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11-13-2013, 04:59 AM
You couldn’t exactly accuse him of running away.
Czernobog’s running days were well behind him now; as much could be deduced from a cursory glance at the swarthy old beast picking his way somewhat stiffly through the forest, head bent dutifully to the task. He had about him the wiry toughness of one accustomed to labor, and his movements, though utterly graceless, unfolded with almost painstaking economy. Tempted by the welcoming shade, he allowed himself a moment’s rest.
He licked the film of dust from his lips and glanced back the way he had come. Somewhere between there and here, swallowed up as he had been by the gnawing silence in his skull and tending to an altogether more valuable concern, Czernobog had stopped caring how many miles he’d put between himself and the black-hearted river. All he had left was the bargain.
That was not something he would ever relinquish.
The dark stallion chewed absently at his foreleg before lurching back into motion. The forest smelled more strongly of horse than anyplace he’d crossed since leaving Iunu, and idly the part of him that yet resented all his borrowed aches wondered if it was worth the inevitable complications to linger. He ignored it.
The wilderness was unquestionably dangerous, and though against all apparent odds Czernobog had never felt particularly mortal, others might look upon this place and see something of value. He dared think they might even see safety. If for no other reason than that, he at least had to investigate.
Who knows? Perhaps the place would suit him.
Czernobog
death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws
death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws
