| Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: 3 HP: 62 | Buff: NOVICE |
| wanda |
Peace is savory. It is a dish to eat and a drink to sip at, a hot chocolate to nurse between cold hands. For a long time it replenishes you, at first too hot to enjoy, and then you revel in the creamy taste; and then it is gone, only dregs left at the bottom of the cup. All too soon it's been swallowed by your hungry lips, and the world erupts into war, shattering the glass in your hands and leaving blood on your fingertips.
For now the world was quiet and all could leisurely drink their drinks, but how long would it be before it was gone, evading the grasp of the peaceful, the harmonious seraphs, the gay children and the jovial old men, the nursing mothers and the long-legged women awaiting their gangly boys? How long would it be before the moody, bitter teenagers marched off eagerly into their first war, unprepared for the violence, the blood, the glory and the gore staining the frozen winter earth red? They were never aware of the devastating splendor of crimson painting the world awaiting them. They were white-teethed teenagers, practiced at aiming but not prepped for stealing lives, for wreaking havoc, for destroying and killing, for the earth to ripple and buck beneath them with the bombs and the glistening swords of the unicorns lowering to meet the charging equines, horses running aground, shields shattering and muskets meeting.
He watches Huyana, his friend, a stranger as much as a familiar, and wonders if the pacifist mare thought of how her child, son or daughter, may be expected to wage war. No doubt she would be a mother that abandoned foals dreamt of; cool and calm, collected and introspective, understanding and gentle. Mothers. They influenced more than anyone else in a young horse's life, teaching, nursing, raising, as their fathers ran off into war, into battle, to come back bruised and shattered remnants of their former selves.
It is the rainmare's laughter, a rippling chuckle, that draws him away from the morbid thoughts that follow him like a miserable black cloud. I am with child, she tells him, a passion in her eyes that almost makes him want to withdraw. Is that flicker, the spark, the ember of love? What is it like to love? He did not know love, only obsession, only lust, the craving for the hips of a mare. At the thought his loins tightened imperceptibly, and he shed the thoughts again, those thoughts of moonlight-bathed lovers beneath the velvet of the night sky, naked skin close and eyes sparkling with starlight, replaced by a stark image of the darkest stallion he had ever met. Deimos. The reaper, the lord of shifting shadow and summoner of death, a literal symbol of the most formidable and ruthless of opponents, with eyes cold and distant. Him? Love? Huyana, igniting warmth within the glacial regions of his frosted hearts? The rain and the death, coming together in a union that could only spell out the birth of a legend?
The stallion's tail lifts, kinking towards the tip, black plumes glittering with the alabaster light. "Ten lle manka ier tinu. Your happiness, my joy, rough translation... it makes more sense in my language." He offers her a gentle smile in return.
There is the softest of rustles as the daughter of rain and storms moves forth, coming closer to the soft yearling, encroaching on the space between them. In her voice, he detects only concern, and he marvels at it more than the faintly disturbed words themselves. When was the last time someone had just cared for him? Oh right. Never. It's a bitter thought, but he can't help it. It wasn't Carnesîr's fault his parents didn't love him, unappreciating of his different skills and different dreams, that he dared to break the endless chain of muscle-bound little lordlings of perfect behavior waiting to grow up into perfect muscle-bound lords.
Stepping forward tentatively in hopes of bring himself beside her to groom at her withers. There is no romance in this attempted gesture, only companionship. "Do not fret about me, elerrina. I have been lost, but I am finding myself."
carnesîr,
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[O] A little vision of the start and the end
