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In Hell
Go straight down to hell
Fall right into it's fire
Look in the eyes and
the souls of the dead
come back and tell me
if you, heartless, cried.
ASHAMIN
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
Something about this mare, this other, and her nuisance of a companion elicited in him a rage so white and hot that he could not temper it. Or was it even rage? Sometimes it was sorrow, so deep he could not sense its beginning or find its end. He knew only this: she was too much for him. She was too much for his tender heart and her companion, the way she loved him still in his obvious cruelty, gave her no credence.
At first when she spoke, he was still. He had turned his head to look out into the steppe and listened without watching her expression. He listened to everything, and with sudden, sharp intent. He listened to the howl of the wind and the more distant howl of the wolves. He listened to the beating of his heart in his chest, and the scraping of pebbles on the ice floor as the outside drew them in. He listened to the sounds the approaching evening made and the ear-numbing squeaks of the odd dragon at his back. He listened to the breathing of the mare and her words, faint, preaching, false.
He didn't want to hear it at all. He didn't want to hear anything.
It wasn't quite gibberish but it was drawing close to it. It was ignorance, perhaps. She could not, he knew this with certainty, could not have known death. Not the way she was speaking now, not with the certainty of her breath. And if she did, what kind of a soul was she?
Could she really have such a belief if she had felt the loss of another? No, Ashamin wouldn't let himself believe it. Nothing could grow from a grave, nothing could right itself in the wake of his father's demise. He was too incensed to think of himself and who he had been before--too encapsulated in emotion to remember that once, in the time before his father had died, he never would have been this brave.
And so he took his anger, wrongfully founded, and with it tore and the heart of the mare. His black eyes filled with a fire he could feel, even if it could not be seen. "Hurt him? Ashamin wheeled around, staring her straight in the eyes and for a moment, catching the dragon-creature's gaze, too. "No, I would never. But perhaps if I did you would know how wrong you are, and understand the pain of which you speak."
He snorted. He stamped. He let his white tail lash and strike the wall again, the thud harder, the thin crack in the ice that it formed threatening to grow wider with a second strike. "I cannot stand and let you speak of death as if its consequences are not eternal," he declared with his head high and his fire bright. "I have woken up beside the body of my father, left it in the morning and headed towards the understanding that there was nothing left to live for. I barely survived that grief, I may fall to it still," Ashamin continued, certainty masking the shakiness injected into his words by the picking up of the wind. "You will not tell me I should have stayed and tried to find happiness in that death.
And he turned, his body poised to strike even in its retreat, and drove further into that dark night. Should she follow, for nothing stopped her but perhaps a fear of the oncoming dark, she might have seen the tears, hot and heavy, rolling off Ashamin's cheeks.
[[Sikeax. I don't necessarily want to end this but Ashamin was like "I'm outta here." You are welcome to follow him if you want to continue, let me know if you decide otherwise.]]
Table by Jen, with help from Avis
See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
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