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11-15-2015, 04:29 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,
“Dorobo?”
Dorobo—Tembovu—Dorobovu—Temborobovublah.
Point in case: the names seemed to line up (unlike Mauja and Frostvíðr), and shared the same funny trait of being able to be played around with an elongated at will. Tembovovu. Dorobobobo.
“It was dry and warm- outright hot at times.” Mauja's 'brows went up, arching in a rather ironical fashion. Dry and warm, and hot? Definitely not a place for a stallion born in the north, for a camouflage of snow and mountain, and a winter coat more than capable of keeping heat, and a summer coat meant to filter out the chill edge of the breeze—
No. Dry and hot was not a place for Mauja, and they both knew it, but still he listened, as much to the tone of his voice and the flick of his tail and the twitch of his ears and the way his eye went (listening to his body—) as to the words themselves. And wasn't that how it always went? There was a love for the terrain itself, for the sheer and simple beauty of the world, but someone had to go and fuck it up. For Mauja, it had been himself—perhaps Tembovu had been spared that mistake, but.. ugh. No point in wondering about it. If someone else had been Mauja's devil, would his life had been easier? Would some kind of revenge, or understanding, have made it better?
Still, he was built on guilt and shame, and if that had not happened, and he had been built on pure loss and honest battle scars and glory—who would he be?
Surely not Mauja, with his soft blue eyes.
"Do you miss it?" Katerina was saying, asking of him, but as his gaze lingered on the large Glazier he saw the hint of shocked movement—but it faded so quickly, and silence at the words that now would never be said in that exact, same way. Slowly, Mauja's gaze slid off of him, and back to the silver mare. It was a question for later, when no strangers were around—heck, if even Mauja was enough of a familiar face to deserve the full tale of how Dorobo fell apart.
And who was he to demand it, anyway? Have a right to it? Had Mauja told fucking anyone aside from Sarazheha and the war council what had actually happened back then?
No.
"Sometimes," he admitted easily, a casual shrug of his shoulders. "It's beautiful, but it's more a matter of missing a time and a place—and it will never come again, in that shape and form." He paused for a moment to rub his cheek against a white knee, before moving on with a slight shake of his neck.
Going back wouldn't bring anyone back to life.
[ @Tembovu @Katerina || This has been slow-going and is pretty old, so how about just fading it out here? :) ]
Dorobo—Tembovu—Dorobovu—Temborobovublah.
Point in case: the names seemed to line up (unlike Mauja and Frostvíðr), and shared the same funny trait of being able to be played around with an elongated at will. Tembovovu. Dorobobobo.
“It was dry and warm- outright hot at times.” Mauja's 'brows went up, arching in a rather ironical fashion. Dry and warm, and hot? Definitely not a place for a stallion born in the north, for a camouflage of snow and mountain, and a winter coat more than capable of keeping heat, and a summer coat meant to filter out the chill edge of the breeze—
No. Dry and hot was not a place for Mauja, and they both knew it, but still he listened, as much to the tone of his voice and the flick of his tail and the twitch of his ears and the way his eye went (listening to his body—) as to the words themselves. And wasn't that how it always went? There was a love for the terrain itself, for the sheer and simple beauty of the world, but someone had to go and fuck it up. For Mauja, it had been himself—perhaps Tembovu had been spared that mistake, but.. ugh. No point in wondering about it. If someone else had been Mauja's devil, would his life had been easier? Would some kind of revenge, or understanding, have made it better?
Still, he was built on guilt and shame, and if that had not happened, and he had been built on pure loss and honest battle scars and glory—who would he be?
Surely not Mauja, with his soft blue eyes.
"Do you miss it?" Katerina was saying, asking of him, but as his gaze lingered on the large Glazier he saw the hint of shocked movement—but it faded so quickly, and silence at the words that now would never be said in that exact, same way. Slowly, Mauja's gaze slid off of him, and back to the silver mare. It was a question for later, when no strangers were around—heck, if even Mauja was enough of a familiar face to deserve the full tale of how Dorobo fell apart.
And who was he to demand it, anyway? Have a right to it? Had Mauja told fucking anyone aside from Sarazheha and the war council what had actually happened back then?
No.
"Sometimes," he admitted easily, a casual shrug of his shoulders. "It's beautiful, but it's more a matter of missing a time and a place—and it will never come again, in that shape and form." He paused for a moment to rub his cheek against a white knee, before moving on with a slight shake of his neck.
Going back wouldn't bring anyone back to life.
[ @Tembovu @Katerina || This has been slow-going and is pretty old, so how about just fading it out here? :) ]
du lät exakt som ismael.
