She didn't leave. Instead, rather than simply stand there and be a quiet nuisance, the wretched cur started pacing back and forth, back and forth along the icy corridor, dainty hooves creating a pattering, eternal loop of echoes that quickly began to wear on him. Gritting his teeth together the stallion remained still, outwardly appearing the epitome of calm and aloofness while on the inside he was seething, roiling with steadily growing temper, enough to sear the innards and make crimson heart rage in a furious beat. At least his blood was still hot, still red and free flowing where it coursed through his veins. He was not dead, not yet - though for each second that passed he came a little bit closer to test the limits of his endurance on this annoying individual who couldn't take silence for a no.

Then she started to scream at him. If he'd been in any less pain Morir would have laughed at her for being so hilariously insane, but seeing as she was throwing insults at him the urge to smile was quite easy to ignore. Actually, he was fully prepared to keep doing just that - no tantrum in the world would be enough to make this rogue pay attention if he'd decided that he didn't want to - but the mare made one, possibly fatal, mistake.

She kicked ice at him.

Most of them just rattled to the ground around his plate-sized hooves, lacking in both sufficient force and accuracy. It was probably no more than sheer dumb luck - how ironic, that the Veiled One would choose to aid this disturber of peace rather than her faithful subject - that made one of them strike true, sharp edges smacking into a swollen, raw and oozing hock.

There was no way in all the seven hells he could ignore that. Sucking in a sharp, howling breath of agony the stag made a sudden throw of the head that all but dislodged the death-mask across the face, and with mind still reeling with pain but too angry to leave the mare alone anymore he turned the massive bulk around to face her. "Do you want to die?" he asked as he stepped towards her, every smooth step but an illusion of strength and fluidity - he could feel blisters pop and skin tear, the sudden stench of pus, blood and gore erupting into the air enough to make him want to gag. Deep bass tunes sounded almost conversational as he advanced on the intruder, merry and smiling; the obsidian spears that lower towards her chest speak a different language altogether however, and as the injured stag strive to drive her back, back back until she cannot back anymore and have to submit to his rage, he cannot help but hope that she will be stupid enough to run. How he would love to chase her down, what pleasure he will feel upon driving his weapon deep into her flesh and hear steaming blood sizzle as it splatter across the cold ice.

She want him to die? The bitch better fucking accompany him then, since she wanted to stay so badly.


@[Beloved]

"I embrace the thorny rose to my chest and
fall into the crimson sea
I continue dancing upon the
piled bodies until I die"