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Lips curl, jagged and ragged, peeling and cracked, decaying passages whispering of a bleak tunnel, a shadowed pass, a hallowed hall where only a soul damned rests. Fascination equaled only by awe glints in flinty amber eye, admiration of a likewise spirit joined to her by blood and heart. Thoughts, aspirations, decayed dreams, horrific nightmares crackle in the night, cords whipping through the air, about to lash out, make themselves heard on weary, hoarse voices. Oblivion will be made of Helovia, until it's beauty and glory of green and gold is just a faded memory in the sooty minds of the enslaved and the useless workers, the blackening of a youthful country completed through ghost and cherished memory of an ancestor, and Oblivion in two senses of the dark word; the bastard son, one of many, who was known only to Isilme as a conquering warlord, a reaper of darkness, and in the noun meaning forgetfullness. The images of Confutatis' past are cobwebbed and rotted, holes missing in the planks, still she can recall the whispers of fear, the murmurs of terror, as she stalked the world as a young foal in the time of her Father, the Mighty, the Strong, the Demon King! Hail! His army crushing the world beneath its hundred hooves. How the legends awoke in her mind, rich tapestries of times past, and her shrunken little heart pounds in pride and reminiscing for a time long past. But not even the dead can re-awaken from their endless sleep in the stretching shadows, even if their tarnished memories live on in the predecessors of the warlord; and Confutatis snarls, a growl grating from her lungs, the skin around her amber eye tightening as a shard is driven into her heart. Helovia shall never host the darkness the land she was born to did. Still, they can try. Perhaps the endless night was a sign; an omen of their reign to come.
The jack o' lantern's grin fades, and she backs away, hooves scrambling, clinking on loose rock and stone. Bristling, neck arching and ears slanting, the skullface steps forward. Are you afraid, ugly duckling? She wishes to snap, barking out the hard words. Yet the dark mare refrains, narrowing her eyes, awaiting the response. Answer, she urges with her mind, the unfamiliar feeling of hope gripping her heart. The night is dark and long/Only broken by the desperate hope of the doomed/Stars and moon bow down to our strength/The sun shall not rise, and we can trample any in our way. Then the words come, a frantic dove rising in the air, a sign of peace and hope. Peace! Peace of siblings, and havoc to the rest of the world! Her dreams are grandiose and wild, and with a bark of crude laughter she leaps, hooves drumming the earth, careening past her sister with joy. "Let us run, sister, faster than the wind! How long will it be before we must stop?!"
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