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12-06-2014, 04:23 PM
The Reaper challenged, provoked, dared, opposed, and defied, and all it left him was the searing harpoon of his own ineptitude.
He faded away from the unraveled contortions of their ill-fated meeting, the announcement of a new Lady and an old one shuffled, pardoned away, like the GildedBlade’s strength hadn’t mattered and neither would his in eventuality: he too would perish like dust, like ash, like earth, back into the ground and forgotten. No legacy bestowed, no memories cast, all the sheep collected and numbed to the changing of hands and thrones, smiling and laughing and ignorant as the world tumbled in its constant, swirling chaos. Perhaps this was what irked, irritated, and vexed him the most; for all his brawn, for all his might, for all his vigilance, the Time God assured him he had no control; every decision, every Machiavellian design, had been laid out for him since the day he was born. He’d been chosen by the devil’s symphony, Lucifer’s sacrilege, Mephistopheles delight the moment he took his first breath, sculpted, molded into isolation, into stealing away from family so they weren’t harmed, chiseling away at himself until he was an indifferent vessel, a reticent husk, with no regard, with no emotion, with no feeling towards others because he’d kill them, he’d take their final heartbeat, he’d steal their last thought at a whisper’s touch, a vile caress, a fiendish whirl.
But it had to be wrong, for he was no lemming, no mindless lamb, no shuffling ignoramus, because he always made his own decisions – calculated, examined, investigated with cold vigilance and hardened resolve. He captured chaos and curled it in his fist, he waited with soulless conviction for the right moment to strike, and he brutalized, he pulsed, he craved and relished the paradigms of unholy vows like a rapture, like a reverie, like a sin, clinging and plunging his knife through the thickened diatribes of old, pious men and their virtuous ways. He was the ivory snow’s black blade, the terrain’s pervading, nefarious delight, the bewitching, alluring, beguiling precipice of danger and distinction, and he carved away the wiles, the deliverance, the rectitude of moral creatures. The beast refused to believe in destiny, in fate, in some otherworldly divinity bestowing them scripture, that their losses, their casualties, their faults and flaws had always been written, they’d been pre-determined to lose, lose, and lose again, watch their home get torn away from them, witness their foals be captured, tied and tethered, seen their allies, companions, taken into pestilent vows, chained and fettered because another commanded it. They’d been faulted by their own weaknesses, by their own failures, by their own mistakes and mishaps. If left by the deceitful vows of the stars, they might as well have given up altogether, formed a silent stance and gazed as the world careened around them, lost to the perils of fate and providence. Deimos was no idle whim of fortune, no monster of kismet, no saint of serendipity; if the hands and wheels of time yearned for him to conform to their scripted details, they’d have to break him first.
The brooding behemoth settled back into an age-old routine: isolation, bleak, detached, and forgotten, ignoring the wholesome vestiges of Birdsong’s reign, clambering towards the highest rise upon the highest peak. His penetrating stare surveyed his vast domain and its eternal containments, the bombardments of stone and rock and rubble that would be there long after they’d all been cast aside by their patron deity, brewing his latest frustration through the simmering bout of his blood and the poisonous essence of his presence. Thereafter, he removed himself from the open terrain, settled deep into the recesses of a nearby cavern, so no one else could feel his rage, his animosity, his contempt, his abhorrence, but the silent earth. His wrath unfurled, uncurled, without restraint, scaled, licked, savaged the walls of the grotto, covered and scaled, caressed and obliterated, the heartless fathoms of his distinct, vicious reverie; loathing and brooding, a heart stolen by steel and endeavored into fervent, wanton yearning for something he always thought he had: power.
[Open! :D]
He faded away from the unraveled contortions of their ill-fated meeting, the announcement of a new Lady and an old one shuffled, pardoned away, like the GildedBlade’s strength hadn’t mattered and neither would his in eventuality: he too would perish like dust, like ash, like earth, back into the ground and forgotten. No legacy bestowed, no memories cast, all the sheep collected and numbed to the changing of hands and thrones, smiling and laughing and ignorant as the world tumbled in its constant, swirling chaos. Perhaps this was what irked, irritated, and vexed him the most; for all his brawn, for all his might, for all his vigilance, the Time God assured him he had no control; every decision, every Machiavellian design, had been laid out for him since the day he was born. He’d been chosen by the devil’s symphony, Lucifer’s sacrilege, Mephistopheles delight the moment he took his first breath, sculpted, molded into isolation, into stealing away from family so they weren’t harmed, chiseling away at himself until he was an indifferent vessel, a reticent husk, with no regard, with no emotion, with no feeling towards others because he’d kill them, he’d take their final heartbeat, he’d steal their last thought at a whisper’s touch, a vile caress, a fiendish whirl.
