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05-11-2015, 02:44 PM
och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen
då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,
[ -bounces onto excitedly- ]
He wasn't alone.
Maybe he would miss Mauja at the first sweep of the eyes—the statuesque stallion was motionless, though lighter in hue than the peaks towering behind him.
And maybe, he wouldn't; maybe his gaze would be drawn to the snow-white contour of his body, and to the ice lance protruding from his forehead.
Who knew?
Mauja had come up a few hours ago. He knew the path, though not well—he knew the feeling of being here better, though. He was a creature of edges, of dead-drops, born and bred in the mountains of the north. His lungs swelled with the thin, crisp air, and life flowed through his veins when he saw these things...
He had changed the dark, suffocating anxiety for mild worry—dark tar and pitch for sunlight and frost. He had come here looking for something, or someone, he didn't quite know, didn't quite want to know. The brooding darkness in his heart had been swept away, and he didn't want to let it back in, but it was still there, a dark shadow niggling at the back of his mind.. whispering things, just outside of his comprehension. It was the double ticking of his heart, that murmur coming in the wake of each pulse, cold and thick as it slogged through his veins. It didn't belong—a chill that wasn't part of him. It was a ghost of the past, a haunting feeling of walking in his own footsteps five years after he made them.
He didn't like it. It clouded his future and whittled away at his hopes.
Change was a curious thing; he was King again, but not the same as he had been. He didn't want to be the same, but his name was still Mauja.
The view, the open sky and the clean, high air hadn't cleared his mind as he had hoped—hadn't swept his frosty soul clean of the clinging cobwebs and the slowly spreading poison. It had just offered him a few hours of solace and respite, of peaceful late-autumn grazing with the owls sitting contentedly on his back. He had passed time, and at times, he had forgotten that ghost holding his heart, but he always remembered it, and the anxious trembling in his pulse began again.
So the stranger breaching the haze of the gathering clouds was a welcome distraction. Mauja's black-rimmed ears flicked in his direction, and then, slowly, his regal head turned, pale eyes seeking the stallion out. It was no one he knew—sturdy, but not overly thick, with double horns and some kind of adornment holding his thick mane in artful disarray. Interesting.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Mauja said after a moment, wondering if he would see the stallion start at his voice, or if he had already seen him, tucked away in his shroud of (now broken) silence and with two owls upon his scarred back.
[ @[Elecampane] ]
He wasn't alone.
Maybe he would miss Mauja at the first sweep of the eyes—the statuesque stallion was motionless, though lighter in hue than the peaks towering behind him.
And maybe, he wouldn't; maybe his gaze would be drawn to the snow-white contour of his body, and to the ice lance protruding from his forehead.
Who knew?
Mauja had come up a few hours ago. He knew the path, though not well—he knew the feeling of being here better, though. He was a creature of edges, of dead-drops, born and bred in the mountains of the north. His lungs swelled with the thin, crisp air, and life flowed through his veins when he saw these things...
He had changed the dark, suffocating anxiety for mild worry—dark tar and pitch for sunlight and frost. He had come here looking for something, or someone, he didn't quite know, didn't quite want to know. The brooding darkness in his heart had been swept away, and he didn't want to let it back in, but it was still there, a dark shadow niggling at the back of his mind.. whispering things, just outside of his comprehension. It was the double ticking of his heart, that murmur coming in the wake of each pulse, cold and thick as it slogged through his veins. It didn't belong—a chill that wasn't part of him. It was a ghost of the past, a haunting feeling of walking in his own footsteps five years after he made them.
He didn't like it. It clouded his future and whittled away at his hopes.
Change was a curious thing; he was King again, but not the same as he had been. He didn't want to be the same, but his name was still Mauja.
The view, the open sky and the clean, high air hadn't cleared his mind as he had hoped—hadn't swept his frosty soul clean of the clinging cobwebs and the slowly spreading poison. It had just offered him a few hours of solace and respite, of peaceful late-autumn grazing with the owls sitting contentedly on his back. He had passed time, and at times, he had forgotten that ghost holding his heart, but he always remembered it, and the anxious trembling in his pulse began again.
So the stranger breaching the haze of the gathering clouds was a welcome distraction. Mauja's black-rimmed ears flicked in his direction, and then, slowly, his regal head turned, pale eyes seeking the stallion out. It was no one he knew—sturdy, but not overly thick, with double horns and some kind of adornment holding his thick mane in artful disarray. Interesting.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Mauja said after a moment, wondering if he would see the stallion start at his voice, or if he had already seen him, tucked away in his shroud of (now broken) silence and with two owls upon his scarred back.
[ @[Elecampane] ]
du lät exakt som ismael.
