And it dragged at him, like chains, manacles, something hard and heavy attached to his heart— Mauja the Idiot Queen. For a moment, when Sacre's voice had spilled the name into the air, he had heard a shadow of d'Artagnan in him—the same inflection, the same cadence. It was spoken from fucking memory. There was no other way—no way Sacre could've just made it up on the spot, delivered it in the exact same way as his father would've. Idiot had probably been the Nightshade's favorite nickname for Mauja. So as he had finally gathered his wits and his courage and nodded, looked Sacre in his blue, blue eyes, it was with mixed feelings that he processed the news that d'Artagnan still cared for him. It hadn't been enough to make him stay, it hadn't been enough to fix him as his daughter had died before his hooves— (Helpless—) But Mauja's firstborn daughter had died, too, and he had been just as helpless to save her. He had wanted to run, too. To leave. To flee from all this heartache scouring him from within. He had thrown his crown, his duties, aside, had been read to simply abandon the Edge, go back to his wandering, roaming ways, waiting for some sunrise down the line to rise and take some of his shadows with it. But he hadn't. Somehow, he had stuck around, dragging himself along, leaning against Tembovu—so with Sacre in tow now, his treacherous heart whispered, I could've saved you, I could've fixed you, if only you had stayed, if only you had dared, if only you had let me— Mauja picked his way over the Thistle Meadow, thinking his hooves moved too lightly for the weight in his body. Everyone had a right to make their own choices, live their lives as they pleased, come, go, live, die. d'Artagnan had made his choices, social suicide without the dying part, but leaving the same pain behind as he left. Rugged, Mauja stole a glance at Sacre. He had been able to leave. He had been able to find d'Artagnan. He had— The envy was a hot hammer striking his core until he thought he would burst with it. Why him, why you, why not me..? Why not come back, d'Artagnan? I miss you. The noon sun had burned the fog from the Edge and its haunted trees, leaving it little else but an evergreen forest rising gently towards a hidden horizon. A blue sky arced overhead, a few lazy cirrus clouds strewn about. The limestone cliffs giving the place its name were hidden behind the forest, out of sight, out of mind, bearing with it the memory of standing upon those cliffs and meeting d'Artagnan for the first time—calling him brother and sounding him out about his opinions on the other species. It had been a different life, something he couldn't imagine doing anymore. His great head flicked to the side, and "well, here we are," he said, sweeping through lush spring grass and through the ruins of the tumbledown glass wall. Few shards littered the ground next to it anymore; most of it had been cleaned up. Once past it, the Frozen one sidled into the shadows, hiding from the sun rays coming down through the crowns and falling like dapples over the ground. "The World's Edge, where.. where your father and I first met." [ @Sacre + anyone capable of accepting him! ^^ ] stone cold, man or machine, the end of our dreams. |
[OPEN] sacre..d
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06-15-2016, 05:16 AM
06-19-2016, 07:57 AM
I’m standing in front of destiny
That has passed me by again. From the moment his eyes had met the imposing figure of Mauja the stained boy had felt an uneasy feeling grow in the pit of his chest and it had lingered as they had travelled to the Worlds Edge. He felt under pressure, withering under an unspoken expectation that he had to somehow fit his own hooves into the prints of his fathers—but Sacre knew he couldn’t. He was not d’Artagnan and with every step he took beside the Frozen Light he felt guiltier that he had returned alone, had he already disappointed the great white unicorn whom his father had spoken to highly of? Just by being Sacre and not d’Artagnan? A rueful smile had spread onto his dark lips at that thought and he felt like cursing his own sire for the mess he left behind, cursing his own mother for dying and leaving him so alone. His sister… but what had he done in the end? Left his heart with a moon faced girl who he had never told and abandoned his twin brother to the prejudiced world—and ran. The key to the Dragons Throat still tangled in his mane, his excuse to go back, but he hesitated at the thought and pushed it away. The landscape changed and the Meadow blended into the Worlds Edge and Sacre’s brilliant blue gaze recognized it instantly. The Edge, where Rishima had taken him captive… was she still here? He stifled a snort and tossed his head to the sky wondering why his life was so marred by thieves, be it chains or death. Yet, he hadn’t come back here to mourn a past, instead he must carve a future, but it was hard to see through the memories that kept clogging up his mind. Even Mauja seemed caught up in recollection and his words brought on that same sickening feeling as before. “Mauja” he called his name softly as they came to a halt, he lingered in the sun with his two foxes, despite his spotted friend who stood in the shadows. “I am not him” he said, half to himself, thinking that Mauja knew this anyway but Sacre felt like he needed to say it. “He won’t come back… Forget him” he requested, begged, for the Frozen Light deserved to live on without his father’s memory clinging to him, bringing him down. "Forget" ... "Forget" even his foxes echoed. After that, the boy looked about himself, noting the odd glass shard and the smell of sea on the wind. “I remember it,” he said, casting his eyes about the familiar surroundings, a place he may now call home—just like he had the Basin and the Throat. “What’s it like now… The Worlds Edge?” he asked with curiosity, for the last time he had come here it was Mirage who had been Queen. still love that mau table ;~; There's something wretched about this Something so precious about this ❚ Force permitted! ❚ Please tag me!
