.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
02-23-2015, 12:31 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ lovely new table ^^ but maybe you could just use a regular font (like times) with no alteration to line-height and letter-spacing when threading with me..? I have a really hard time reading this one :( andddd there's no need to tag me ^^ 2nd and: warning, massive(ly) weird post incoming o_o ]
Companions—bah.
Neither of them had been his choice to make, and to be honest, both of them were selfish assholes who cared for no one but themselves, and the other two souls unfortunate enough to be bonded to them. Irma had broken more than a few equine hearts with her frigid eyes and uncaring ways (though, really, why should she roll and revel in the doting of a stranger just because she wasn't a horse?), and he suspected Diego would break more than his share, too. As it was, the owl stared at the filly with his flaming eyes, and Mauja wondered if it was as visible upon the bird's features as it was in his soul, that rank, hot flame of smug arrogance. Did he just look disinterested, or was it written all over his face that he didn't care?
Mauja didn't know, but he suspected the former, and couldn't be bothered to turn his head to look upon the owl. Besides, what if he did look like he'd just watched something about as outlandish as a slave asking for the princess' hand.. and what would he do about it? Lecture him? Hardly; the owl had no obligations towards anyone, and no reason to "behave". He could stare daggers at anyone for all that Mauja cared. In fact, it was his right to be a little bit of an ass if he wanted to. He didn't exist for shits and giggles, or to be some cute puffy bird. He was an owl, proud and regal and dangerous (except to horses), his sharp talons cleaned of blood but the mind remembering what it felt like to sink them into soft, warm flesh, and feel life squirm in its death-grip.
So her happy greeting of the arrogant owl was like pearls before the swine, wasted on a bird that saw her as nothing more than a temporary source of amusement. Still, it surprised him to feel a thrill of warmth—Diego, then, was more vain than Irma. Interesting.
But then it wasn't about the owl anymore, though he felt the bird's lingering amusement that (shit, was there nothing that creature didn't find funny?) Mauja had spent such a great deal of time thinking about him, but rather it was about them, the only two present who spoke the same tongue. She called him sir and he cringed within. He was no sir, he was just a bloody Mauja, which was synonymous with things like "dethroned king", "idiot", "bitter fool" and other such things that surely everyone wanted to be—not. But the girl went on—fortunately skipping the sir this time—and he peered at her as she spoke. Now, his experience with people her age was fairly minimal, but the first thing that struck him was her language. She spoke like someone years her own senior, or like she'd been raised in a very formal court, or as someone of high blood, or.. or.. whatever. Everyone-and-their-cousin was some kind of renegade noble in Helovia. So she was a princess whose parents fell out of favor or died of the pox or were burnt alive for consorting with demons or maybe her father shagged a doe (or a stag? who was he to force the "norm" upon anyone), or whatever, but she was an out-of-fashion princess and he was a King made noble only by a brief spat as ruler in Helovia (of two of its kingdoms, no less). So.. a failed King. An out-of-fashion princess and a failed two-time king.
The point?
Who gives a fuck about that.
No, wait—the point was that she had a very serious, very mature language.
The other thing that struck him was what she'd actually said. I'm so glad you do. It.. sounded part "this is what I say to be nice", but more than that, it sounded genuine, and almost like relief. Like, what had she expected? To introduce herself, all bubbling and happy, and two weeks later be forgotten? Even though he wanted to laugh at it, beneath its surface yawned a huge, huge black void.
Did she live life like that? Expecting to be forgotten?
Maybe that was what had happened in his distant fairytale kingdom—the King had forgotten he had that particular princess, and she'd been left to fade away in darkness, away from the sun and stars. Except.. she had broken out, somehow, or just said fuck it and taken those wings to the sky and gone to find her own future. A slight frown creased his forehead. She actually seemed too young to be capable of having the "fuck it" mindset—you sorta needed to know that what was going on was wrong in order to give it the finger and leave.. and if you're that young, you still sort of just accept everything as being right, even when your gut tells you its wrong, because.. because.. you place so much damn trust in those who are older—your parents—mentors—those who abuse you and your trust, either knowingly or not, and..
Okay, so she hadn't just said "fuck it" and left. In fact, she probably wasn't a princess at all, so his mind should just shut up and go back to the present.
He realized he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't said anything, but the moment she spread her wings the movement jolted him back from his daydreams of distant lands and potential escape-from-being-forgotten scenarios for this Myrrine. (It was an exotic name.) Shut up.
She spread them in the darkness, and the white soaked up the ocean's blue glow eagerly—they were bulky, and striped, and sort of odd, and didn't flare towards the horizons with the same sweeping grace as a bird's wings did.. but, ah. "Butterfly," he murmured as his mind finally recognized their shape. Of course. They were neither stunted nor broken nor misshapen—just different from a bird's.
Feathers be superior.
Thank you for your input, asshole owl.
