A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF CREATION!
Kin Name: Atone
Drabble: She wasn’t a saint—never had been, never would be—so it came as no surprise that she was, more often than not, a destructive force. She had been innocent once, lifetimes ago, and that had been manipulated into ending, knowingly and unknowingly, until she accepted that life was out to punish her. And if she was going to be punished, she may as well deserve it. A hard thing to come back from, impossible really, as everything seemed to be an irritation or a nuisance. It had not taken long for her to search out a safe haven. A secret she shared with no one (not that there was a single soul to share it with). Atone, for all her faults, was gifted.

In the heart of a section of the swamp that had been given more to rot than growth, she had cultivated out a glade. The ground had been dug at for weeks, near even a month, until the firmness had become soft. Fallen trees that were so delicate they crumbled at her touch were broken into the soil to become mulch. And when it was ready, she had let it sit. She had bid her time and after much thought, she had sought out a sapling to transplant.

It had been tall but not at all strong. Indeed, her sharp eyes had noticed it was ill. With carefulness that belied her penchant for death, she had dug the specimen up and ever so gently taken it to her haven. In the center of the glade, she planted it. (Now, almost three years past it had blossomed into a fine fruit-bearing apple tree.)

After that, she had with great attention to detail plotted out each future section. Sunlight was not an issue and neither was water—provided she was there to fetch it—but she would not always be and so she had to choose sturdier specimens than the more fragile plants that some kin may favor. If she could get them through the first year, they’d likely be able to be left alone without concern. Unless some catastrophe happened, she’d narrowed her eyes at the thought. (She’d kill him if he came here.)

At the borders, she’d cultivated an outer circle of maiden grass. It grew quite tall and wide to lessen the view into her sanctuary. After that she’d used a plant called angel wings to line the three paths that led to her prized apple tree. Snowmound and lily of the valley plants had done some much filling in, followed by snapdragon and daylilies. The last two plants she’d introduced were quite common: lavender and, a certain strain of, holly. The completion had been nothing more than a small breather as she’d still had much work to make sure each grew.

Now—the summer coming would mark the third year since its creation—it flourished. Perfumed year-round and enveloped in a sea of colors, she felt some semblance of peace that she had known since she was born the first time. It saddened her, to know, that when she died it would become overgrown and may even follow her. That was a worry for another day; spring would be coming in two cycles of the moon, near about, and she’d need to trim and weed lest all the hard work was choked. And despite her destructive-streak being more than wide enough to swallow the swamp, in this place, only her gift as a grower, cultivating creation, was nurtured. (It helped that all the nuisances were picked clean and left to the birds.)

A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF TURTLE!
Kin Name: Atone
Drabble: It was pathetic. A wobbling overturned reptile that rocked in a haphazard circle in a poor attempt at righting itself. She sneered as it once more lazily pried its mouth open wide, neck stretching out, and then latched onto her tail. Did it not know she had been dreaming?

Atone did not dream; she had nightmares that punctured through her ribcage and clawed up her throat until she woke screaming, guttural cries that left her shaking for hours. And yet, she had dreamt. Of lifetimes so long ago, she did not know if they had ever been real. Until this, she seethed, failure had woken her.

"Stop it," she hissed as she whipped her tail up and away. She cringed as a few hairs were pulled loose. Wonderful; as if she needed to become a doe with a balding tail! She huffed. Vanity was not usually a concern of hers but she was moody and everything felt a slight against her. If only she had—she snorted, her boar did not care for turtles. Nor did she care to call it. She had been foolish to give it such a name. While a constant reminder had been her goal, she had not realized how the mantra would turn into a taunt. She huffed; it appeared the turtle would not be a meal. (Pity; properly cooked turtle was apparently delicious.)

She should right it. That'd be the so-called "good" thing to do. "Good" always managed to bite her in the ass and become a sin that needed to be punished. ("Evil" had never gone much better but the quick and easy sensation of winning had been addictive.) Oh fine, she'd help the damn thing.