06-20-2016, 06:08 AM
@Sacre
06-28-2016, 05:23 PM
I’m standing in front of destiny
That has passed me by again. In his wish, his pleading, he had angered the Frozen Light by asking him to forget the old shade who would never come back—who should never come back. A murdering madman whose only joy came from the poisons he found and the blood he spilt so… why was Mauja so attached to him? d’Artagnan was a monster who took joy in the pain of others, who contradicted the term healer and did nothing to save his own family from demise. “Why” Sacre demanded, intense confusion filling his young voice as he ignored the stallion’s growl along with his own brilliant blue eyes blazing back. He searched and searched the face of Mauja, thinking back to his own sire and trying to pin point a part of him that was worth remembering. Sacre would always remember d’Artagnan, but only for the reason that he was his father and Sacre could never not love him, despite that he hated the atrocities he’d committed. Yet Mauja… he paused, gathering his scattered thoughts and re-considered his words. He had wanted to try help Mauja, but his help had turned into the exact opposite it. “That was wrong, I’ve angered you… I’m sorry,” he said with a gentler, apologetic voice. Sacre didn’t come back to pick fights with friends, he came back to stand by their side and not push them away. “I just—“ how did he put it into words? These feelings, his heart that only wished Mauja goodwill, but he felt uneasy beside him. Like he was something of a burden. “My family must have caused you pain, I don’t want to cause you anymore” he said as his foxes bowed their heads and Sacre’s face fell in sadness as the pressure of responsibility weighed down on his youthful shoulders. He had handled it badly so far, but he hoped Mauja would at least forgive him for his cruel words and see the boy who only wanted to make things better. He listened to his nonchalant sounding words about the Worlds Edge and its reigning Monarchs, Sacre had never heard of them. Perhaps Helovia was completely different even in the few seasons he had been missing. He had, however, lived in the Dragons Throat for a long time, it was easy for the big news to slip by him. Before he could reply, however, there was another voice and another scent he didn’t recognise. Sacre turned to see a pretty pegasus mare who berated Mauja and Sacre couldn’t help but laugh with his joyful and, albeit, slightly apologetic sound. “I think I’ve put him in a bad mood” he gingerly conceded, pushing his earlier sour thoughts aside to greet the good Doctor “you can blame me” he winked at her and smiled his great boyish smile. The Worlds Edge appeared to be very different from how he remembered it so far. “Nice to meet you Aly” he returned the head dip as his foxes echoed ”Aly!”, ”Aly” and jumped out from behind Sacre’s forelegs to greet her. “If you will have me, I would like to stay here” he replied brightly and remembered the rank she had put next to her name earlier. He gave Mauja a side glance to check his expression before continuing “my father used to be a Moon Doctor, a long time ago” he smiled, giving away that he wasn’t a complete stranger. Sacre had been born after d’Artagnan had moved to the newly formed Aurora Basin and had never witnessed his sire in his Doctor’s role. “I’m Sacre… the red one is Inari and the pale one is Ríona” he introduced himself and each fox, they both yapped a greeting—“they think you’re pretty” Sacre complimented, ignoring the pointed looks from the two. ”You mean you do” Inari snorted. There's something wretched about this Something so precious about this ❚ Force permitted! ❚ Please tag me!
