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IN SEARCH FOR THE GUIDELINES TO THE GATEWAYS OF SIN
Sophistication as cruelty and perfection as virulent truth
Any ounce of childish innocence and infant's pride had been stripped from his muscular figure. The thin physique of a yearling had been forcibly honed into a weapon, lithe and fit. Instead of bright, keen darkness bubbling with a wildness in his two colored eyes, the stallion held knowledge and the darkness had deepened into something far more devilish and cruel. In all ways he had changed, formed by a force only his father had been able to escape, and the thought brought a cruel sneer to his lips. Father.
Disgrace.
His blood line. The thought made him shudder.
On more than one occasion, he tried to find the equine in his blood, and he had flayed open his leg on the stone, wondering if he was drained, would only the unicorn remain? He had done nothing except weaken himself, and for that stupidity, he was beaten. Sure, flinch at the thought, gasp. He enjoyed it. Any scar on his body now was a testament to the fact that he had grown up, that he was ready.
What had urged his hooves on the long journey to his father's homeland, Dorngarrow, was an impish curiosity. He had found ash, fields or ash and his grandsire. Perhaps one day, he would be hailed as the most vile creature, just like he. Still, the sight of his orange and red eyes made him cringe, and he could not shake his visage from the back of his eyes when he closed them. He had asked his grandsire to make him great, and two years later, he returned to this pathetic, wretched land to make something out of the weakness.
Granted, there was a beacon of hope in this forsaken place, and his hooves carried him there. He had been once before in his childish idolization of the creature, Deimos. Varath had spoken to his grandsire about the life-eater, and he counselled that such a stallion would make a powerful ally. He was proud of have chosen the right model with which to mold himself after, but now he was grown. However, Deimos had not left, and therefore was still much more knowledgeable than he; Varath had humility when logic called for such an action.
With a cool respect for Psyche and her authority, Varath stopped at the crest of the long, narrow path, ignoring the sun bearing down on his dappled figure and into his sensitive, silver eye. He inhaled deeply and exhaled a deep, resonating call, intent on joining these lands. With a sword and power, he would turn this world to greatness, and he did not much care whose bodies fell in the process.
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