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04-07-2015, 04:06 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ Sorry for the wait... ]
It's useless but he's angry, standing there a ways away and staring at them with his blue eyes burning hotly. And it almost made him feel deranged, that overwhelming fury, the rampant need for destruction.
Ironic, how it went in circles; the one thing which had driven him into this rage was the one thing he found himself desiring.
Mauja was no stranger to violence. He was no stranger to death. He was no stranger to wanting to inflict harm. He had lived a long and bloodied life, been the executioner's blade—been justice itself, white death sweeping like snowfall over a long-forgotten land.
He had not been Mauja then, but he had been feared, loathed, admired and respected. Then, as with everything else, those circles had slowly grown smaller and smaller until they had connected, and closed, and the hunter would've become the hunted if he hadn't had enough sense to sniff the winds and disappear before it came to that.
Witch-hunter.
But he had been a witch all along.
A killer of cold precision, a creature fueled by wrath (shame) but controlled by ice. And here he stood, half a life later, the exact same feeling pumping through his cold veins—anger and destruction a potent poison in his blood, the dark chill of magic slithering through his soul, demanding sacrifice, demanding its due. And like a snake its phantom fangs unfurled in his mouth, and his dark muzzle hesitantly began to reach towards them across all those yards, and he wanted nothing more than for jaws of ice to close around them, neat little prison bars to puncture their bodies and watch them crumble to the earth.
There would be no witnesses. None would need to know.
I have no right. I have no reason.
"Going to have them peck me to death as revenge?" the colt called across the distance, and Mauja's ears, which had been sort of politely flipped forward despite the furnace of blue anger in his soul, flattened against his neck. Don't drag them into this, he spat furiously in his mind, gaze once again tracing the outline of the red dragon. Don't you fucking touch them.
His finger was on the trigger already, and if he had to weigh the lives of two strangers against the lives of his owls—well, he would shoot to kill.
(Never mind that Colt would literally shoot them.)
"Why would I," he called back in a flat, disinterested voice—and that alone was the sign that he was angrier than he had been in a long time. His voice conveyed nothing else, nothing of the thinly controlled rage, nothing of idle curiosity as was his trademark; in an effort to not strike the heathens down, he had buried everything beneath ten feet of ice and snow.
[ @[Volterra], @[Colt] ]
It's useless but he's angry, standing there a ways away and staring at them with his blue eyes burning hotly. And it almost made him feel deranged, that overwhelming fury, the rampant need for destruction.
Ironic, how it went in circles; the one thing which had driven him into this rage was the one thing he found himself desiring.
Mauja was no stranger to violence. He was no stranger to death. He was no stranger to wanting to inflict harm. He had lived a long and bloodied life, been the executioner's blade—been justice itself, white death sweeping like snowfall over a long-forgotten land.
He had not been Mauja then, but he had been feared, loathed, admired and respected. Then, as with everything else, those circles had slowly grown smaller and smaller until they had connected, and closed, and the hunter would've become the hunted if he hadn't had enough sense to sniff the winds and disappear before it came to that.
Witch-hunter.
But he had been a witch all along.
A killer of cold precision, a creature fueled by wrath (shame) but controlled by ice. And here he stood, half a life later, the exact same feeling pumping through his cold veins—anger and destruction a potent poison in his blood, the dark chill of magic slithering through his soul, demanding sacrifice, demanding its due. And like a snake its phantom fangs unfurled in his mouth, and his dark muzzle hesitantly began to reach towards them across all those yards, and he wanted nothing more than for jaws of ice to close around them, neat little prison bars to puncture their bodies and watch them crumble to the earth.
There would be no witnesses. None would need to know.
I have no right. I have no reason.
"Going to have them peck me to death as revenge?" the colt called across the distance, and Mauja's ears, which had been sort of politely flipped forward despite the furnace of blue anger in his soul, flattened against his neck. Don't drag them into this, he spat furiously in his mind, gaze once again tracing the outline of the red dragon. Don't you fucking touch them.
His finger was on the trigger already, and if he had to weigh the lives of two strangers against the lives of his owls—well, he would shoot to kill.
(Never mind that Colt would literally shoot them.)
"Why would I," he called back in a flat, disinterested voice—and that alone was the sign that he was angrier than he had been in a long time. His voice conveyed nothing else, nothing of the thinly controlled rage, nothing of idle curiosity as was his trademark; in an effort to not strike the heathens down, he had buried everything beneath ten feet of ice and snow.
[ @[Volterra], @[Colt] ]