But she spoke again and his mind was already freewheeling, free falling, going numb with the rush of air around it. It had been in the back of his mind when he had spoken—spread your wings for me—as if he'd been asking her to do something bad, something wrong, because it was just one word off from something else.. and it had been there on his tongue, not because he wanted to say it, gods no, but because he could say it. But he hadn't, but he'd been thinking about how similar the sentences would've been, and just how wrong, and her reaction didn't make it better. Come closer, touch them, and he wanted to scream at her to get the hell away from me—
He didn't want to do anything to her. He had no fucked-up plans or even any desire whatsoever to commit whatever sin it was his mind toyed with. It was theoretical. It was the notion of the possibility. It was the curiosity of how far he could push her, the worry what had happened to her to put her in such a trusting, inviting state of mind (had they done something to her to normalize invasive touch? or.. or..), the.. well.. part of him wanted to tell her to close her eyes and stand still and beat her just to see if she'd let him.
Wondered if he could touch her and pass it off as a "new experience".
Theoretically. And that was the annoying thing: the very idea of it repulsed him so violently he could've bounced to the moon, but as a theory it was intriguing and.. well, disastrous. But he couldn't stop thinking about it.
He realized his mouth had gone dry and he'd zoned out with his soft muzzle resting against her nearest wing. It was strange to the touch, different (exotic shut up she's not a princess), sort of ticklish, and he peered sideways at her. She seemed just as lost in thought as he had been, or maybe even more, wings fluttering dreamily as her eyes gazed inward, at memory, things only she knew.
It was a damn good thing she didn't know what had been going on in his mind, because frankly, it bothered him—it bothered him because it was tempting to see if she could draw any lines at all and tell him "no" or if her need for validation—remembrance—went deeper than her sense of self-preservation.
Politely he withdrew his head, knowing that he couldn't just turn around and leave her quietly, because the movement was sure to bring her out of her thoughts. Motion, when caught by the eye, had a way of doing that. So he was stuck on the beach with her, his reeling mind sniffing at doors it had no business opening. So he hounded it back a few steps, away from the land of don'tgothere and back to the land of out-of-fashion princesses.
"So..." he said after a moment, a decidedly awkward lilt to his light voice. "What's your story?"
Because a, he was curious and b, she was young so it couldn't be that long and c, it was a damn better way of validating her existence than all those other things he could do.
[ lmfao okay so it's official I have no idea what the hell happened in this post xD @[Myrrine], and I just want to put extra pressure on the fact that nowhere does he WANT to do things to her in that manner, it just struck him as a "would she accept it if I asked this of her too" :x also there is no need to mirror the length of this (there never is a need to mirror length when you post with me ^^) ]
Companions—bah.
Neither of them had been his choice to make, and to be honest, both of them were selfish assholes who cared for no one but themselves, and the other two souls unfortunate enough to be bonded to them. Irma had broken more than a few equine hearts with her frigid eyes and uncaring ways (though, really, why should she roll and revel in the doting of a stranger just because she wasn't a horse?), and he suspected Diego would break more than his share, too. As it was, the owl stared at the filly with his flaming eyes, and Mauja wondered if it was as visible upon the bird's features as it was in his soul, that rank, hot flame of smug arrogance. Did he just look disinterested, or was it written all over his face that he didn't care?
Mauja didn't know, but he suspected the former, and couldn't be bothered to turn his head to look upon the owl. Besides, what if he did look like he'd just watched something about as outlandish as a slave asking for the princess' hand.. and what would he do about it? Lecture him? Hardly; the owl had no obligations towards anyone, and no reason to "behave". He could stare daggers at anyone for all that Mauja cared. In fact, it was his right to be a little bit of an ass if he wanted to. He didn't exist for shits and giggles, or to be some cute puffy bird. He was an owl, proud and regal and dangerous (except to horses), his sharp talons cleaned of blood but the mind remembering what it felt like to sink them into soft, warm flesh, and feel life squirm in its death-grip.
So her happy greeting of the arrogant owl was like pearls before the swine, wasted on a bird that saw her as nothing more than a temporary source of amusement. Still, it surprised him to feel a thrill of warmth—Diego, then, was more vain than Irma. Interesting.
But then it wasn't about the owl anymore, though he felt the bird's lingering amusement that (shit, was there nothing that creature didn't find funny?) Mauja had spent such a great deal of time thinking about him, but rather it was about them, the only two present who spoke the same tongue. She called him sir and he cringed within. He was no sir, he was just a bloody Mauja, which was synonymous with things like "dethroned king", "idiot", "bitter fool" and other such things that surely everyone wanted to be—not. But the girl went on—fortunately skipping the sir this time—and he peered at her as she spoke. Now, his experience with people her age was fairly minimal, but the first thing that struck him was her language. She spoke like someone years her own senior, or like she'd been raised in a very formal court, or as someone of high blood, or.. or.. whatever. Everyone-and-their-cousin was some kind of renegade noble in Helovia. So she was a princess whose parents fell out of favor or died of the pox or were burnt alive for consorting with demons or maybe her father shagged a doe (or a stag? who was he to force the "norm" upon anyone), or whatever, but she was an out-of-fashion princess and he was a King made noble only by a brief spat as ruler in Helovia (of two of its kingdoms, no less). So.. a failed King. An out-of-fashion princess and a failed two-time king.
