speak

Shoulders slump, dramatic; the sigh is deep, melancholic. He mourns. The moonlight was so perfect, her glittering locks falling upon him, enticing him, lulling him and intoxicating him in her beauty. His mistress of night and his childhood kingdom; she bends her loving gaze upon him and his masterful work, smiling down upon the ruby sprays that adorn his hide, his medals of honor, his banners of victory. The crunch of bone beneath his hooves had been so sweet indeed upon his ear, the feeling of them giving away beneath his awesome bulk sending shivers of ecstasy racing down his spine. There is no other word for it: the Grey-Eyed prince had been caught resplendent, savoring his moment of absolute bliss.

It is ruined.

It is a tiny voice he does not know, speaking words he does not pay heed to. His eyes open; they are blank as his massive head turns upon his neck, seeking out the intruder who stands in the sweetest shadows of his mistress’s domain.

It is a filly, something he can see clearly without searching for the deplorable stench. It is naught but bones and a splash of a hide that looks upon him with eyes that can only be described as haughty. She is a filly indeed, silly in her voice, silly in her pride, for the gash of the female seems to demand her own pride. Either that, or they are undone in their own foolish kinds of emotional outbursts.

He stares, impassive.

She bares the scent of thistles, adorning it as though it were her cloak to wear, a child borne and raised in these meadows. The insult is ultimate; he craves his pardons from his moonlit mistress, forgiving his absence, his negligence that has allowed common filth such as this to be conceived in his home, birthed in his grasses. It seems, much like the poor fool whom he had dealt earlier that night, this child is ignorant of the laws of the land, the laws that he has set, that must be abided. He will be her teacher, then; he will be her guide, and show her the light of her errors, her transgressions, her follies.

He turns away from her, sighing; his eyes are lidded, bored. A rear hoof flies out in the darkness, lightning-fast and true in its power—it flies for the bones and the hide of a filly, a hammer of enlightenment. It craves blood.




@[Nymeria]