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01-08-2017, 08:12 PM
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ALBRECHT and strom
It feels inappropriate, his being here, slipping unbothered between the listless bodies, watching their grief fill the air like rising, dispersing heat. They've gathered to their pay respects, to say goodbye, to mourn, but the old stallion with the upside down mane? He offers no prayer, shows no last moment of hidden affection for the man of the hour. He simply watches, eyes hard and heart harder, a flutter of discomfort masquerading as annoyance splashed across his weathered features. There's not enough room in his shrunken, battered soul to house one more measure of sadness, of pain, of loss, and who are they to demand that he feel that way at all? The Reaper was no friend of his. The Lord of the Basin showed nothing but disapproval and occasionally outright confusion at the old stallions very presence here in his mountains, as if mingling with his warriors could somehow devalue them, as if any word from his mouth during meetings classified as disruption, always drawing that hard line - either real or imagined - between what was his and what was not. He stares down at the crumpled body, blinking once, letting the cold and the emptiness of the air fill his lungs, leave them, fill them again. Nothing has changed, he thinks to himself, glancing around at the streaked faces, the pursed lips, the swelling emotions that somehow fail to reach him. So for one last time the old stallion stands apart from the rest, a single uninvited guest in the fray, one useless, meritless shade stolen into the ranks of the Reapers minions. "Talk." Come take your piece of me, blood or bone, No matter, I'll still be here when you're done. |
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