But it had to be wrong, for he was no lemming, no mindless lamb, no shuffling ignoramus, because he always made his own decisions – calculated, examined, investigated with cold vigilance and hardened resolve. He captured chaos and curled it in his fist, he waited with soulless conviction for the right moment to strike, and he brutalized, he pulsed, he craved and relished the paradigms of unholy vows like a rapture, like a reverie, like a sin, clinging and plunging his knife through the thickened diatribes of old, pious men and their virtuous ways. He was the ivory snow’s black blade, the terrain’s pervading, nefarious delight, the bewitching, alluring, beguiling precipice of danger and distinction, and he carved away the wiles, the deliverance, the rectitude of moral creatures. The beast refused to believe in destiny, in fate, in some otherworldly divinity bestowing them scripture, that their losses, their casualties, their faults and flaws had always been written, they’d been pre-determined to lose, lose, and lose again, watch their home get torn away from them, witness their foals be captured, tied and tethered, seen their allies, companions, taken into pestilent vows, chained and fettered because another commanded it. They’d been faulted by their own weaknesses, by their own failures, by their own mistakes and mishaps. If left by the deceitful vows of the stars, they might as well have given up altogether, formed a silent stance and gazed as the world careened around them, lost to the perils of fate and providence. Deimos was no idle whim of fortune, no monster of kismet, no saint of serendipity; if the hands and wheels of time yearned for him to conform to their scripted details, they’d have to break him first.
The brooding behemoth settled back into an age-old routine: isolation, bleak, detached, and forgotten, ignoring the wholesome vestiges of Birdsong’s reign, clambering towards the highest rise upon the highest peak. His penetrating stare surveyed his vast domain and its eternal containments, the bombardments of stone and rock and rubble that would be there long after they’d all been cast aside by their patron deity, brewing his latest frustration through the simmering bout of his blood and the poisonous essence of his presence. Thereafter, he removed himself from the open terrain, settled deep into the recesses of a nearby cavern, so no one else could feel his rage, his animosity, his contempt, his abhorrence, but the silent earth. His wrath unfurled, uncurled, without restraint, scaled, licked, savaged the walls of the grotto, covered and scaled, caressed and obliterated, the heartless fathoms of his distinct, vicious reverie; loathing and brooding, a heart stolen by steel and endeavored into fervent, wanton yearning for something he always thought he had: power.
[Open! :D]
| Aurora Basin Medic atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.2hh :: Six Years | Birdsong HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Phrixus :: White Raven :: None Psilo |
 Commotion makes for the craftiest camouflage. Even her bright ghostly colors are dulled in the noise and shuffle, the moving of bodies and breath. Her eyes stay with Deimos…for no reason other than curiosity. He disappears without baiting anyone – no one but her, anyways. Phrixus bounces into the air, taking flight and to follow in the stallion’s wake. Tangere get the queue. She slips onto the same path as him, her small split toes grabbing the slush and mud in the same spots as his own footsteps. “Hello, Deimos.” She doesn’t tag his name with his title, they both know who he is. She sidles closer but not affectionately close, leaving a generous space between them, her eyes falling to the same direction as his. Her mind fights the impulse to ask him why he is so miserable about this whole leader change situation. Illynx is clearly fine, not stolen or murdered and Ophelia does not seem so bad, really. She keeps the inquiry under lock for the moment, simply leaving the quietude between them as they stare unto the pine woods and slushy lakeshore. Phrixus has found himself a branch to watch them from, quietly listening as is his usual habit.“Are we ok, Deimos?” If he bothers to look her in the eyes he’ll find her chocolate stare already on him. Somewhere in the middle of her question, which is webbed with a much deeper meaning, she directed her observations to him. She does not lack the general respect that is customary for a leader and his pupil, but her boldness is still evident to her somewhere inside of her jittery little mind. “The Basin, I mean.” Her tender voice adds this last part even though she’s almost positive he has already absorbed her intentions. Birdsong has found the Basin’s edges, melting her blanket into loose, chunky ice puddles. Torn up dirt marks the well travelled pathways winding through the territory, the lake’s edges have almost let go of the rest if their ice shelves and the caves have become slippery and treacherous with the waterfalls of run off making their way down to the lake. The land is waking up after a long, cold slumber. A feeling the silver unicorn can relate to. AND THE DOVE OF HOPE BEGINS ITS DOWNWARD SLOPE... |
- You may use violence and magic against her at will, but no death.
