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06-16-2014, 05:06 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ bahah love her brazen ogling xP @[Sialia] ]
Briefly, he wondered if he was boring, and thought that, yes, surely he was. Because what was there to him, right now? A shell, a skin, a body, but no soul; his eyes were empty, not cold and glistening, but empty, as lackluster as his filthy fur. What was there to look at, except the defeat of one's self? When you were your own greatest enemy it was a hard battle to fight and he wasn't sure he'd ever fought.
He had probably just given up without even knowing. Died in his sleep.
At least she didn't mock him. Small a mercy.
Was she frustrated by him? By his dead weight, dead eyes, dead soul? He couldn't tell. She was as closed off as he, nothing lurking in her blue eyes, in the lines of her face, the lines of her mouth; nothing. They were only colors with no souls.
"Letting the salt clean your wounds?" He was too far gone to pretend not to understand, or to chide her, or to tell her that everything was fine; just peered at her with a mildly odd look, heart beating dully. Could veins ache? Because he was pretty sure the thrumming pulse of blood was a painful throb.
Mauja shook his great white head, clumped mane rattling against his thick neck. "They scarred over a long time ago but left the infection within," he replied with a lack of humor, not even favoring her with a sour, self-deprecating grin. Everything, the sun and the sky, seemed distant, and bleak; calling up the energy to make a face seemed entirely out of question. And so, there is nothing to clean. Nothing to take the poison away.
He hoped she'd leave it at that.
And that she wouldn't stop staring. It made some small part of him feel like it wasn't entirely dead yet. Almost a kind of confirmation he actually hadn't died physically as well. Not that it really mattered. Maybe it would be a relief to die.
We've been through this before. Going in circles.
Irma's distant comment; he knew what she referred to, his little jaunt in an alternate dimension, and her vehement denial of his death—and her vehement denial of death being an acceptable way out of anything. His death, at least. She ate living creatures otherwise.
Slowly, he craned his head to peer at the mare again; he'd already looked at her, but with no judgment. Not that he judged her now, but this time there was a vague flicker of life in him. His name? What did his name matter?
"But isn't it the best when you have nothing but a face? No identity, no strings attached..."
He gave a slight, barely perceptible shrug. Maybe it was just he, but he thought it would be a bit more awkward to be so brazenly checked out by a mare if she knew his name. It became so much more.. personal that way.
Briefly, he wondered if he was boring, and thought that, yes, surely he was. Because what was there to him, right now? A shell, a skin, a body, but no soul; his eyes were empty, not cold and glistening, but empty, as lackluster as his filthy fur. What was there to look at, except the defeat of one's self? When you were your own greatest enemy it was a hard battle to fight and he wasn't sure he'd ever fought.
He had probably just given up without even knowing. Died in his sleep.
At least she didn't mock him. Small a mercy.
Was she frustrated by him? By his dead weight, dead eyes, dead soul? He couldn't tell. She was as closed off as he, nothing lurking in her blue eyes, in the lines of her face, the lines of her mouth; nothing. They were only colors with no souls.
"Letting the salt clean your wounds?" He was too far gone to pretend not to understand, or to chide her, or to tell her that everything was fine; just peered at her with a mildly odd look, heart beating dully. Could veins ache? Because he was pretty sure the thrumming pulse of blood was a painful throb.
Mauja shook his great white head, clumped mane rattling against his thick neck. "They scarred over a long time ago but left the infection within," he replied with a lack of humor, not even favoring her with a sour, self-deprecating grin. Everything, the sun and the sky, seemed distant, and bleak; calling up the energy to make a face seemed entirely out of question. And so, there is nothing to clean. Nothing to take the poison away.
He hoped she'd leave it at that.
And that she wouldn't stop staring. It made some small part of him feel like it wasn't entirely dead yet. Almost a kind of confirmation he actually hadn't died physically as well. Not that it really mattered. Maybe it would be a relief to die.
We've been through this before. Going in circles.
Irma's distant comment; he knew what she referred to, his little jaunt in an alternate dimension, and her vehement denial of his death—and her vehement denial of death being an acceptable way out of anything. His death, at least. She ate living creatures otherwise.
Slowly, he craned his head to peer at the mare again; he'd already looked at her, but with no judgment. Not that he judged her now, but this time there was a vague flicker of life in him. His name? What did his name matter?
"But isn't it the best when you have nothing but a face? No identity, no strings attached..."
He gave a slight, barely perceptible shrug. Maybe it was just he, but he thought it would be a bit more awkward to be so brazenly checked out by a mare if she knew his name. It became so much more.. personal that way.
