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10-09-2015, 06:00 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
It reminded him too much of the past—moonlit nights filled with whispered words, words of glory and annihilation, raising their spears to the sky and thinking about the bloody tide about to sweep over the world and cleanse it. Wipe it clean of the filth stuck in the crags. Of nights he had greeted newcomers in much the same way, called them sister and brother and brushed his dark muzzle against theirs. Marked them as his. Claimed them for his bloody cause. Sheltered them from the world outside, teased the blindfold in place over their eyes, and prayed they would not be brought to peek underneath.
Or rather—he had worn a blindfold so thick himself it was a wonder he had even seen the light at all, and some voice in the back of his head had told him to be so afraid of the truth as to not even consider it.
And now here he stood with what felt like an iron sign around his neck reading "I hate everyone equally much".
What was equality, if not that? No one was equal, so the least he could do was kill everyone indiscriminately. Horn or wings, they all had hearts.
So, maybe that was why he was here again—to muster an army for a second war that would never come. To wipe Helovia clean of all equine life. To lay this corner of the world to waste, a ruin to match the one within—the only way he knew to express his grief.
Mauja sighed softly into her bare pink muzzle, breath rising in the darkness. She spoke like poetry, words like water and starlight, strung together in a beautiful way that seemed out of place in a regular conversation, yet oddly fitting for someone who looked so different. It wouldn't have surprised him if she had suddenly declared that she'd been hatched from a pine cone in a desert and that it was the reason she looked like she did and talked as she did. "Correct," he breathed in the midst of her speech, a quiet answer given in the heartbeat's space allotted for it; they moved on, slow and sweeping, Tembovu quiet in his brooding heights and Mauja's ears tipped towards the quivering lady in their midst.
Once, he would've celebrated the words falling out of her mouth. Once, his heart would've soared on dark raven wings at meeting such a devout follower of the Moon—once, black feathers of faith had been woven into his mane and tail, and his eyes had been a reflection of the moon at night.
But that was before his bitter heart had fractured, and the feathers had burned in the fires of the Heart.
So instead it was with wariness he greeted her words, turning away from them within his skull and wishing he could somehow explain the sheer idiocy of following any divine deity—
But how could he ever do that, when he had known himself how deeply rooted faith was? It had been part of his foundation, sunken deep into the bedrock of his soul, and it had endured many blows before finally coming loose.
And still, sometimes he missed it. The security.
No matter how much a lie it was.
"His Lord does have an oath," he said, white tail flickering against the pair of them—there was something in his voice, amusement and mock arrogance, a thin chill that had nothing to do with true emotion seeping through the words. "It goes like this: 'I solemnly swear to not call Mauja 'my lord', 'his grace', 'King', or any such nonsense within his hearing'." Self-iced nerves numbed the pain in his mildly crusted flanks, and after throwing a narrow-eyed mischievous glance at Tembovu his head swung much closer to Nuray's than needed.
"Swear i—" he began, a deep sense of finality in the command, like the mountains themselves ordering her to swear it—but the words faded, died out, stillness covering up his eyes, his smile, everything. The thin, weeping red had begun to spread, dancing from Mauja's flank onto hers, so visible and so ugly upon her naked skin. Had..? Had he..? Slowly, his large head turned as his legs stopped, and he peered at himself. Then, back to Nuray. His attention went inwards, to the tether between his soul and his magic. He was doing something.
He was doing something to himself.
He broke it.
"—it. Fuck," he spat, as his nerves painfully crawled back into light. He was throbbing, every breath sending a lance of near-agony through his flanks, and for a moment his eyes rolled back.
Well wasn't that great. Thank you, Spark-ass.
[ @Tembovu @Nuray -- go me for totally forgetting about his boils. >____________>; ]
Or rather—he had worn a blindfold so thick himself it was a wonder he had even seen the light at all, and some voice in the back of his head had told him to be so afraid of the truth as to not even consider it.
And now here he stood with what felt like an iron sign around his neck reading "I hate everyone equally much".
What was equality, if not that? No one was equal, so the least he could do was kill everyone indiscriminately. Horn or wings, they all had hearts.
So, maybe that was why he was here again—to muster an army for a second war that would never come. To wipe Helovia clean of all equine life. To lay this corner of the world to waste, a ruin to match the one within—the only way he knew to express his grief.
Mauja sighed softly into her bare pink muzzle, breath rising in the darkness. She spoke like poetry, words like water and starlight, strung together in a beautiful way that seemed out of place in a regular conversation, yet oddly fitting for someone who looked so different. It wouldn't have surprised him if she had suddenly declared that she'd been hatched from a pine cone in a desert and that it was the reason she looked like she did and talked as she did. "Correct," he breathed in the midst of her speech, a quiet answer given in the heartbeat's space allotted for it; they moved on, slow and sweeping, Tembovu quiet in his brooding heights and Mauja's ears tipped towards the quivering lady in their midst.
Once, he would've celebrated the words falling out of her mouth. Once, his heart would've soared on dark raven wings at meeting such a devout follower of the Moon—once, black feathers of faith had been woven into his mane and tail, and his eyes had been a reflection of the moon at night.
But that was before his bitter heart had fractured, and the feathers had burned in the fires of the Heart.
So instead it was with wariness he greeted her words, turning away from them within his skull and wishing he could somehow explain the sheer idiocy of following any divine deity—
But how could he ever do that, when he had known himself how deeply rooted faith was? It had been part of his foundation, sunken deep into the bedrock of his soul, and it had endured many blows before finally coming loose.
And still, sometimes he missed it. The security.
No matter how much a lie it was.
"His Lord does have an oath," he said, white tail flickering against the pair of them—there was something in his voice, amusement and mock arrogance, a thin chill that had nothing to do with true emotion seeping through the words. "It goes like this: 'I solemnly swear to not call Mauja 'my lord', 'his grace', 'King', or any such nonsense within his hearing'." Self-iced nerves numbed the pain in his mildly crusted flanks, and after throwing a narrow-eyed mischievous glance at Tembovu his head swung much closer to Nuray's than needed.
"Swear i—" he began, a deep sense of finality in the command, like the mountains themselves ordering her to swear it—but the words faded, died out, stillness covering up his eyes, his smile, everything. The thin, weeping red had begun to spread, dancing from Mauja's flank onto hers, so visible and so ugly upon her naked skin. Had..? Had he..? Slowly, his large head turned as his legs stopped, and he peered at himself. Then, back to Nuray. His attention went inwards, to the tether between his soul and his magic. He was doing something.
He was doing something to himself.
He broke it.
"—it. Fuck," he spat, as his nerves painfully crawled back into light. He was throbbing, every breath sending a lance of near-agony through his flanks, and for a moment his eyes rolled back.
Well wasn't that great. Thank you, Spark-ass.
[ @Tembovu @Nuray -- go me for totally forgetting about his boils. >____________>; ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