- Please tag me so I don't forget anyone(:
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
12-21-2014, 12:38 PM
Winter damnation and glacial vows, an unholy venture set aside for queries, for questions, for virulent inquisitions. Hollowed capacities, clinging and absorbed in the slaughtering condemnation of his malicious reverie, were torn, shambled, and shredded through the murky, springsong abyss; his Siberian fuselage drifted over to the mare – another of their Menders – and watched as his idle brewing unraveled. He stewed in malicious chords of unbroken silence, vicious strings, choking strands, and suffocating threads ensnared, failing to comprehend, unaware. Hanging moments and streamlined seconds were caught in taut, rigid contortion, for he had every intention of prompting her to leave, pervading the surroundings with naught but his ambitious, potent coils, perniciously craving the puissant devices of a devil’s rancor: yearning to be free of judgment, allowed to ruminate over lost dominance and regaining superiority. It was more familiar, more comfortable, to drag her away from his searing edges, to bestow rapier brevity and soulless might, to harpoon in unrelenting predilection until everyone disappeared and he’d be left in the discarded remnants, stifled, resolute, secluded over and over again. But even the essence, the undulations, the catastrophic, chaotic balance of his invocations didn’t disenchant her, the silver creature simply failed to flee, failed to escape, the discontent, the vehemence, the acerbic traces, of his carnivore abyss. What was more vexing, the fact he couldn’t grasp supremacy, or his presence no longer sent them running?
The difficult angle was to chain himself deeper into the walls, into the heathen vows, into the sullen symphonies and permit her presence to stray amidst the bounty of his baleful, wicked entity: but then he thought of how distant he was to nearly every creature in his empire. The ones he adored, beloved, were few and far between, members of his family, of rain and death, or beasts who’d held the same fury as he all those seasons before, whittling away their commotion and violence into the strength, the perseverance of the barbaric clan. Was this how the ridiculous Ophelia had earned her followers, the winks, the smiles, the virtuous rejoicing of her ascension when they didn’t even know her, when they slinked and slunk through ignorance? What had he obtained, merited, in his time within his throne? Further seclusion, desolation, sitting amidst a throne far, far, far above and away from all their winsome glory and paralyzing triumphs, sinking into shadows and stones? Was this what he missed, procuring trust and defiance, faith, and conviction? Or were those built upon all his actions, all his runes, all his protecting vows and guardian hostilities, sharpened and sculpted as he carved death into their enemies’ bones? He didn’t know – perhaps the comprehension was far beyond his reach. Too many moments spent adrift and aloof, indifferent and apathetic, scaling and scorching apertures and holy endeavors, never acquiring need for conversation except when required, building and burrowing deeper into his sequestered hold; and maybe he was just as bad as he’d been before he met Huyana, too entrenched in the savagery, in the sinister boughs, to see beyond nefarious minds and seditious splendor.
Even so, he dragged the iron slate of his stare over to the querying femme, granted the smallest, the minute, traces of acceptance, a piercing echo, a daunting shade, of the truth. “The Basin is fine.” Because it always would be: strong, vigilant, enduring, no matter when he inhaled his last breath or when the empire burned. He, like all of them, was just a mere placeholder in the constant, abhorrent reel of change.
[Open! :D]
The difficult angle was to chain himself deeper into the walls, into the heathen vows, into the sullen symphonies and permit her presence to stray amidst the bounty of his baleful, wicked entity: but then he thought of how distant he was to nearly every creature in his empire. The ones he adored, beloved, were few and far between, members of his family, of rain and death, or beasts who’d held the same fury as he all those seasons before, whittling away their commotion and violence into the strength, the perseverance of the barbaric clan. Was this how the ridiculous Ophelia had earned her followers, the winks, the smiles, the virtuous rejoicing of her ascension when they didn’t even know her, when they slinked and slunk through ignorance? What had he obtained, merited, in his time within his throne? Further seclusion, desolation, sitting amidst a throne far, far, far above and away from all their winsome glory and paralyzing triumphs, sinking into shadows and stones? Was this what he missed, procuring trust and defiance, faith, and conviction? Or were those built upon all his actions, all his runes, all his protecting vows and guardian hostilities, sharpened and sculpted as he carved death into their enemies’ bones? He didn’t know – perhaps the comprehension was far beyond his reach. Too many moments spent adrift and aloof, indifferent and apathetic, scaling and scorching apertures and holy endeavors, never acquiring need for conversation except when required, building and burrowing deeper into his sequestered hold; and maybe he was just as bad as he’d been before he met Huyana, too entrenched in the savagery, in the sinister boughs, to see beyond nefarious minds and seditious splendor.
