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09-15-2012, 03:27 PM
I see a look of terror in his eyes and cannot help but feel the thrill of success. Has he never seen death before, never witnessed a corpse even as it lies still? My lips curl wickedly, but even when laughter would seem fitting I maintain silence. Even this uninterrupted quiet seems to have put him on edge. It is as if the young colt expects me to speak for him, to end the emptiness that hangs in the air. It is only when his lips part as if to scream that I understand exactly why. The creature is mute- I can understand as I peer into his open mouth, see the tongue flapping uselessly and feel the strained breath of the living hit my face, that he cannot utter his emotion. Intriguing that while I maintain such a sense of severity by choice, he is forced into it. Does he see himself as a monster, an abomination, or does he accept it? Does he recognize his imperfection at all? To be mute... I wonder at the sensation. I screamed once, long ago. I screamed as I died. But if one cannot scream in the face of death, they surely must still fear it, surely must still face it. As ink spews forth from his tail once more, this time in the form of flowers and maggots, I see that he understands this. Death is unavoidable- a hard idea to grasp, a hard concept to face, but one that must be understood if one is to ever truly live. Strange that I know what it is to live. The teeming plants of the older stallion's creation do nothing to phase me. The link between life and death is nothing new to me- I know the concept better than any, having lived in both worlds. Did the obsidian stallion really think he could affect me? I snort and tilt my head lower before walking closer to him. My steps are disorienting, my appearance that of a queasy colt taking his first steps. I remember my first steps- my real ones. The ones after I pulled myself out of the dim water and felt land beneath by feet only because it was solid. The first steps I took into eternal death. Now I walk into the realm of the end times once more as the peaceful life that had surrounded the stallion turn to vicious, gaping claws. I press onward through his pictures of fate, draw closer to his right flank and allow my side to brush against him, if he does not move away first. My ribs, split, poke out into the open air and threaten to grace his hide. My stench is overwhelming, my hunger waxing. Slowly I let illusion shimmer over my form as I circle the stranger, doing my best to stay out of his sight. By the time I have potentially reached his right I am living, strong, and standing ever so slightly above him. My horn dips and reaches to graze the other being's spine, my lips part and reveal teeth, as if I am poised to strike. But nothing I do to him is violent- if I touch him at all it is merely to feel his breathing, to understand that he is there. When my lips part it is simply to make him feel the breath as it pushes itself hungrily from my breast, to help him understand the thirst to live. As entities we are both floating in an unfamiliar space, surrounded by the cold death of the snow, which now threatens to freeze the hot blood running through my veins, and the ink drawings of life. When I stand before him, the illusion begins to partially fade. My face is divided into that of a great steed and a rotting colt. So he has understood that where there is life, there inevitably also death. What, then, can he do in the face of uncertainty, of undefined abominations that still haunt the earth long after their expiration? He draws life- stands in the snow and understands it is a part of nature, perceives it as no threat. He draws death and sees it all around him. He tries to play god until he realizes that he must also play Death. But how does one draw what balances precariously in between? [[ WC: 727 || PC: 2/2 || Notes: Prometheus begins to circle Ink slowly, approaching from the right side. While on Ink's right, he is undead, and attempts to brush his side against Ink's body. Once behind Ink he begins to transform into his potential form, so that when he is on Ink's left he is alive and full grown. While on the left his horn points down to trace Ink's spine and his mouth opens so that he may breath on Ink. When he arrives in front of Ink again, his magics mix so that he is both alive and dead at once, appearing as a shifting image in between. He faces Ink with the idea that the world is not black and white- there there exists the gray. ]] |
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please tag Prometheus in all replies!
magic & force is permitted at your own peril.
