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01-16-2014, 04:42 AM
still a credit to your ruse, what a beautiful excuse
to never open up your eyes and see the things you lose
to never open up your eyes and see the things you lose
The crystalline clarity, the glacial cold, the calm—it all shattered, like fragile glass dropped on a cold marble floor. In the face of the frothing waves of darkness what little composure he'd had vanished. His shocked systems caught up with reality. Loudmouth was a warm body in a world that had sunk into the abyss, and for a moment, he touched her: broad chest against a moving flank, the faint sensation of her breath's movement causing it to strain against him. Touch; pressure. She was warm, he was warm, the fleeing moron was warm, but the rest of the world had gone out. The balance held for a moment longer, tethering them in sanity, grounding them in reality, then it shattered and fell down in a rain of sharp fragments.
She ran.
He ran.
The abrupt change washed away the final dumb shock, explained to him, in no uncertain terms, that the reason his bloodline was still alive was because someone, back when, knew when to fight and when to run, and that this, this was an excellent example of when you should do the latter. So they did. Black and white and all muted-out in the lack of light they fled across the lackluster sands, into the dunes, into solid earth, and further, always further; he would not remember much of their flight, later. Only fragments of darkened scenery, of his hot pulse pounding through his veins, like a beating drum in his ears—the taste of terror and darkness in the back of his mouth. The first flash of starlight again, dancing across the odd black-blues and whites of Loudmouth's back and flanks.
The eastern sky paling into the hints of a dawn. Loudmouth fell into a trot and Mauja nearly ran into her, but dodged around her ass the last moment to sweep up beside her again. Exhaustion burned along his limbs, a fire in his muscles—the light brought him back to life, made him uncomfortably aware of how much he just wanted to stop, and rest. Snapping into a surprisingly elegant trot he threw a glance over his shoulder. There'd been no sign of Moron having fled. And now, the darkness was lost, somewhere beyond starlight and moonlight and winds and time and space and—something white swept in from the sky. With wings folded Irma dropped, arrowed down from the vast blue, to grab Mauja by the withers just as the now-trio swept into the Grove. The willow branches slapped against his face, but Loudmouth was still going strong, so Mauja followed. Or urged. He didn't know which was his role now, when the adrenaline and the long, long run was finally over. He just knew that he was loathe to leave her.
It almost looked like she tripped on something, and fell. One moment their ever-slowing trot had been taking them into the heart of the copse, the next she was falling heavily to her side in the shallows. Mauja dug all four feet into the grassy bank. She might want to flop into the waters like a fish, but he wasn't too keen on bathing. Besides, if you weren't careful, you could get stuck. He swung around, narrowed his eyes, as if expecting the darkness to come crawling in their tracks like some kind of beast—but the space between the trees was still clear.
The air, smelled clear. Tasted clear. Gratefully, he drew it in. What the hell had just happened? Irma was exhausted, too; she'd promptly gone to sleep, talons buried in his flesh firmer than usual. Red pinpricks of blood made miniscule little rivers from her perch, just a dab of blood on snow—he was shaking, he realized abruptly. Shaking, and panting like a beast. Shaking with the effort of the run, the aftermath of adrenaline, shaking because he wasn't one to succumb to emotion. He wasn't one to give in to fear and flee; if he was afraid, he fought. Flailed, with ice. He didn't simply black out and run.
He'd never felt anything like it before; anything like that fist of cold, absolute terror closing around heart and mind, around his throat, choking courage and sanity and life.
His breathing was shaky, too.
Snorting, as if he could somehow expel the lingering traces of that uncomfortable, utter fear, he turned again, to look at his newly acquired companion. Lying like that, on her side in the shallow water in the predawn light, she seemed younger than she had on the moonlit beach—with all the angles of adolescence not having filled out the full frame. "What the hell was that?" he asked of her in a rough voice; but still, from his tone it was clear he did not expect her to have the answer. He just needed to distract his spinning mind.
She ran.
He ran.
The abrupt change washed away the final dumb shock, explained to him, in no uncertain terms, that the reason his bloodline was still alive was because someone, back when, knew when to fight and when to run, and that this, this was an excellent example of when you should do the latter. So they did. Black and white and all muted-out in the lack of light they fled across the lackluster sands, into the dunes, into solid earth, and further, always further; he would not remember much of their flight, later. Only fragments of darkened scenery, of his hot pulse pounding through his veins, like a beating drum in his ears—the taste of terror and darkness in the back of his mouth. The first flash of starlight again, dancing across the odd black-blues and whites of Loudmouth's back and flanks.
The eastern sky paling into the hints of a dawn. Loudmouth fell into a trot and Mauja nearly ran into her, but dodged around her ass the last moment to sweep up beside her again. Exhaustion burned along his limbs, a fire in his muscles—the light brought him back to life, made him uncomfortably aware of how much he just wanted to stop, and rest. Snapping into a surprisingly elegant trot he threw a glance over his shoulder. There'd been no sign of Moron having fled. And now, the darkness was lost, somewhere beyond starlight and moonlight and winds and time and space and—something white swept in from the sky. With wings folded Irma dropped, arrowed down from the vast blue, to grab Mauja by the withers just as the now-trio swept into the Grove. The willow branches slapped against his face, but Loudmouth was still going strong, so Mauja followed. Or urged. He didn't know which was his role now, when the adrenaline and the long, long run was finally over. He just knew that he was loathe to leave her.
It almost looked like she tripped on something, and fell. One moment their ever-slowing trot had been taking them into the heart of the copse, the next she was falling heavily to her side in the shallows. Mauja dug all four feet into the grassy bank. She might want to flop into the waters like a fish, but he wasn't too keen on bathing. Besides, if you weren't careful, you could get stuck. He swung around, narrowed his eyes, as if expecting the darkness to come crawling in their tracks like some kind of beast—but the space between the trees was still clear.
The air, smelled clear. Tasted clear. Gratefully, he drew it in. What the hell had just happened? Irma was exhausted, too; she'd promptly gone to sleep, talons buried in his flesh firmer than usual. Red pinpricks of blood made miniscule little rivers from her perch, just a dab of blood on snow—he was shaking, he realized abruptly. Shaking, and panting like a beast. Shaking with the effort of the run, the aftermath of adrenaline, shaking because he wasn't one to succumb to emotion. He wasn't one to give in to fear and flee; if he was afraid, he fought. Flailed, with ice. He didn't simply black out and run.
He'd never felt anything like it before; anything like that fist of cold, absolute terror closing around heart and mind, around his throat, choking courage and sanity and life.
His breathing was shaky, too.
Snorting, as if he could somehow expel the lingering traces of that uncomfortable, utter fear, he turned again, to look at his newly acquired companion. Lying like that, on her side in the shallow water in the predawn light, she seemed younger than she had on the moonlit beach—with all the angles of adolescence not having filled out the full frame. "What the hell was that?" he asked of her in a rough voice; but still, from his tone it was clear he did not expect her to have the answer. He just needed to distract his spinning mind.