Even so, he dragged the iron slate of his stare over to the querying femme, granted the smallest, the minute, traces of acceptance, a piercing echo, a daunting shade, of the truth. “The Basin is fine.” Because it always would be: strong, vigilant, enduring, no matter when he inhaled his last breath or when the empire burned. He, like all of them, was just a mere placeholder in the constant, abhorrent reel of change.
[Open! :D]
| Unregistered |
| :: :: :: |
12-21-2014, 11:28 PM
always a villain
even when I'm not
Perhaps she was not ready for this. It was all too much, too fast. Brisé was not adjusting well to herd life. She had only met the Nightshade, of whom she trusted, and a spindly young colt of whom she had shut down the moment her eyes rolled upon him. All the defenses she broke down had built back up instantly at the sight of a foal. A harmless young child that would do no harm to her and yet she had frozen her thawed heart at the mere scent of his innocence. Why? Why did Brisé shut out everyone upon meeting them. There was no need to, or maybe there was and she didn't know it. Why had she left her home to begin with? Was she chasing after ghosts or afraid of something? Not knowing who she was before was tearing her apart piece by piece. How long was it until the beast she had forged from steel and ice tore out of her heart and lunged for her sanity? Her compassion? How long would it be until Brisé was a hollow shell, alone and freezing in the tundra surrounded by souls who would never understand her struggle, her torment? There was nothing she could do, her memory was gone and there was no getting it back. She could try to fake it didn't bother her and drag on with her miserable life, trying to create new memories to fill in for the old. But it came down to the fact she would not be able to, there would always be this nagging feeling of emptiness. There would always be a piece missing to her.
Yet this war waging within her mind was never expressed or shown outwardly. Brisé was calm and stoic, rarely showing any signs of humanity within her. Her face was a mask carved from stone and frozen in place. Her eyes were usually empty and pitiful to look into for they sucked the joy out of everything. She did not seem miserable or broken. Brisé had quite the façade and could convince even the most compassionate of minds that she was normal. She hid behinds treacherous, cruel, hideous acts yet believed in the solidity of justice. She was paranoid yet not afraid of the future or what it held. Brisé had a natural tendency to lead yet becoming a mother repulsed her in ways that surprised her. So no, she was not normal in the least bit. But she could pretend she was. She could act like everything was okay and that her heart and mind were stable. But they weren't. With every step she took farther into the Basin, she was traveling farther from a home she could not remember. Brisé was damned in one of the worst ways possible. What could she have possibly done to deserve such torment, such agony. Who had she been? And who was she to become?
Her self pity was cut short by a couple voices. One feminine, one masculine. Brisé halted mid-pace and gingerly sauntered in the direction of the sounds. As she had gotten closer Brisé could not help but notice she stood taller than both of them, even the stallion. But as the gray mare spoke Brisé caught a name, one that sounded familiar. Within a matter of seconds she connected the name to that of the Lord of the herd. As the fae spoke again Brisé felt nothing towards the mention of the name, no fear or respect. It held no meaning to her. Yet as the brute spoke she heard something in his voice. It was cold and his stare was ice. He did not attempt to move at all other than to look upon the woman before him. As he replied Brisé slowly walked up, her face blank and giving away nothing. Yet as she looked at her leader all she saw was a mirror, a reflection of herself. Brisé could not say for certain whether it frightened her or comforted her but all she knew right then was that she was not the only one tortured and beaten down by fate. An invisible connection, perhaps insane as well, was forming in her mind towards the ebony beast before her. "Then why the tense posture?" Her question was not mocking and held no trace of emotion. Brisé's face and eyes betrayed nothing. So she stood there, identical to a block of ice, and waited to see what was to unfold.
