I don't know this place, this frozen wasteland. I was told not to go beyond the Arch and the Steppe, but the world does not have its names and lines posted for all to see and it certainly does not respond when I ask. I don't recognize that I have passed into the Steppe, or that I waltz near the Aurora Basin, a herd largely unknown and ignored by myself. I just head north, figuring it can't get any colder than I already feel and curious to see just what pit of Hell I'm forced to crawl around in.

I've heard it said that Hell is not the place of fire and brimstone we so often consider it to be, but instead an icy palace of misery and dread that collects in every icicle until it grows heavy enough and then breaks off to spear the skulls of the damned below. I can see how an eternal chill can be worse than a ring of fire, though burning is such a dramatically appealing demise that I prefer that scene to rest my head on at night.

Perhaps I just want visions of warmth dancing across my dreams.

I glance up at the Tall Sun longingly. I can feel his touch cast down upon me, but it does not fry between my flesh and bone as I crave. I can't imagine this place in the darkest of seasons, so I don't bother trying. Instead my thoughts dwell on the bloodied mare that barrs my freedom, or more accurately, that I let contain me. She speaks of greatness, a similar goal I share, but for different reasons and with a different name on my lips. Still, perhaps she can set before me a path worth walking down, ideally one lined with her bones so that every step I take will have that exciting crunch.

I smile, producing a crunch of my own as I yank the stem of a mountain flower and grind it against my cheek. It must have been a strong thing to last out here, its life so very precious - somehow that desperation to survive makes its flavor all the sweeter.
I lick my lips, hungry for more.

Hungry for something flowers cannot provide.

I continue to think of Adrixaura dying, my patience sure to be rewarded if I can continue to hold onto it. I still quiver with a quiet rage when i think of her calling herself a goddess though. demonKing my mind whispers feebly - she does not know him, else she would not say such blasphemous things. Yet who's fault is her ignorance?

Mine. I know this with a hollow finality.

I have failed my father, my king, my god. I have not done the work he created me for, raised me for, loved me for. Will he love me still, knowing my failures?
My pulse races with an anxious fear. Crazed I begin to pummel the earth with my hooves, the ache of the impact humming up my bones and singing into my sinew a cruel reminder of my mortality. Every day I waste seeps out through my living corpse and spills into the air, lost and ruined. Now, now, now.

I scream, a shattering sound that rattles the air and dries out my throat. Exhausted, I stumble away from the grave I've dug. Sweat makes my dark hide darker and steams in the cold kiss of this winter world. I'm smiling though laughing even, as I behold the find of my archaeological dig. Where flowers live often something has died, their stems pulling out the nutrients, especially in this apocalyptic land.

"Rise" I whisper to my prize.
The bones respond with a click and a clack, a twist and a snap. They are good bones, not too decayed yet, and I makes my mouth water with anticipation.
From the hole in the ground the caribou rises. Its head lifts like a frightened, cautious thing, peeking over the rim of snow with hollowed sockets. I grin, my lips all squirming with delight. "Don't be afraid" I coax with a mother's sweetness. It shudders, but responds, front feet scrabbling for purchase. It can't catch hold though, it's still too buried.

"I understand, my sweet," I murmur, closing the distance between us. Its pale head rests against my knee and I imagine that its weeping. I want to weep too, but my tears would be pricked from joy.
In a swift motion I cast my foreleg through its neck. The head falls clean off, a single vertebrae still attached. The neck tumbles apart with a symphony of sound, clattering back into its grave which already the wind is working to blow snow and dirt back over.

I drop my muzzle to the skull, nosing it gently, my breath stroking it with warm clouds. It tilts itself in the ice, turning to look at me. I smile one last time, then crush it underhoof.
It splinters satisfactorily, breaking apart the true piece I wanted. The eyes sink in and the cheeks bust, but the antlers from this old male, such is their many prongs, remain whole and pure, only slightly jagged and uneven near the bottom where an oval bit of the skull remains. I lower my pill and slip on the crown of crowns, securing it in place by tangling it in my mane and pressing it against the skin between my ears. My blood drips faintly over my eyes, but in drying will serve as an adhesive. Given more time my skin will regrow around it and there it will stay.

"Look at me now father, how alike we are. You wore the face of death and I wear the crown. If you are my god, let me be your queen..."

I sigh with deep want, a need that fills my loins with fire. My estrus begs me to urinate, and so the golden flow splashes against the demolished skull. The relief of the pent up pressure lets slip a groan from my lips, but it will return again all too soon.

I turn to walk away, my hips holding a certain sashay as each stride pulses heat in my groin. Heady, I slide deeper into this frozen hell.