06-29-2016, 02:41 PM
06-29-2016, 05:29 PM
@Sacre
07-01-2016, 06:00 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-01-2016, 06:01 AM by Sacre.
Edit Reason: what is punctuation
)
I’m standing in front of destiny
That has passed me by again. Sacre blinked in surprise at Mauja’s sudden admission of love, it wasn’t the answer he had been expecting, he didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but a confession of the heart wasn’t one. More and more he wanted to apologise, he hadn’t known how cruel his words sounded. How cruel—to ask him to forget love and move on, to ask him why to reveal a part of him that that Frozen Light may not have wanted to reveal. Did he fall to his knees and beg? Did he offer to leave? This was Mauja’s home before it was Sacre’s after all. The fox lad was struck answerless to the burning of his icy eyes and he wondered if ever there had been a time that his father knew. Death follows a madman. His sister, lover, daughter… d’Artagnan would think his love only led to the ultimate end and his love of Mauja would only drag his friend into the arms of death faster… Even if he knew, he would not come back for love, even if he wanted to, that much Sacre understood. When he looked to Aly, his foxes yapping their gentle replies as she whispered sweet words, Sacre saw her catch a look and he turned back to his escort with a flash of concern. The welcoming would have to wait, the introductions, and the pleasantries... "Mauja! Wait! I didn’t know" you love him. He should’ve known, with the fondness that d’Artagnan expressed whenever he spoke about him, their friendship always sounded closer, very much for his father, who rarely expressed fondness. "I’m sorry! I’m so sorry… don’t walk away" the last part was pleading, his voice cracking as a feeling of déjà vu crept up on him. How many backs would he have to watch disappear? It was he, if any, who should leave. Who was Sacre to make Mauja feel uncomfortable in his own home? He felt the guilt wrap around his heart and catch in his voice, his legs started to move after him, Mauja couldn’t leave. Not like this, how could Sacre possibly face him later? He should have bottled his feelings, he shouldn’t have just blurted out what he thought was right because now he had hurt someone. Again. Even Aly shouted her own apology, he’d not even been in the Edge a day and already he’d caused a problem. What had Aly done— He tried to stop between him and Aly, not wanting to rudely leave the mare, but not wanting to watch Mauja disappear. ”Mauja!” “Mauja!” his foxes echoed sadly in his mind as they too shouted for him. "Don't disappear" not like this, with the sting of Sacre's earlier words following him, without giving him a chance to amend his words and the opportunity to ask him to forgive his ignorance. The fox boy felt his breath leave him as he too began to wonder whether he should continue to run after him... Sacre didn't know an awful lot about Mauja's personality, if he appreciated being bothered, if it would work if he kept pestering him. If he kept walking should Sacre let him go? It didn't feel right, they shouldn't part company like this, but by chasing him would Sacre only make it worse? If he kept calling would he come back? He tossed a forlorn look to Aly wondering if Mauja's herd mate knew anymore than he did. ;~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~; There's something wretched about this Something so precious about this ❚ Force permitted! ❚ Please tag me!
