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12-14-2013, 04:46 AM
@[Beowulf] or some other of Eagle's, and open <3
Loneliness. He wasn't sure what it was, really. Mauja had never been the kind to grow lonely, to want for company, had always been content with himself and his own thoughts—just as he had always appreciated the companionship of another, their thoughts. And since that strange morning through the wormhole, he'd never been truly alone. Even now, cut off from everything, almost everyone, he did not feel lonely, at least not by the definition he assumed the word had. The thin layer of apathy lay like a lid across his soul, numbing his heart and the things he knew roiled beneath the bone-white of his skull. Somehow half-alive and half-dead, caught between rebirth and sinking back beneath the waves. Isolated by choice, and true, there were faces he longed to see again.. some more than others. He knew that d'Artagnan was as well as a mad doctor can be, but nearly all he'd met since had been strangers. They knew nothing of him, nothing of his past, and perhaps enough time had passed that he'd stopped being whispered of as the scourge of Helovia, it's evil King and The One You All Should Hate And Want To Kill. Or at least, bring to his knees.
Mauja's sedated pace wound to a halt, the surf reaching up to tickle his fetlocks with cold hands when the gentle waves rolled in. Moonlight painted a silver trail across the waters, and outlined him in its faint glow; somewhere in the region towards the inner sides of his eyes was another glow, a constant light-source that threatened to blind him at distance at night. He sighed. There had been something..charming, about the way things had been. A sense of security, of courage and confidence, knowing who he was, what he wanted, that he had those who followed him, and believed in him. Justification in attacking those who prowled across his borders, a sense of superiority in the power of fear, of ambition, the respect it garnered when they did not know where he stood, or how to handle him. And now, he'd fallen from the political heights. The question which remained was, did he want to climb up again?
Not for the same old cause. He couldn't, really. It had become tainted in his mind, almost like an allergy to years wasted—but if he showed up with some other idea, some other army, who would believe him? Who would have faith in his faith? Maybe his moment had come, and gone, his chances burned just like his bridges.
His heart rung hollowly between his ribs.
Loneliness. He wasn't sure what it was, really. Mauja had never been the kind to grow lonely, to want for company, had always been content with himself and his own thoughts—just as he had always appreciated the companionship of another, their thoughts. And since that strange morning through the wormhole, he'd never been truly alone. Even now, cut off from everything, almost everyone, he did not feel lonely, at least not by the definition he assumed the word had. The thin layer of apathy lay like a lid across his soul, numbing his heart and the things he knew roiled beneath the bone-white of his skull. Somehow half-alive and half-dead, caught between rebirth and sinking back beneath the waves. Isolated by choice, and true, there were faces he longed to see again.. some more than others. He knew that d'Artagnan was as well as a mad doctor can be, but nearly all he'd met since had been strangers. They knew nothing of him, nothing of his past, and perhaps enough time had passed that he'd stopped being whispered of as the scourge of Helovia, it's evil King and The One You All Should Hate And Want To Kill. Or at least, bring to his knees.
Mauja's sedated pace wound to a halt, the surf reaching up to tickle his fetlocks with cold hands when the gentle waves rolled in. Moonlight painted a silver trail across the waters, and outlined him in its faint glow; somewhere in the region towards the inner sides of his eyes was another glow, a constant light-source that threatened to blind him at distance at night. He sighed. There had been something..charming, about the way things had been. A sense of security, of courage and confidence, knowing who he was, what he wanted, that he had those who followed him, and believed in him. Justification in attacking those who prowled across his borders, a sense of superiority in the power of fear, of ambition, the respect it garnered when they did not know where he stood, or how to handle him. And now, he'd fallen from the political heights. The question which remained was, did he want to climb up again?
Not for the same old cause. He couldn't, really. It had become tainted in his mind, almost like an allergy to years wasted—but if he showed up with some other idea, some other army, who would believe him? Who would have faith in his faith? Maybe his moment had come, and gone, his chances burned just like his bridges.
His heart rung hollowly between his ribs.
