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06-28-2016, 09:59 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
The sun burned behind a cover of stormy clouds, a corona of light blazing through the patchwork gray but failing to cast any shadows. It was a monster locked up, its fangs, the sun rays, kept behind drab bars. Sealed away. Burning in its fury in a cage.
(He saw a lion, its mane ablaze, its breath acrid smoke, steam rising from paws pressed hard to a dark rock floor—)
But as his wary eye lingered on the pre-storm sky, the air heavy with a promise of rain, he felt a twinge of disappointment. The sun was no mighty, raging lion, no celestial beast trapped far away in limbo, on some days kind, on some days a monster; the sun was the Sun, an equine god and somewhat of a prideful asshole. Reality was cruel, imagination was better, (life sucks), and he let out a quaking sigh through dark nostrils as he paced through the wind-whipped forest, Sacre close by. Why the lanky young stallion had sought him, of all the would-be warriors, out was beyond him. Did he think he had something to prove, after all? That he was not d'Artagnan? (I know that already—) Or did he relish a chance to, fairly, bash some sense into Mauja's thick head?
Or was it just an offer of distraction, made out ofpity sympathy for him? Subtly, he ground his teeth together, ears flicking in the brewing storm. The wind had already driven the ocean into a frenzy, a distant, rhythmic boom as it broke time and again upon the limestone cliffs, saltwater spraying high into the air—the tall pines swayed disconcertingly overhead, but their roots went deep and they had weathered many storms.
Mauja hoped this wouldn't be the one when they broke.
With his long, pale hair in a disarray about his face, strands of it pulled out like a spiky halo, he found what he was looking for. The wavering trees thinned, gave way to a small grassy clearing; it had been grazed down to stubble, interspersed with a few rocks and roots, but it was mostly solid ground. Immortal or not, Mauja didn't fancy getting to know what it felt like to actually break your bones. Pausing there, ears flattened against the low roar of the storm, he turned to look at Sacre. The red markings on his face and flank were muted to near-gray despite the fact that it was only late afternoon, but the amassing clouds had darkened the sun even further. You picked one hell of a day to ask me for a fight.
"Violence is evil," he said over the noise of the storm, blue eyes narrowing against the press of air. "I wish I could call it simply evil, but sometimes, the evil of the world is greater than the evil of violence in and of itself, and violence then becomes a necessary evil. And until the day those who would seek to take what is not theirs, those who would seek to harm others intentionally, are gone, violence is a thing we must know. Do not enjoy it. Do not relish in hurting someone else. If you must be proud, be proud over the strength of your body and the control you exercise over yourself; do not be proud in the blood you draw from another's veins. Use what you know, do what you can do, to defend others, those who become the prey of the greater evil."
His ears were flat to his neck, hiding from the storm, and he looked ahead again, something sad in his eyes. How much to say? How much to let Sacre figure out for himself? Just because someone was under attack, it didn't meant they were wronged—much as Mauja detested acts of revenge, they happened, and sometimes, they were emotionally justified, but.. what did revenge fix, honestly? Nothing.
"The most difficult thing is to listen to your enemies, instead of judge them," he said quietly, soft muzzle brushing against the buckles of the leather bag until it fell to the short-cropped grass. A moment later, the crystal staff tumbled down beside it.
His heart trembled, as it always did, when he grasped the leather between his worn teeth and lifted it. It still weighed almost nothing, and yet it meant so much, and with a gentleness he couldn't erase from his movements he tucked it in between the roots of a sturdy pine.
In silence he retraced the few paces he'd gone, and picked up the staff. It was colder, harsher on the teeth, heavier on his jaws—impractical, as he was not back at full strength. He'd probably throw it away before the fight was over. He moved into the clearing, and turned to face Sacre.
Bracing for the storm.
[ 0/3 || 800 words || @Sacre ]
BOMBARDA MAXIMA
(He saw a lion, its mane ablaze, its breath acrid smoke, steam rising from paws pressed hard to a dark rock floor—)
But as his wary eye lingered on the pre-storm sky, the air heavy with a promise of rain, he felt a twinge of disappointment. The sun was no mighty, raging lion, no celestial beast trapped far away in limbo, on some days kind, on some days a monster; the sun was the Sun, an equine god and somewhat of a prideful asshole. Reality was cruel, imagination was better, (
Or was it just an offer of distraction, made out of
Mauja hoped this wouldn't be the one when they broke.
With his long, pale hair in a disarray about his face, strands of it pulled out like a spiky halo, he found what he was looking for. The wavering trees thinned, gave way to a small grassy clearing; it had been grazed down to stubble, interspersed with a few rocks and roots, but it was mostly solid ground. Immortal or not, Mauja didn't fancy getting to know what it felt like to actually break your bones. Pausing there, ears flattened against the low roar of the storm, he turned to look at Sacre. The red markings on his face and flank were muted to near-gray despite the fact that it was only late afternoon, but the amassing clouds had darkened the sun even further. You picked one hell of a day to ask me for a fight.
"Violence is evil," he said over the noise of the storm, blue eyes narrowing against the press of air. "I wish I could call it simply evil, but sometimes, the evil of the world is greater than the evil of violence in and of itself, and violence then becomes a necessary evil. And until the day those who would seek to take what is not theirs, those who would seek to harm others intentionally, are gone, violence is a thing we must know. Do not enjoy it. Do not relish in hurting someone else. If you must be proud, be proud over the strength of your body and the control you exercise over yourself; do not be proud in the blood you draw from another's veins. Use what you know, do what you can do, to defend others, those who become the prey of the greater evil."
His ears were flat to his neck, hiding from the storm, and he looked ahead again, something sad in his eyes. How much to say? How much to let Sacre figure out for himself? Just because someone was under attack, it didn't meant they were wronged—much as Mauja detested acts of revenge, they happened, and sometimes, they were emotionally justified, but.. what did revenge fix, honestly? Nothing.
"The most difficult thing is to listen to your enemies, instead of judge them," he said quietly, soft muzzle brushing against the buckles of the leather bag until it fell to the short-cropped grass. A moment later, the crystal staff tumbled down beside it.
His heart trembled, as it always did, when he grasped the leather between his worn teeth and lifted it. It still weighed almost nothing, and yet it meant so much, and with a gentleness he couldn't erase from his movements he tucked it in between the roots of a sturdy pine.
In silence he retraced the few paces he'd gone, and picked up the staff. It was colder, harsher on the teeth, heavier on his jaws—impractical, as he was not back at full strength. He'd probably throw it away before the fight was over. He moved into the clearing, and turned to face Sacre.
Bracing for the storm.
[ 0/3 || 800 words || @Sacre ]
BOMBARDA MAXIMA
