[[(1/3) (737 words)
Putting this at the top because it disappears at the bottom of the table D:
HOLY BALLS RED. YOU MAKE ME CRY.
Summary: Paladin points his horn at Varath as he approaches but Varath still manages to cut his shoulder. He then turns to try to swipe his horn on Varath if he is still close]]
Hated, loved, loathed, admired, desired and dislodged, Paladin stood in wait, solid hooves resting on the darkened grass. The breath from his graying muzzle was soft, relaxed even as he waited for his children. He wished to impart on them the final slivers of wisdom, to apologize for his failings, and to wish them all the best in this land. Paladin had been great, once. From the inception of Isilme to its demise at the work of the shades, he had lead the Tides, a strong herd with faces of all species. He was legend. No challenge went unmet. His prowess in battle was unmatched. Toiling daily, he strove to right the wrongs of his bloodline, and he stood before the finality of his time a failure.
For there was no way to change fate.
He was a cog in a cruel machine.
No good deed goes unpunished. He should have known better than to try to change fight .Too much blood ran in rivers from his murderous sins, and too many ghosts haunted him in his wake. Not even an infinite lifetime could afford him the space in which to absolve himself of those he’d killed. The warrior was sunk before had had even started to swim, and the light at the surface faded into night. A priest had taken him to the river of his pride for baptism and left him there, drowning in his own blood. Gods turned their cheeks as the void embraced him like an old friend.
The demon inside writhed, clawing at his throat for release now that he was proven right. It screamed profanities and laughed, bitter that now he was released in this frail, old body. The thing looked through his crimson eyes at the horizon, landing on a familiar face, a body that looked like his before time had dragged him down into arthritis and aches. Something in his heart lurched, something pure and good, but as his gaze swept over the scars and empty eyes of his son, it died swiftly like a snuffed out match. He was a fool to expect anything different. He was a moron to believe his children had improved on the tragedy of their bloodline. And he had no right to be disappointed. This was all his doing.
The voice of his son, deep and masculine now, spat at him, calling him out for what he was: old and weak. Paladin smiled, the expression darkening the glare of his narrowed, crimson eyes. This was a smile that held no warmth and loved no one. This was the smile of a monster inside, finally released at the zenith of life. “Varath,” he growled, the charismatic tones of his handsome voice fading to a snarl. “You look a fool.” Paladin had disowned this whelp from his side long ago, but here he was raise his ugly, scarred head again. Time to put him down. The warrior turned to rancher, prepared to cull the weakest of the bloodstock and ensure the best of the species. Maybe he should have done this a long time ago, but Soleil wouldn't have lived through watching her mate murder their children in cold blood.
But that is what he was, wasn’t he? A murderer of children not yet escaped from the womb. His past flared in his face, but he felt nothing. Paladin was at the height of his shame and buried deep within his transgressions as he watched the pinnacle of his failure race toward him on steel gray legs. The warrior braced, digging the toes of his solid hooves into the rich earth as he lowered his head, horn pointed to await his son’s impalement upon his sword. Weakness forced him to yield. The black protrusion of Varath worked past his defenses, slicing a cut on the point of his left shoulder, and Paladin turned on instinct, settling into the haze of black and red that welcomed him like an old friend.
Action and reaction. No emotion. No fears. He was not the Valiant. He was the Wicked. Swiftly, bones groaning as they ground together without cushion, Paladin turned, jerking his head from left to right to flay his son like a fish from the side. Perhaps he would run it along his ribs, or perhaps, dip through and release the child from this pathetic existence of life he had given. Night had fallen on them all.
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
