| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 8 |
| M.E. |
....Did that hurt you...?
The rush Sin felt as his horn crushed and penetrated the pate of his lesser adversary caused the dappled stallion to experience slight lightheadedness. All of it—the feeling of the bone giving away underneath the force of his blow, the sight of all sorts of bodily fluids and inner matter pouring from the wound, the cloying, sickly metallic coat of blood that settled in the air, intoxicating and suffocating—made the Disciple feel as though he were dancing precariously on clouds. It wasn’t quite a euphoric feeling, though neither could the stallion sufficiently say it was unpleasant; he felt distinctly disconnected from himself, separated from his inner identity, and yet emboldened by the knowledge that he had just took a life. Oh yes—he had just taken a life. Was it a lesser achievement because it belonged to a dumb brute of a ram? Should it even constituted as an achievement? The mark of murder was clear upon Sin’s brow, however, and he felt a deep pull within him grabbing him, reaching for him, yanking him below the snow and permafrost into the deepest void of defilement. Even more strange was the fact Sin observed this effect with a distinct air of objectivity, totally separate from it, as though it were nothing more than a trivial object of fancy to investigate.
Did he feel himself a sadist for being so unfeeling for the poor ram’s fate? Of course not; as the dappled stallion extricated himself from the still-warm remains of what was once a proud, defiant creature, Sin eyed the damage he had done with a note of purely academic interest. The gore that poured from the broken skull, the awkward angle in which the corpse of the deceased creature lay…all of it sparked a rampant intellectual imagination within the Disciple, and admittedly it was several minutes before he was able to shake himself from his reverie of thought. No, Sin, he thought with a slight chuckle, we mustn’t stand here all night—there is work to be done. Of course; he couldn’t spend the entire star-strewn evening gazing and wondering and asking and hypothesizing about the anatomy of a male sheep—no matter how bad he pined for it.
And so he worked. For the next several hours the dappled stallion kneeled, working meticulously, intricately, tirelessly towards his goal of skinning the ram. For an equine creature such as Sin, it had the potential of blossoming into an impossible task—but Sin was a man of science. Many a night had been spent using his cloven feet as instruments of knowledge, using them as tweezers and scalpels, needles and shears in pursuit of his intellectual endeavors. Though it wasn’t a simple matter, Sin soon found himself in possession of a great bundle of folded, if bloody, sheepskin, complete with a thick layer of winter wool (he had been unable to separate the wool from the skin). At the end of his labors, the dappled boy stood up tall, his grey hide and white socks marred with crimson sheep’s blood; his eyes sparkled in the night with a satisfied glow, icy irises staring here and there in the cold of the Frozen Arch. He lashed his tail, taking in a refreshing sigh as he cooled his laboring body.
A stray thought crossed his mind; what ever happened to the other ewes? Sin let this question dominate his brain-pan for a span of moments, then he shook it from him as though it were an irksome fly. There was still work to be done.
And so the chambers of the ice-strewn Arch echoed with the crackling of the ram’s skull as Sin strove to detach the horns from the deceased skull, and the beating of his hooves served as the rhythm of the ewes’ lament. Their kingdom had fallen; their emperor was slain.
[Leaves the ewes; skins the ram and takes a horn from his skull.]
...Forgive Me...
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Come Little Black Sheep (Sin Questing)