07-01-2016, 05:10 PM
@Sacre @Mauja @Alysanne
07-05-2016, 09:12 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
And it had just gone on, the cold, heartless freakshow—like they were just watching him through a lens, discussing him in a sterile, scientific way. What happens if we poke him here? Will that make him happy? What if we look at him and ask him, as if that's somehow going to make it better? But it wouldn't—didn't, as the roaring black tide of isolation rose in the back of his throat. Were they paying that little attention to him? Or did so little of his emotions transfer to the surface? Couldn't they see what was happening to him? Maybe he was just whispering in a storm. Drowned out by the roar. So maybe, him walking away was like shouting. For who is Mauja, to be anything less than rational? Less than polite? Distracted, yes, a bit lost in himself, yes, but always dutiful, always—rational, cold. He, who was known as the Frostheart, for winter reigned in his heart. He, who froze his own emotions until there was nothing left but arrogance and dreams and sharp, frigid logic. "Mauja! Wait! I didn’t know," but how could you have? "I’m sorry! I’m so sorry… don’t walk away." He paused, back still turned to them. “Mauja, please don’t leave. I’m sorry.” I'm sorry too. "Don't disappear." But where would I go? And he hated them for making his hooves freeze to the ground, he hated them for blowing life into the wavering threads of guilt and shame—how dare he let his emotions cause others harm? How dare he be this irrational? How dare he feel at all? Why were they begging him to stay? What did it matter to them where he was? Was he somehow the sun, robbing them of warmth and joy, when all he did was try to skulk away with his pessimism and hurt? Couldn't he be fucking allowed to be in pain without upsetting others? Jaws clenched together, he turned his white head around, staring at them with a pale, burning gaze. Tears darkened the fur around his eyes, glittered in the offhand sunshine as they tracked down his cheeks. He didn't even know what he wanted—from them, from him, from the world. To be left alone? To be given time and space so that each intake of breath wasn't quite so sharp anymore? So that he could ruthlessly, brutally batter his feelings with arguments based on nothing but logic, until he was once more cold and pristine—untouched, unsullied by the grimy hands of something as base as emotions? But there was something in his heart—something blossoming in the spaces between his breaths, a slow, seeping poison. A faint, long-buried yearning, for— —comfort? And as he stood there, crying softly in the sunlight, he thought that, maybe, if they were wrong about me, I could be wrong about them, too. Then all that changed. The voice came out of nowhere. "No one can ever force you to forget someone you love." His head whipped back forward, black muzzle nearly colliding with the soft, silky one of—Raeden, her silver-gold pelt glimmering in the light. "They are yours, and no one else can tell you to forget or remember any of them." And his eyes, pale ice and still burning with the pain of loss, met hers—teal, warm, sympathetic. He felt violated in a way he never had before—who was she to show up here? Who was she to stare into his eyes as he cried? Who was she to try and comfort him? His grief was his and his alone. She was not invited. She was not part of the equation. He had not chosen to stop for her, to show his tears to her. Who was she to take the liberty of witnessing his sorrow? Vulture. Thief. His eyes grew clearer, colder, as if sheer willpower could freeze the tears to ice upon his lashes, and his breath was a harsh, angry thing as he felt himself pull upon his magic—upon that crystalline darkness, the glacial cold, the depth of his madness. He didn't even know what to do with it, with the mounting pressure in his soul. "What an entrance to our home you have made." She was berating Sacre. But hadn't she listened, the bastard? Hadn't she heard—? He hadn't know. He hadn't known. He hadn't known. Did she think he still didn't know? Did she somehow think this was going to make things better? His face contorted into a snarl, blue eyes blazing as the fury grew within. "And who the hell asked for your opinion?" he spat at her, voice savage. His heart was hammering, pulse roaring, and he wanted to get away—to run far, far away, erase this moment from the memories of everyone. Steal back what had been taken from him. He was losing control. He was trembling, shaking, quivering with the rage threatening to sever every tether, every leash, every boundary. The ground trembled, too, as their corner of the world erupted in ice—little nubs of it forcing their way up through the moss and grass, a glittering, sharp carpet. A little blood slid down one of them where it had grazed his pastern coming up, but he didn't even feel it. All he had eyes for—all he had attention for—was the silver-and-gold witch and her Cerndyr, and all he could feel was a deep, hammering need to hurt her— To take from her, what she had taken from him, an unbidden glance of the heart. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" he roared (voice laced with fear) at her, sides heaving, lungs thick, blood screaming (—singing) for a fight— To destroy— To let go of the beast shrieking up from its lonely pit at the bottom of his soul, to strike, for love, for fear, for anger, for revenge, to raise the ice deep, deep into her heart— In a hushed whisper and a puff of darkness, the scythe's blade appeared. [ @Alysanne | Angry Mau needed cold, dark table. He's still got the staff jammed in beneath the satchel and laying across his back, but the scythe's blade has materialized on the end that lays along his neck. ]
WELCOME TO THE EDGE @Sacre !!