OOC| @[Deimos] @[Tangere]
Coding © Henley
| Aurora Basin Medic atk: 5 | def: 9 | dam: 5.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.2hh :: Six Years | Birdsong HP: 63 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Phrixus :: White Raven :: None Psilo |
She fought the urge to shiver and walk in the opposite direction of him and his cloak of misery. What a maddening individual, she quietly thought to herself. His attitude inspired an uncomfortable-ness in her bones, settling under her flesh. She cannot rightly just simper away like a fool as his stone eyes slither to meet hers, though she’d like to. The silver mare simply stares at him while he offers this vague disinterested answer.
What a dick.
Her face scrunches like a bewildered child’s might, the wrinkles quickly stiffening again as she remembers herself. He is not a friend; he is simply another pawn in this government – a leading pawn, but still a pawn. The Basin is the captain of their reins, each and every one of her love-slaves, a purpose they’re all more than satisfied to serve (or so she assumes). He is nothing like Illynx was when she would meet her amongst the shadows, stones and pine smell. She doesn’t dwell on the matter.
Thankfully someone chimes from behind them, a brilliantly colorful girl with dangerous looking boney shanks jutting from her skeleton and through her skin. Again she feels like shivering and taking a step back from them, that ‘oh yuck, a snake’ sort of shiver; she means no offense with her internal musings, they cannot be hushed within her mind. Tangere cannot help but adorn her face with a gleeful sort of grin, one that has been bound and hiding thus far. The shiny, sharp looking girl approached without hesitation, her focus not with Tangere. The silver mare’s muscles loosened under her shaggy patched coat. She said nothing and simply let the silence eat up the tall dark woman’s question.
He is always like that, she wanted to say in answer to the blatantness, but thought it an ill decision at the last second. This group of three were not focused on her, it’s wiser to keep it that way, she thinks. She couldn’t help but notice that her brightly emotional face and her cow-eyes are the opposite of her conversational companions. Their faces were granite; hard, lacking anything but the most basic features – their depth a secret, their emotions (if any) are concealed behind veiled, abysmal eyes. Both of them.
This time the shiver cannot be held back and she can feel the involuntary wiggle travel down her spine. When the energy reaches her tail she whips it from hip to hip.
What a dick.
Her face scrunches like a bewildered child’s might, the wrinkles quickly stiffening again as she remembers herself. He is not a friend; he is simply another pawn in this government – a leading pawn, but still a pawn. The Basin is the captain of their reins, each and every one of her love-slaves, a purpose they’re all more than satisfied to serve (or so she assumes). He is nothing like Illynx was when she would meet her amongst the shadows, stones and pine smell. She doesn’t dwell on the matter.
Thankfully someone chimes from behind them, a brilliantly colorful girl with dangerous looking boney shanks jutting from her skeleton and through her skin. Again she feels like shivering and taking a step back from them, that ‘oh yuck, a snake’ sort of shiver; she means no offense with her internal musings, they cannot be hushed within her mind. Tangere cannot help but adorn her face with a gleeful sort of grin, one that has been bound and hiding thus far. The shiny, sharp looking girl approached without hesitation, her focus not with Tangere. The silver mare’s muscles loosened under her shaggy patched coat. She said nothing and simply let the silence eat up the tall dark woman’s question.
He is always like that, she wanted to say in answer to the blatantness, but thought it an ill decision at the last second. This group of three were not focused on her, it’s wiser to keep it that way, she thinks. She couldn’t help but notice that her brightly emotional face and her cow-eyes are the opposite of her conversational companions. Their faces were granite; hard, lacking anything but the most basic features – their depth a secret, their emotions (if any) are concealed behind veiled, abysmal eyes. Both of them.
This time the shiver cannot be held back and she can feel the involuntary wiggle travel down her spine. When the energy reaches her tail she whips it from hip to hip.
- You may use violence and magic against her at will, but no death.
