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02-14-2014, 07:44 AM
[ OMG A NICKNAME. ]
Some people thrive with the wolves at their heels, some find it fun for a while, but then, when they're trying to outpace death and beat their head against a stone wall at the same time—they stop to see the fun in it. Because there is no fun in it, when your dance partner is a statue made of marble and as immovable as a rock, and just as unbendable and graceless as the frozen dead. Perhaps she was not yet hardened enough to toss and toy with information like a bone between growling stray dogs, put off by the way he skirted the issue and said nothing of value, because just like that she looked at him, keenly, and ended the game. Simply walked off the board. ".. Mauja the Ironclad."
Iron? No one had ever said he was clad in iron before. Subtly he glanced down at his own legs, the clean, strong width of his cannons and the mess of long fur by his hooves—iron? Was his mind and soul so strong that she truly saw no hope at all?
Well, it was for the best. He couldn't go around falling apart like this.
She went on a little, turned away, and he couldn't help but feel like he'd let her down somehow. It lodged in his veins, a weight across his heart—hadn't he, sort of, wanted to help her? And instead just pushed her further and further away? Too caught up in the rhythm of his own dance, of trying not to trip over his feet and fall down and break his legs.
"We have hope because we're all mortal fools," he mumbled after her retreating back, the feeling of failure washing across his skin like yesterday's sweat, unpleasant and chafing. "And keep trying because one day, we hope that things will turn out differently." Quietly he shook his head, long mane stirring against an arched neck—if there ever was an angel it was he, as cold and selfish as the distant stars. "Vertu sæl, Aurelia, og má þin framtíð verda bjartari."
And so, Mauja, too, turned his back on that place and left, as graceful as the wind but as heavy as the mountains.
Some people thrive with the wolves at their heels, some find it fun for a while, but then, when they're trying to outpace death and beat their head against a stone wall at the same time—they stop to see the fun in it. Because there is no fun in it, when your dance partner is a statue made of marble and as immovable as a rock, and just as unbendable and graceless as the frozen dead. Perhaps she was not yet hardened enough to toss and toy with information like a bone between growling stray dogs, put off by the way he skirted the issue and said nothing of value, because just like that she looked at him, keenly, and ended the game. Simply walked off the board. ".. Mauja the Ironclad."
Iron? No one had ever said he was clad in iron before. Subtly he glanced down at his own legs, the clean, strong width of his cannons and the mess of long fur by his hooves—iron? Was his mind and soul so strong that she truly saw no hope at all?
Well, it was for the best. He couldn't go around falling apart like this.
She went on a little, turned away, and he couldn't help but feel like he'd let her down somehow. It lodged in his veins, a weight across his heart—hadn't he, sort of, wanted to help her? And instead just pushed her further and further away? Too caught up in the rhythm of his own dance, of trying not to trip over his feet and fall down and break his legs.
"We have hope because we're all mortal fools," he mumbled after her retreating back, the feeling of failure washing across his skin like yesterday's sweat, unpleasant and chafing. "And keep trying because one day, we hope that things will turn out differently." Quietly he shook his head, long mane stirring against an arched neck—if there ever was an angel it was he, as cold and selfish as the distant stars. "Vertu sæl, Aurelia, og má þin framtíð verda bjartari."
And so, Mauja, too, turned his back on that place and left, as graceful as the wind but as heavy as the mountains.
Mauja
must keep those black wings folded until the time is right