Tail tucked close, she rose and pondered. She had a feeling it would attempt to bite her if she wasn't careful. She positioned it near its tail but its constant motion made it hard for her to get a clear shot at nudging it over. There was only one way that she could think of to steady it. Gently, she places a hoof on top of the reptile's hard shell that protects it stomach, and bends down to—

"Hey! What are you doing to that poor turtle?"

Atone glared—of course some idiot do-gooder would come and misconstrue the situation—then smirked, before grabbing hold of the damn turtle's tail and flipping it over. Then with a haughty look that dare the kin to say one word, she sauntered by. She damn well wasn't going to be a friend of turtles anytime soon. Hell, she wasn't going to be a friend of kin.

Although she may have to see about becoming a purveyor of turtle soup, or at least say she was, if she ever ran into that turtle or kin. Just to send a message. In all honesty, she'd be quite happy never to see either again. Perhaps she would move north, away from the more watery areas where such reptiles were partial and find herself a nice turtle-free residence to return to dreams. She laughed; she wasn't likely to dream. Oh no, as soon as she slept, the nightmares would return. (A damn good bet those would have turtles in them.)

A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF SMASH!
Kin Name: Atone
Drabble: It’s anger. Raw and raging as she is prodded, relentlessly, by the persona she is desperate to shed. In the grand scheme—in the history of her blackness—it was nothing. Just the arduous labor and love of a child shattered. The spray of bone fragments and carpet of flower petals sticks in her mind’s eyes like a shadow blocking the sun. She grits her teeth, slams her hoof into the mossy ground, and tries not to remember the sound of sobs. (Or her fucking worthless, disaster of an apology.)

She’s captivated by the child as it works, relentlessly, to decorate a small rabbit skull. A rather morbid piece of art, to be sure, but it seems thrilled. And she only has to watch it for a short time until it’s mother returns.

She curses, low in her throat, as she almost rams face first into a tree. Goddamn, could she be any more of a lost cause? It evades her in her fuming that she could be; it isn’t as if she killed the little brat. (She tamps down on the urge to correct herself—it was an adorable, snow white lamb.) In a lifetime before, she might have. Not directly, of course, she had some limits, but she knows it likely would have ended up dead because of her. And, as if the world, demands she not forget, she promptly stomps her hoof into a hornet’s nest. (Fuckfuck[/i]fuck!)

Atone runs. The hornet’s nest splinters and shatters, delicate wood smashed to pieces as hooves hit the ground. The stings are well warranted and serve her right, she thinks, as she eventually plummets in the shallow murk of a moss pond. It reeks but it repels the hornets. Only to sink the failure of her day—more like her entire existence—down over her head. She huffs, storming out of the disgusting water.

”This is for you,” the lamb squeaks, fluttering its eyes at her. The brown streaked skull’s amassed flowers are overpowering. And as she bends down to look closer, she spies daisies. It’s too late as her nose inhales and she feels the sneezes tickling at her throat. As her body is wracked with sneezes, her hoof smashes into the presented gift.

She groans, ducks her head down, as she throws herself down on the ground. The mud doesn’t even concern her. She’s got a black heart; she’s a terrible kin. She may as well look like the dirt she is. It was the little brat’s fault for using daisies, didn’t its mother ever tell it that kin were allergic to such trash, she gripes silently. All she did was have an allergy attack. It was not her fault. But she knows better; it was, it is, her fault.

”I—I didn’t, I,” she sneezes at the devastation. “I’ll replace it! There’s a—a stag or mare or someone who beautifies skulls, isn’t there? I could,” she cuts off as watery eyes begin to irritate her. She barely hears the low growl of the mother. She just runs.

Oh, fuck it. She’s tired and she’d only screw something up if she bothered to move. The mud squelches under her weight as she lies down.

Petulantly, she mutters, “Oh, shut up. I’m not fat.”