinning, before continuing to speak. “Might I add that that child was your granddaughter was well.”
Al Sha’ar eyes widened for a moment at the mention of Mourning Glory, though she quickly shook it off. With a loud growl, her sweat jumping into the rain and her hooves flying through the mud, she charged again at Satine. For a moment, the black and the red were locked, their bodies raised in a rear and their forelegs interlaced. Al Sha’ar shot her mouth forward, snapping at Satine’s ears or mane, whichever she could possibly get. Meanwhile, Satine pushed with all her might, hopeful at whatever she could accomplish with her weaker body. Al Sha’ar knew of her weak sister and she pushed, almost succeeding in pushing the pink mare backwards. It was then that Mourning Glory rushed, full force, colliding into both. As the daughter of chaos and two magical sisters crashed, a shrill ball of fire began. Slowly it crescendoed, engulfing the land as it passed, gliding over the seven bodies and reducing them to ash, and singeing the edge of the forest.
And within a moment, it was gone, leaving only an eerie silence and the last echo of Satine’s voice, crying out the phrase, “I’m sorry Aelia. I’m sorry Abel.” The blast was no more. Al Sha’ar was gone. Satine was gone. Mourning Glory was gone. Dear Me, Orchestra, and Shale were gone. Kamikaze, Believe, and Omaha were gone. Nebula was gone. The only thing left in the bleak landscape of black and gray was a small clump of fur, lying down in a bundle, attempting to shield herself from the raging storm. Her eyes were wide though, and her head was placed on her outstretched forelegs. She was a beautiful strawberry roan shade, lighter than the color of Satine, which might not be surprising, considering her true identity. She was the only child of Satine, born by her only flame, a ghostly white intellectual before anyone else ever knew of him. His name was Allan.
But in the child’s eyes shone an everlasting fireball, the same one that engulfed her mother, her aunt, and the eight other mares. On the right side of her neck lay a white patch in the shape of a heart, and on her back lay eleven stripes, going from one side to another. The first was a light gray, the true color of her poetic aunt despite her final black heart and soul. The second was a ghostly white, the color of Mourning Glory’s splendor. The third was golden, for regal Dear Me; the fourth was mostly crème, though with dark brown spots, for the musical Orchestra. The fifth, the middle, was a darker shade of red mixed with white and black, strawberry roan, just like her mother. The sixth was another spotted one, though slightly darker and more plentiful in speckles, for little inquisitive Shale; the seventh was a pure white, of hope and peace, for the suicidal pilot, Kamikaze. The eighth was a rich bay, for the ever-hopeful Believe, and right next to it laid a blue roan stripe, for unselfish Omaha. The tenth was another gold, lighter and more with a brownish hue, for her cousin’s daughter, Nebula. The final stripe was of the darkest black, for the true color of her aunt’s love, Saul. And on her forehead was another stripe, this one larger and more radiant. It was also white, though she knew exactly for whom, though she didn’t know how she knew. It was for a genius, one named Allan, the last survivor of her immediate family.
With the death of eleven resulting in the birth of one, the young child carefully picked herself up and with the grace of a wise and experienced mare; she ambled out of the desecration, singing softly to herself.
She tried to change tomorrow.
But the harvest she tried to reap,
Were seeds of pain and sorrow.
How different life is,
Now that you've saved our lives.
So that there would only have to be,
But your sacrifice.
And led by her mother's spirit and the others, she rose to power as the empress of the dead Dewdrop Desert lands, bringing it back to life. During Disruption she attempted organizing the opposition, to no avail. Afterwards, she continued a rather peaceful life in the deserts with her extended family and sister, Morphine, until her death...
Allanna wept. She suppurated incessantly in her head, and despite the attempts of her spirits to cajole her, she wept still. Every thought in her mind was caustic, cauterizing her mind mentally. For her dear, beloved Armand, now deceased – forlorn and detached somewhere on the beach, and for the demise of her celibate by another besides her one and only.
Perhaps that had been the reason for her absence lately, chagrin at her molestation. She had been captured – roped, perhaps would be the best word. Out of inquisitiveness she had followed along, regardless of the protests from her spirits. There had been people – humans – and how they appreciated her beautiful Arabian paragon she could not express. They had tried to show her in halter, yet, next to the ostentatious show horses, Allanna flew into a tantrum. They subdued her with a tranquilizer and brought her back to their farm. While she was still in the daze – almost as if she was drunk, they bred her to their prized stallion in hopes of getting a foal.
It was then, at the nadir of her life, that she awoke and thrashed out – and ran. Ran and ran and ran… back to Beqanna… where she stayed for two days. Why only two? She had begun to show signs and with her melancholy state, she knew the others would discover. So again, she ran, until she found a secluded area and birthed. It was a colt – a small bay colt. How she adored that child, her only child, Jones, her little Jonez Boy.
But she could not raise him and she knew that. Her time was dwindling. She had whispered mellifluously to her son to follow and then, at the base of her desert home, left him. Skye would find him later, she knew. She trusted Skye with her whole heart. And then, with a lighter heart and grim determination, she had set off to the beach… and Armand.
Seeing his body, his handsome, familiar body lying in the hallowed ground. Strode over she did with soft steps and slowly she pushed her body down to lay next to him. “I love you, Armand, and I always will…” she whispered. Then, she laid down her little head, and joined him once more.