|
What savagery had he been condemned to, to paint his hide with all the blood he has undoubtedly spilled; with the frown etched on his dark lips, impetuous and commanding, much like the retired sergeant of war who cannot lift himself to joy after the death and war and blood he has waged and seen; but somehow, the feral mare doubts this stallion is so much retired as waiting, the panther laying in the trees, tail-tip twitching. What makes the lioness pounce, or the wolf leap, or the bear swat out with tapering and deadly claws; what betrayed them before their first move, the tautness of skin over knitted muscle, or the hunger in their predatory eyes? Insanity and sanity imbued into her mind, waging barbarian war over and over, the conflict between predator and prey, the right side of her brain and the left side, always, always fighting, and yet she remained seamless and functional, sinister and malicious, feral and untouchable. Confutatis' mind was always shifting, negotiating, coming to terms with reality before turning once more to something altogether more wild.
He cringes, the stallion of blood and gore, her sharp eyes notice greedily, wondering if she could press this against him, wield the sword he flees from; but all her thoughts fall flat at his words, hardened and vicious, angered. Blinded, blinkered, bumptious fool presumptuous of one's self because of a horn or lack of. So she did not wear the crown upon her head, nor did it manifest as she pondered the cretinism of the stallion whose eyes were so clever, so dark and violet-hued. He is even more assuming of her, thinking her vain- oh yes, Confutatis is haughty to her fair degree, condescending to a point as well- but is she so vain in thinking that the world seems droll and wholly unappetizing? But these thoughts are driven away, and her heart skips a beat in both curiosity and wonder to his allegations. Did this mean there was a current of unease beneath the ocean blue and free, hidden from the swimmer, a school of sharks swimming silently through the deep? Who, and how; perhaps she could explore the depths of the conflict, prod it towards greater magnitude. Was it because of the assassin smelling of the wilds? Maybe there really was more than just three-year-olds and a lone tiger in the group; no, she couldn't quite believe that.
Racism.
"Care to enlighten a lone wolf then?" Confutatis murmurs, her voice a low cadence, and just beneath it was the ever-present roar of monstrosities. Her gold eye lifts up, looking at the wicked needle upon his head. The odd beast's lips do not curl, nor does she betray any of the silent disgust she feels for such shortsightedness. "Or mayhaps you are the wolf and I am the lamb, at your mercy?" No trace of anger or bitterness stung her words; neutral, nearing placid, uninterested and uncaring. For a long moment the mare studies the gentle smirk haughty at his sooty lips. "The thief is rich as the king, but the king must deal with all the petty problems of his kingdom." The dark mare comments idly, not so readily proffering an answer.
As she exhales, the clouds curl in vaporous white, drifting upwards in a lazy motion, and somehow she seems to use this much as the smoking women uses her cigarette.
"I don't suppose, dear gentleman, you would be so willing as to offer me a name to wield against you?"
CONFUTATIS
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
[O] Magic in death and beauty in blood
