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10-27-2015, 06:09 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
A call.
Like a war-horn blowing, carrying with it something to stir his memories—like the echo of an echo, a half-remembered dream. It swirled around in the back of his mind without him noticing, so brief, so faint like a breeze barely rippling the surface of a pond. And still, it had his hooves shifting a little faster, legs extended a little further, as he did what he always did: hearkened to someone's call, always at the ready. Always available. He had lost himself in duty, adrift in the seas of service, just the way he wanted it.
The perfect way to suppress grief. To suppress hopes and dreams, longing and pain. The perfect way to kill yourself.
To wither, and die—
Like a wilting flower, like a poisoned heart, veins constricting to pump the curse to every part of his living flesh, staining him black in its wake. Mauja was dying, and had been from the first day he drew breath, a slow disease of the soul. Mauja was dying, because he wasn't strong enough to hold the shattered pieces of his heart together.
And there, upon his border, like a perfect memory of the past stood Deimos, in all his hellish glory and black pride. He was just as Mauja remembered him, tall and impenetrable, a fortress in his own right, carved from dark stone. The world shuddered and withered around him, a blackness emanating from him with each pulse of his frostbitten heart—
Next to him stood two others. A young stallion cutting a similar figure to the cold Lord, and an anxious-looking mare—but he paid them little heed.
Deimos: a figure of his past, someone he had seen in passing many times over the years, someone.. someone he'd never given up faith in—always believed in, in his own way, hoping for a heart beneath the blackness of his ribs. Deimos: yet another friend he had let down by never coming back to catch, grab a hold of, and keep.
He had wasted years on loneliness instead of spending them on those who truly mattered, and now those years burned in his mind, because they were years he could've spent with d'Artagnan, and now it was too late for that.
"Deimos!" he cried with a lightness in his voice, clinging to the remains of something unreal—something, in which he would not have to face the mess he'd made, and the gaping hole blown in his heart. Without realizing it he had stopped, but now he was moving again, fluid and fast, a bolt of white lightning flowing through the fog: hooves dug into the soft dirt and he braked easily, losing himself in the winding pathways of time.
They were here again, in the Edge, and the rest of the world fell away as he extended his nose towards the dark muzzle—begging for a bite, a throwback to the past he was halfway lost in, something to tell him that it would be okay.
Something familiar.
Something else to kill his mind.
[ @Deimos @Enna ]
Like a war-horn blowing, carrying with it something to stir his memories—like the echo of an echo, a half-remembered dream. It swirled around in the back of his mind without him noticing, so brief, so faint like a breeze barely rippling the surface of a pond. And still, it had his hooves shifting a little faster, legs extended a little further, as he did what he always did: hearkened to someone's call, always at the ready. Always available. He had lost himself in duty, adrift in the seas of service, just the way he wanted it.
The perfect way to suppress grief. To suppress hopes and dreams, longing and pain. The perfect way to kill yourself.
To wither, and die—
Like a wilting flower, like a poisoned heart, veins constricting to pump the curse to every part of his living flesh, staining him black in its wake. Mauja was dying, and had been from the first day he drew breath, a slow disease of the soul. Mauja was dying, because he wasn't strong enough to hold the shattered pieces of his heart together.
And there, upon his border, like a perfect memory of the past stood Deimos, in all his hellish glory and black pride. He was just as Mauja remembered him, tall and impenetrable, a fortress in his own right, carved from dark stone. The world shuddered and withered around him, a blackness emanating from him with each pulse of his frostbitten heart—
Next to him stood two others. A young stallion cutting a similar figure to the cold Lord, and an anxious-looking mare—but he paid them little heed.
Deimos: a figure of his past, someone he had seen in passing many times over the years, someone.. someone he'd never given up faith in—always believed in, in his own way, hoping for a heart beneath the blackness of his ribs. Deimos: yet another friend he had let down by never coming back to catch, grab a hold of, and keep.
He had wasted years on loneliness instead of spending them on those who truly mattered, and now those years burned in his mind, because they were years he could've spent with d'Artagnan, and now it was too late for that.
"Deimos!" he cried with a lightness in his voice, clinging to the remains of something unreal—something, in which he would not have to face the mess he'd made, and the gaping hole blown in his heart. Without realizing it he had stopped, but now he was moving again, fluid and fast, a bolt of white lightning flowing through the fog: hooves dug into the soft dirt and he braked easily, losing himself in the winding pathways of time.
They were here again, in the Edge, and the rest of the world fell away as he extended his nose towards the dark muzzle—begging for a bite, a throwback to the past he was halfway lost in, something to tell him that it would be okay.
Something familiar.
Something else to kill his mind.
[ @Deimos @Enna ]