I’m standing in front of destiny
That has passed me by again. Sacre watched the back of Mauja at a loss for what to do next. Like the lash of an unrelenting whip his words must have sounded heartless in the context he saw them now, but couldn’t Mauja forgive his cruelty and ignorance? Did the former Queen not possess a side of benevolence that he could appeal to? No matter what he did he couldn’t take it back, reverse time and erase it, he could only apologise and apologise again. The more time ticked the more the distance, that had suddenly opened up between them, drove a knife through his heart. If the Light walked away did he follow or would that make it worse? Did Mauja not know the longer he stood there, back turned, the more Sacre worried about him? Could he not recognise the affection that coloured his voice? The affection that drove the desperate plea’s of don’t leave and I’m sorry, the lines of worry that creased the boys face and his startling blue eyes that were made dull by distress. Then he turned—finally—but only for the Fox Boy to meet a tearful gaze which moulded Sacre’s face into deeper concern. After his earlier blunder, Sacre wasn’t sure at all about how much he knew about Mauja and, with considered respect for the emotions that lay bare on white cheeks, Sacre turned his head away from the tall Still Light and began walking towards him without looking. He said nothing, hoping he could get close enough that Mauja might let him gently touch his snowy chest to console him for the words the Fox Boy should never have said, but the opportunity never came as another robbed him of his moment. Surprised by her sudden intrusion, his ears snapped back against his skull as her scathing words stung like the licking of fire and he returned her stare with a look of mixed anger and guilt. Did she even know who that something was? Instead of asking what was wrong she jumped straight in and her cold judgment of him was enough that Sacre could feel the heat of irritation rise within him. Did she not see the hypocrisy in her conviction? Even his foxes had jumped in front of him as if in his defence, but the first words were from Mauja himself and Sacre looked at him in apprehension once again. The ground shook, the boy cursed and the spikes drove up through the earth. As one spike glanced a slice into his coronet and he watched the blood begin to spill onto his hoof, he couldn't help but wonder why always the world fell apart around him. He felt numb, as if the ensuing chaos was nothing but background noise to a fate that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Sacre had once thought it coincidence, all the bad events in his life, but wasn't fate just coincidence in hindsight? He laughed. It was wrong, no one should laugh at the flames of anger, but Sacre didn't know what else to do but laugh at the ridiculousness of his fortune. His boyish outburst tittered though his lips, but his own black cheeks were wet with tears as his conquered gaze fell on Raeden. Even as Alysanne placed her nose on his side and berated the spy for her own failure to hold back the tongue, Sacre couldn't help but think he deserved the cold words the Specter had dealt him. The air felt static, like their little gathering might descend further into madness, but first the Fox Boy wanted to say his own peace. "She is not wrong" he proclaimed over the calamitous developments, even as his gaze shifted to notice a blade forming on the end of something strapped onto his father's bag "my words were said with ignorance" Sacre would much rather admit his own faults than incite any violence. He dipped his head to the spy "I'm sorry to you too, if I said something that upset you" besides, it wasn't the Fox Boy's place to berate the girl. Perhaps the moment for them all to get along had gone with his oblivious plea that Mauja might forget the Nightshade and his legacy. A comment he had only made out of fondness for the Frozen Light, that it might still bother him, but all the same, he shouldn't have said it. "Don't" he then quietly pleaded Mauja, looking at his blade and the ice scattered around before he noted the blood on the white stallion and the boy began moving towards him again. Raeden may have instigated the escalation, but Sacre made a point of ignoring her—his main concern was still Mauja. After all this he didn't want his father's friend to do something he may later regret. Gently, he tried to brush his dark shoulder against Mauja's, choosing not to say anything as his words were doing nothing so far and he was more concerned for what might happen next. The Fox Boy then tried to position himself to push, forcefully if need be, Raeden away from him—to place his body between the two, his gaze still at Mauja's spotted chest rather than his eyes, as his foxes went to try wrap themselves around the Light's two, feathery fore feet. Inari reaching out with his tongue with the intention of licking the wound on his pastern. "This much, is enough" Sacre appealed to the entirety of the gathered. lmao such a lively welcoming party ... o____o xD Sorry I took so long! <3 @Raeden There's something wretched about this Something so precious about this ❚ Force permitted! ❚ Please tag me!
