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09-07-2015, 09:41 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Die.
It was the first time in a long, long time that Mauja had thought it, so clearly, so viscerally, a single kill-command echoing through the blazing fury of his mind: die.
He had meant it before—when those three spikes had broken the ground beneath Lace's body, they had risen with that single, common goal. Destruction. The end of something.
But it had been a fickle rage, as tentative and wavering as a candle in the wind, a spur-of-the-moment attempt on the gray's life. This.. this was deeper. This was a slow demand vibrating in his bones, a certainty plaguing his soul with each slow movement made; with each breath exhaled through wide, black nostrils. Today would be the day Lace died. Today would be the day Mauja put his hoof down.
He wasn't interested in Lace's pain, in his screams of agony as the fire-swan blasted into his bleeding flank; he wasn't interested in watching the gray drop into the snow in a mindless attempt to relieve his pain. He wasn't interested in the dominance, in the humiliation.
The only thing he was interested in was turning Lace into a corpse.
He had lived with the brands the Qian had put on him for far too long.
(The worst of it was that they hadn't dared brand him these things when he had actually represented some of it.)
The golden idiot rolled in the snow to get away from Mauja; his weight crashed into the unforgiving ground as the gray staggered upright, the owls blaring warnings in his head at the same time. His white skull swung to the side—he saw the dragon—exploded out of the way, the burst of superheated flame narrowly missing him. Some of the hairs of his tail curled and simply melted from the proximity, but once again, he had somehow dodged fire.
What in the actual fuck was going on.
But he didn't let the relief claim him again—he spurred himself on, latched onto the swift form of Fajira with his mind, bombarding her veins with ice crystals simply to put her out of the game for a bit before releasing her, like a play-thing he had grown tired of. She would die with Lace anyway.
He wasn't going to savor the moment. He wasn't going to say dramatic things like, this ends now, or prepare to die, or any pretentious shit like that. He was too old for dramatic flairs. He just wanted it over and done with, this threat removed for forever.
His body steamed in the deepening dark, white breath smoking out as he exhaled—inhaled—moved again, in sync with his magic. Three spires of ice, just shy of Lace himself in height, rose on Lace's far side, one by his flank, one slightly in front, one behind—a trap, as neat as any he had ever laid, a cage for the gold-backed fool of a wolf. Because on the other side, where there was no ice, was Mauja.
He charged him from a collected trot, not wanting to risk breaking his legs on the foul terrain, and besides, between the ice and his injuries Lace ought to be slow enough that he wouldn't need to take a step or two of full-blown canter to reach him. It wasn't like all of Helovia lay between them—just a few yards.
Ears flat, blue eyes blazing with an anger that was slipping off its leash, Mauja aimed to punch his horn in between Lace's ribs—into his heart—even as the ground erupted again in a last, exhaustive push: two ice spikes rose beneath Lace, hoping to puncture his chest and abdomen, as he let the other three fall.
Die, he thought again, determination a flame roaring in his mind.
(Die now, he thought, because this is pretty damn draining.)
[ @Lace || 4/4 || 643 words. ]
It was the first time in a long, long time that Mauja had thought it, so clearly, so viscerally, a single kill-command echoing through the blazing fury of his mind: die.
He had meant it before—when those three spikes had broken the ground beneath Lace's body, they had risen with that single, common goal. Destruction. The end of something.
But it had been a fickle rage, as tentative and wavering as a candle in the wind, a spur-of-the-moment attempt on the gray's life. This.. this was deeper. This was a slow demand vibrating in his bones, a certainty plaguing his soul with each slow movement made; with each breath exhaled through wide, black nostrils. Today would be the day Lace died. Today would be the day Mauja put his hoof down.
He wasn't interested in Lace's pain, in his screams of agony as the fire-swan blasted into his bleeding flank; he wasn't interested in watching the gray drop into the snow in a mindless attempt to relieve his pain. He wasn't interested in the dominance, in the humiliation.
The only thing he was interested in was turning Lace into a corpse.
He had lived with the brands the Qian had put on him for far too long.
(The worst of it was that they hadn't dared brand him these things when he had actually represented some of it.)
The golden idiot rolled in the snow to get away from Mauja; his weight crashed into the unforgiving ground as the gray staggered upright, the owls blaring warnings in his head at the same time. His white skull swung to the side—he saw the dragon—exploded out of the way, the burst of superheated flame narrowly missing him. Some of the hairs of his tail curled and simply melted from the proximity, but once again, he had somehow dodged fire.
What in the actual fuck was going on.
But he didn't let the relief claim him again—he spurred himself on, latched onto the swift form of Fajira with his mind, bombarding her veins with ice crystals simply to put her out of the game for a bit before releasing her, like a play-thing he had grown tired of. She would die with Lace anyway.
He wasn't going to savor the moment. He wasn't going to say dramatic things like, this ends now, or prepare to die, or any pretentious shit like that. He was too old for dramatic flairs. He just wanted it over and done with, this threat removed for forever.
His body steamed in the deepening dark, white breath smoking out as he exhaled—inhaled—moved again, in sync with his magic. Three spires of ice, just shy of Lace himself in height, rose on Lace's far side, one by his flank, one slightly in front, one behind—a trap, as neat as any he had ever laid, a cage for the gold-backed fool of a wolf. Because on the other side, where there was no ice, was Mauja.
He charged him from a collected trot, not wanting to risk breaking his legs on the foul terrain, and besides, between the ice and his injuries Lace ought to be slow enough that he wouldn't need to take a step or two of full-blown canter to reach him. It wasn't like all of Helovia lay between them—just a few yards.
Ears flat, blue eyes blazing with an anger that was slipping off its leash, Mauja aimed to punch his horn in between Lace's ribs—into his heart—even as the ground erupted again in a last, exhaustive push: two ice spikes rose beneath Lace, hoping to puncture his chest and abdomen, as he let the other three fall.
Die, he thought again, determination a flame roaring in his mind.
(Die now, he thought, because this is pretty damn draining.)
[ @Lace || 4/4 || 643 words. ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
