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08-06-2012, 10:29 AM
(This post was last modified: 08-07-2012, 12:00 AM by Prometheus.)
The encounter with the dark mares in the threshold left me weary and bored; I left their side dissatisfied and yearning for more to this life that I've been given. You've trained yourself over the last season, and now it seems that anything may fall under your spell. Your eyes seem brighter now, but not with life. No, they seem brighter with mysticism and are filled with a haze that I can only describe as cruel. Each day you spend with me draws at your innocence. What is left of your good nature now straggles behind us like the last wounded deer in a herd. On some nights when I glance behind, I am almost certain that I can see it there- a pale mist emanating from your pelt. And that is another thing; your coat seems to grow darker each day. I wondered for some time if it was a product of age, but I realize now that the darkening of your coat is from the blood of your hunts. Like me you are dirty and have a certain pallor to match the undead life that we live. Your stripes fade and blend with the dark red of your coat, while in other places dust and a life led in the swamp have turned you a sickly greenish white. But now we venture outside of the marsh that we've lived in for so long and drag our corpses to the borders of a new land. I can tell by the way you shift your paws and the brightness of the sky that it is hot here, and yet I cannot feel it. I still feel cold; I am perpetually cold. My red cleft hooves sink into the sand but I feel nothing. There is a certain thrill to it, a sense of elation at feeling both everything and nothing all at once. I feel a monarch among mortals, all powerful as I stand below and yet rise above. I have cheated death and led life, can any others say the same? You tug at my withers impatiently, clutching my dead flesh with your polished fangs and tearing off more of the skin. It hangs loosely from my hide, and I look down to you with a stern and strict gaze of disapproval. Strange how little I have to tilt my head these days; soon you will walk taller than me, I am certain of it. No matter my years I am still a child in size. The form is inconvenient, but better than having no other, I suppose. Better than a still grave in the depths of the marsh, and better than a tedious existence like so many others that I've witnessed. You growl viciously and your trail flickers with impatience. I understand you and yet I do not care to act. You edge closer to the Oasis that rests in the distance, but I stand firm in my place, looking for all the world like a desert mirage. Potential swirls about me in patches, forming a mirage of what I could have been, but it fades at will. With the form of the living I begin to feel the burning of the sun and the heat of the sand; these feelings will do me no services. In this midday summer I am still and patient, waiting for the world to come to me and my new death to begin on its own terms. You may cry, you may growl and hiss, but it does nothing to change what is left of my mind. I will wait for eternity and the sun will come down, but I refuse to move forward alone for any longer. [[He wishes to be an Apprentice for the Dragon's Throat.]] |
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magic & force is permitted at your own peril.