The point?
Who gives a fuck about that.
No, wait—the point was that she had a very serious, very mature language.
The other thing that struck him was what she'd actually said. I'm so glad you do. It.. sounded part "this is what I say to be nice", but more than that, it sounded genuine, and almost like relief. Like, what had she expected? To introduce herself, all bubbling and happy, and two weeks later be forgotten? Even though he wanted to laugh at it, beneath its surface yawned a huge, huge black void.
Did she live life like that? Expecting to be forgotten?
Maybe that was what had happened in his distant fairytale kingdom—the King had forgotten he had that particular princess, and she'd been left to fade away in darkness, away from the sun and stars. Except.. she had broken out, somehow, or just said fuck it and taken those wings to the sky and gone to find her own future. A slight frown creased his forehead. She actually seemed too young to be capable of having the "fuck it" mindset—you sorta needed to know that what was going on was wrong in order to give it the finger and leave.. and if you're that young, you still sort of just accept everything as being right, even when your gut tells you its wrong, because.. because.. you place so much damn trust in those who are older—your parents—mentors—those who abuse you and your trust, either knowingly or not, and..
Okay, so she hadn't just said "fuck it" and left. In fact, she probably wasn't a princess at all, so his mind should just shut up and go back to the present.
He realized he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't said anything, but the moment she spread her wings the movement jolted him back from his daydreams of distant lands and potential escape-from-being-forgotten scenarios for this Myrrine. (It was an exotic name.) Shut up.
She spread them in the darkness, and the white soaked up the ocean's blue glow eagerly—they were bulky, and striped, and sort of odd, and didn't flare towards the horizons with the same sweeping grace as a bird's wings did.. but, ah. "Butterfly," he murmured as his mind finally recognized their shape. Of course. They were neither stunted nor broken nor misshapen—just different from a bird's.
Feathers be superior.
Thank you for your input, asshole owl.
But she spoke again and his mind was already freewheeling, free falling, going numb with the rush of air around it. It had been in the back of his mind when he had spoken—spread your wings for me—as if he'd been asking her to do something bad, something wrong, because it was just one word off from something else.. and it had been there on his tongue, not because he wanted to say it, gods no, but because he could say it. But he hadn't, but he'd been thinking about how similar the sentences would've been, and just how wrong, and her reaction didn't make it better. Come closer, touch them, and he wanted to scream at her to get the hell away from me—
He didn't want to do anything to her. He had no fucked-up plans or even any desire whatsoever to commit whatever sin it was his mind toyed with. It was theoretical. It was the notion of the possibility. It was the curiosity of how far he could push her, the worry what had happened to her to put her in such a trusting, inviting state of mind (had they done something to her to normalize invasive touch? or.. or..), the.. well.. part of him wanted to tell her to close her eyes and stand still and beat her just to see if she'd let him.
Wondered if he could touch her and pass it off as a "new experience".
Theoretically. And that was the annoying thing: the very idea of it repulsed him so violently he could've bounced to the moon, but as a theory it was intriguing and.. well, disastrous. But he couldn't stop thinking about it.
He realized his mouth had gone dry and he'd zoned out with his soft muzzle resting against her nearest wing. It was strange to the touch, different (
It was a damn good thing she didn't know what had been going on in his mind, because frankly, it bothered him—it bothered him because it was tempting to see if she could draw any lines at all and tell him "no" or if her need for validation—remembrance—went deeper than her sense of self-preservation.
Politely he withdrew his head, knowing that he couldn't just turn around and leave her quietly, because the movement was sure to bring her out of her thoughts. Motion, when caught by the eye, had a way of doing that. So he was stuck on the beach with her, his reeling mind sniffing at doors it had no business opening. So he hounded it back a few steps, away from the land of don'tgothere and back to the land of out-of-fashion princesses.
"So..." he said after a moment, a decidedly awkward lilt to his light voice. "What's your story?"
Because a, he was curious and b, she was young so it couldn't be that long and c, it was a damn better way of validating her existence than all those other things he could do.
[ lmfao okay so it's official I have no idea what the hell happened in this post xD @[Myrrine], and I just want to put extra pressure on the fact that nowhere does he WANT to do things to her in that manner, it just struck him as a "would she accept it if I asked this of her too" :x also there is no need to mirror the length of this (there never is a need to mirror length when you post with me ^^) ]
