#beesona

I too have been infected with the Caine bee disease

New Beesona Furry OC Reference Sheet! 🐝

beesona. fuck yes. the lapi bee

He shouldn't have been the last dark green, it never should have been him. And yet, by his hand and the hand of others and the hand of Gods and the world and the self… he had gained the status. The last dark green of the pound, at first 1 of 6 that remained then 5… then 4…. And finally 3.

Him.

Luna.

Fusion.

And the news that came with the fear, left him scrambling like a newborn fawn, struggling to even hold itself upon its legs. His head cranes to see a sky that he knows he will never be able to see again, sat upon the firmness of a beast he had not tamed yet made his own all the same. Argos nipping at the heels for a king he could never be. He would never be.

He was untrustworthy despite his desperate pleas, his begging and near crying. Further proof that he would never be the king meant for the great title of trickster, descendant of Hermes, blessed him by the goddess of binding craft and war. He was a mere boy standing upon the bow of a ship he could never have gained his own.

But he was desperate and he cried like a dying horse, a rabbit caught tight in a trap, a cow… golden blood oozing to act as the crosshair of cruelty. He is whisked away in a boat, taken around back, past the raging waters and the beloved sheep of a blind shepherd and the man eating beasts tucked in a farm, past the floating home of a god and into a lair of eels and dogs and those as desperate as he is.

And he begs. He pleads that he, a coward, was tucked away in the halls of another kingdom with friend and future foe alike. That his company was that of a loyal unknown and a tardy lover and ghosts possessing ghosts, all twisted necks and spilt wine and cut short screams. He sees the doubt on their face, his company once included a gnashing beast afterall, who bound its own jaws for him and yet ran so eagerly at the scent of blood. A siren once bound to him by a promise from a life he can barely recall. And yet he begs.

The cost is one so simple and yet so … cruel. Forgiveness, trust bought through blood. And he is no king of Ithaca. He is barely a soldier.. he is the princess of a fallen kingdom, led stumbling on legs lame with crazed fear to beg for salvation for whoever remains. From a lover once scorned.

“Whats the cost.”

And isnt it so obvious. To believe him in his innocence.

“And whats the cost for you?’

He merely reached to undo the gleaning clasp of the golden emblem that holds his cape, then eases the greying chiton lower, barely getting the fabric to his elbow, the neckline bowing under his ribs and stomach, before a blade digs into his flesh. It is burning hot and leaves him screaming and crying, pleas for a swift death left for only the gods and his audience to hear.

He is no king, even as he wakes sharp in a bed he then gifts. He is no king as he allows his only stead, his only remaining joy to be used and slain in his freshly made allies efforts to save themselves. Ghosts cling heavy to his chiton, new features adjusting slowly as it all crumbles around him, broken necks and shattered legs, bodies blown to nothing and sliced down. And he stands having sacrificed himself for a group dwindling by each breath.

At first 1 of 6…. Then 5….. 4…. And now only 3.

Seb.

Paper.

[Comic]