07-20-2016, 09:00 PM
@Mauja @Sacre @ Alysanne
08-31-2016, 01:46 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Anger is a slippery, exhausting beast; it's a fire burning you up, devouring everything. It licks the inside of your skin until you're raw and bleeding and broken but no one can see it— He doesn't know who he hates the more in that moment; her, or himself? She's caught in the crossfire, caught in the crosshairs of the unholy spawn of grief and fury and fear, but the question which begins to echo in the void is whether or not she deserves his wrath. It's too late for that, though. It's too late for everything. (Most things, but it doesn't quite make it up to the surface; it drowns slowly in the black waters of his soul.) It's too late to take back the ice littering the ground, too late to call the blood back into split veins and rub pale skin clean of the red stains. It's too late to say sorry. It's too late to— Wide, black nostrils shudder with air. Blue eyes burn with the last vestiges of anger. She's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead, she's not dead. (You can always say sorry to those who are still alive.) You can apologize to corpses frozen stiff in a blood-churned battlefield, but they won't hear you, and it will not do anything to ease your guilt. They're past the point of forgiving you. And if the frigidity of his soul isn't enough to freeze the tears upon his cheek, I don't know what is. Undying he is, but still warm, so the tears do not freeze. They linger like sinful stains on his flat cheeks, and briefly, he wonders if they will ever dry; it only seems fitting they'll remain there forever, proof of all his folly, all his shame, and all the things he has ever caused, done wrong. Nothing he can achieve in this unnatural lifespan can ever make up for all he has already done, and he listens in haughty silence, quivering behind the shield of his frozen fury. He is a lost, broken thing, and that is why he lashes out—he's as much afraid of what's unfurling within him as he is angry with her for having intruded upon his grief. He wants to be smoke. He wants to be intangible, to drift upon the breeze, to escape these mortal coils and foibles, to be beneath the notice of others. (He wonders why he will live forever, when he does not enjoy living.) He doesn't want to be here, the muscles around his eyes straining to keep him from crying again, a dry ache burning his corneas. He doesn't want to stand here, listening to what he knows is truth, allowing her words to be the salty, stinging whiplash herding his errant emotions back into their pen where he lets them starve until, he hopes, they die. It's been twelve years, and they're still not dead. It's been nine years since he should've died. And he still hasn't moved on, because no one ever taught him how. (But the truth is this: he never allowed anyone to teach him how.) The more time which passed, the more he thinks about it, until it is a dead weight attached to his soul and he's sinking, always sinking, struggling against it but never managing to shake it off. "I know," he spits at her back, the voice, the words, somehow the embodiment of defeat; dispirited, he concedes, breaks, folds in upon himself and stands just as what he is: a heathen in an empty shell. She could say more. He could say more. But neither of them do; she knows and he knows that she knows, because he just admitted it to her, and it doesn't matter that Sacre is next to him, trying to comfort him, or that his foxes are licking the blood from his pastern, or that the ground is stained with her blood or that Alysanne took his side (—you shouldn't have, you shouldn't have, I'm the monster here), or anything. He's as lost as he's ever been as the conversations swells and ebbs around him. Is that the sound of peace being made? Is it the faint nuances of forgiveness, between the piebald, the black, and the silvered gold? Perhaps it is, perhaps it is not, but what he knows is that he is not a part of that. He is in the blizzard, the storm howling around hallowed tombs, left out alone in the cold he had brought with him. Defeated, Mauja's head droops, and amidst the rubble of ice his left hind hoof rests upon its frosted tip. He has known this truth for years and years and years, and yet he is just the same as he was when he first realized it. It would've been a blessing to die that night nine years ago. [ @Alysanne @Sacre @Raeden I'm sorry for taking forever. I feel very bad for Raeden. :/ Poor thing. ] | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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