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01-04-2014, 07:02 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
Cry for help...
"Is something wrong?"
Everything.
It wasn't until a conversation later, when the subject of owls and eyes had been cleared, that d'Artagnan finally replied; by then, Mauja had a distinct, gut-wrenching certainty that something was wrong. The Doctor's glare hadn't faded away into bright humor. If anything, it had grown more intense, a burning, spearing dislike boring its way into Nyx's gray body, as if to flay her skin open and set her bones on fire. "Your presence offends me." Mauja's fairly jovial mood faded in the face of that twisted, wicked smile—he'd been around d'Artagnan long enough to know what it meant. To know of the magic which could lull you to sleep, and of the hound's strong jaws, and the hot blood spilling forth from broken throats, the spray of severed arteries; a sanguine fountain, sacrilegious geyser. It wasn't the simple shove of a friend's shoulder, the grin of some cliff-edge joke shared between pals. It held the sinister edge of a dark soul, and all the mad, terrible terror of a warped, wicked doctor.
What had happened? What had brought out the beast in his friend? If the earlier mood was anything to go by, it should be Mauja standing there, all broken-eyed and with the death-hunger in veins and mouth, the cold and the dark poised just a breath's away, ready to strike—not d'Artagnan. Not the Doctor who had, willingly, politely, greeted the interloping mare, when Mauja had glared like he had a stick up his ass. Quick, blue eyes darted from the mare, to the doctor, and back again. Nothing had triggered it. He'd simply gone from sad to mad, just as whimsical as the rhyming of the words.
"Oh yes," he whispered darkly at the tail of end of d'Artagnan's sentences, the threat lying heavy in the air. "Frightfully messy." Damn; he didn't want this. He didn't want the sickening rush of his heart and the fear of not knowing what d'Artagnan, would, wanted, to do. Would his rage extend to Mauja? No his heart whispered, too uncertain to yell it, yell it like he wanted, and suddenly all he wanted to do was drive Nyx away and see his friend return. Am I friends with the monster? He wanted, so desperately, to say yes, but with the exception of the loud-mouthed git who wanted to spew word of the Plague to the world, they had never turned upon a unicorn before. "But don't worry," he kept whispering in his deep, smooth voice, drawing in a little closer again, something cold glittering along the rims of his eyes. "You're not alone.. not anymore..." We're here... Frosty hooves scuffled over small pebbles and dry rock, an alien, restless sound in the faintly quiet world; Mauja actually moved a step closer, his being radiant cold and winter, breath pooling into the air with the chilling of his veins.
Go, his heart said, told the unfortunate girl. Go, before it's too late.
"Is something wrong?"
Everything.
It wasn't until a conversation later, when the subject of owls and eyes had been cleared, that d'Artagnan finally replied; by then, Mauja had a distinct, gut-wrenching certainty that something was wrong. The Doctor's glare hadn't faded away into bright humor. If anything, it had grown more intense, a burning, spearing dislike boring its way into Nyx's gray body, as if to flay her skin open and set her bones on fire. "Your presence offends me." Mauja's fairly jovial mood faded in the face of that twisted, wicked smile—he'd been around d'Artagnan long enough to know what it meant. To know of the magic which could lull you to sleep, and of the hound's strong jaws, and the hot blood spilling forth from broken throats, the spray of severed arteries; a sanguine fountain, sacrilegious geyser. It wasn't the simple shove of a friend's shoulder, the grin of some cliff-edge joke shared between pals. It held the sinister edge of a dark soul, and all the mad, terrible terror of a warped, wicked doctor.
What had happened? What had brought out the beast in his friend? If the earlier mood was anything to go by, it should be Mauja standing there, all broken-eyed and with the death-hunger in veins and mouth, the cold and the dark poised just a breath's away, ready to strike—not d'Artagnan. Not the Doctor who had, willingly, politely, greeted the interloping mare, when Mauja had glared like he had a stick up his ass. Quick, blue eyes darted from the mare, to the doctor, and back again. Nothing had triggered it. He'd simply gone from sad to mad, just as whimsical as the rhyming of the words.
"Oh yes," he whispered darkly at the tail of end of d'Artagnan's sentences, the threat lying heavy in the air. "Frightfully messy." Damn; he didn't want this. He didn't want the sickening rush of his heart and the fear of not knowing what d'Artagnan, would, wanted, to do. Would his rage extend to Mauja? No his heart whispered, too uncertain to yell it, yell it like he wanted, and suddenly all he wanted to do was drive Nyx away and see his friend return. Am I friends with the monster? He wanted, so desperately, to say yes, but with the exception of the loud-mouthed git who wanted to spew word of the Plague to the world, they had never turned upon a unicorn before. "But don't worry," he kept whispering in his deep, smooth voice, drawing in a little closer again, something cold glittering along the rims of his eyes. "You're not alone.. not anymore..." We're here... Frosty hooves scuffled over small pebbles and dry rock, an alien, restless sound in the faintly quiet world; Mauja actually moved a step closer, his being radiant cold and winter, breath pooling into the air with the chilling of his veins.
Go, his heart said, told the unfortunate girl. Go, before it's too late.
A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.