- Please tag me so I don't forget anyone(:
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
01-17-2015, 10:37 AM
His social deficiencies reared their isolated shards again, for no sooner had he given her a blunt, succinct response, did the silver mare wrinkle her muzzle in distaste, in dissatisfaction. The reticent beast was unaware of where he’d made some crucial error, and only that he had, like so many times before, been bested by some unseen, unknown gallantry he’d never acquired the taste for. If the Mender had been looking for someone to wax poetical with, to serenade, to diatribe on endless quagmires and unrelenting pursuits, she would have faired better with anyone else within the Basin. The monster had been too equipped with other potencies to even think about drowning himself in iniquities of conversation and sweet nothings; his powers drummed through warfare, through calculations, through machinations. She’d receive no florid designs from him, no capricious simpers and smiles, no charming attributes and sunshine radiance – he provided the icy caverns, the glacial walls, the massive stones with other dominations and supremacies: death, demise, quick, swift, protection, an impassive, detached fortress who would stop at nothing to protect those within his empire. If this wasn’t enough for her, perhaps Tangere could search for another rock to discourse with, one who gleamed and gave her everything she wished to hear. She said nothing more, asked nothing more, and so he twisted his cranium away, the Reaper demoted into shells and shackles, into silence and disregard, because he couldn’t fathom, couldn’t relate, couldn’t posture anything other than danger and quiet. It was his weakness, his failing, why asps and snakes slithered into serpentine avenues and why he never wandered down their same paths. The Lord’s flaw always seemed to collide, callously, heathenously, around his trenchant designs, and no matter what he muttered, what he crooned, what he murmured, the message was always misconstrued. Perhaps this was what he was missing all along, but he could never scratch the surface of. Lucifer’s sword had been buried and burrowed too deep into hollowed halls, had marched away from groups and gatherings, had locked himself into rasping, grating parlors ever since he’d discovered the magic, the pernicious, puissant invocations, but never asked for any understanding. He stole, he coveted, he massacred, he existed.
Had another not come upon them, the King may have left altogether, drifted further and further into the outcrops until all they saw was a barren landscape and a hint of demise, too far gone in his attempts, in his faults, to do anything but escape. The other cretin roaming into their sights was an unknown femme, and curiosity, intrigue, delved too quickly for him to do anything but conform to a rigid stare, a bestial examination, a barbaric scrutiny. She was all barbs and thorns, but her features told a similar story to his own: blank, indifferent, nonchalant, as if everything were a disinterested fold, and every quandary, every note, remained centered and inward. Like a mirror, like a reflection of his own apathetic face, he drew his puncturing gaze back to her fathoms, tilted his head a mere fraction, and noted she’d be someone he could relate to. She was hidden. She was concealed. She was furtive. She held more to her abilities, she held fast to her designs, and the specious interludes ensured she wouldn’t cross into deep factions or attempt to submerge into his forlorn endeavors. It was nearly a comfort to know she wouldn’t be prying, wouldn’t be scalding, wouldn’t be amassing a series of queries he couldn’t respond to. Ice could relate to the chilling ire of his expanse. So when her question meandered through the cavern, he murmured only the blunt truth of his taut, coiled, curled core. “Irritation.” Presuming that response would also be misunderstood, he only added a minor notation, cementing it with a curt, rapt candor. “With myself.” Then, the inquisitions unfolded again, prosperous and brewing, a cauldron of possibilities touching and gliding over Machiavellian means, for he knew naught of this mare’s existence until now. “Who are you?”
[@[Brisé] @[Tangere]
Had another not come upon them, the King may have left altogether, drifted further and further into the outcrops until all they saw was a barren landscape and a hint of demise, too far gone in his attempts, in his faults, to do anything but escape. The other cretin roaming into their sights was an unknown femme, and curiosity, intrigue, delved too quickly for him to do anything but conform to a rigid stare, a bestial examination, a barbaric scrutiny. She was all barbs and thorns, but her features told a similar story to his own: blank, indifferent, nonchalant, as if everything were a disinterested fold, and every quandary, every note, remained centered and inward. Like a mirror, like a reflection of his own apathetic face, he drew his puncturing gaze back to her fathoms, tilted his head a mere fraction, and noted she’d be someone he could relate to. She was hidden. She was concealed. She was furtive. She held more to her abilities, she held fast to her designs, and the specious interludes ensured she wouldn’t cross into deep factions or attempt to submerge into his forlorn endeavors. It was nearly a comfort to know she wouldn’t be prying, wouldn’t be scalding, wouldn’t be amassing a series of queries he couldn’t respond to. Ice could relate to the chilling ire of his expanse. So when her question meandered through the cavern, he murmured only the blunt truth of his taut, coiled, curled core. “Irritation.” Presuming that response would also be misunderstood, he only added a minor notation, cementing it with a curt, rapt candor. “With myself.” Then, the inquisitions unfolded again, prosperous and brewing, a cauldron of possibilities touching and gliding over Machiavellian means, for he knew naught of this mare’s existence until now. “Who are you?”
[@[Brisé] @[Tangere]
