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09-14-2015, 10:41 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ ANYONE IS WELCOME TO USE SPARK MAGIC ON MAUJA, WHETHER IT IS UNCOMFORTABLE OR NOT. :D ]
It felt like he was falling—
Fire streaked out like breaths from heaving lungs through a sea of blackness.
(—falling into the night itself.)
One twisted, black creature fell, destroyed by the embodiment of Mauja's passions and anger, and still it felt like an eternity between him and the one he sought to protect. The wolves were a menacing blur, their shapes shifting, distorted, forming a single uniform and ever-moving horizon, heads and backs like the rolling waves on a sea.
Mauja's face was a mask of rage and pain; the boils around his joints stretched and cracked and bled, the raw and chapped skin of his shoulder still weeping and hammering at his nerves, at his attention, as he wielded the blade that had bit him so often—
Another wolf fell to the birds of flame. The satisfaction was drowned in the tide of desperation.
But then—they cleared; they fell, to someone's magic, or to Tembovu's reach, or simply dispersed. Mauja didn't know which, just saw the bulk of his (friend) suddenly revealed again.
The chaos had ceased. The mayhem had been stopped. There were only the Rifters and the Helovians and the Goddess doling out macabre gifts and—once again, Mauja fought to keep his bitterness down.
Overlooked yet again. He had been burnt in the last battle—here, he had been burnt again. Then, he had pierced a fucking God with his spires of ice, and here, he had shielded their own Lady Moon.
And what did he get for it? Nothing—
Pain caught up, and the icy stallion crashed onto his knees by the bitten, torn form of Tembovu.
"Temb—" he managed to get out; he wanted to ask, why do all my friends end up falling? but he knew—this was the nature of war.
War didn't care for causes.
Everybody bled and died all the same.
In the back of his mind he heard the Goddess, but he paid little heed to it. His shoulder was throbbing, the agony rising up chilled nerves to a head that didn't want to cope with it; silent tears pooled in the corners of his eyes as he knelt there, but then—it eased, slowly replaced by the itch of healing. Blinking his blurry eyes Mauja peered around, but there was no one who seemed focused on him. He craned his neck, bracing for a flare of pain that never came.
Had he been dreaming fire again?
"SOMEONE, GODS, HELP!"
The plea for help startled him, propelling him up again—he cast a glance at his friend, knowing—shit, knowing in his bones—how much help could mean.
It had been his owl dying, then.
This time, it was his best friend's daughter.
"Aviya," he breathed, suddenly there, fresh trickles of blood from the broken boils by his flank; he had grown used to that pain. But this—no. No. No.
He'd never get used to watching family die.
"Aviya, no—" d'Artagnan had already lost Kou—did he need to lose his daughter as well?
Fuck. Did he know anyone who could heal? Hadn't d'Artagnan been there?
"d'ART!" he finally yelled, hoping to see the blood bay's head swim out of the press of bodies.
It felt like he was falling—
Fire streaked out like breaths from heaving lungs through a sea of blackness.
(—falling into the night itself.)
One twisted, black creature fell, destroyed by the embodiment of Mauja's passions and anger, and still it felt like an eternity between him and the one he sought to protect. The wolves were a menacing blur, their shapes shifting, distorted, forming a single uniform and ever-moving horizon, heads and backs like the rolling waves on a sea.
Mauja's face was a mask of rage and pain; the boils around his joints stretched and cracked and bled, the raw and chapped skin of his shoulder still weeping and hammering at his nerves, at his attention, as he wielded the blade that had bit him so often—
Another wolf fell to the birds of flame. The satisfaction was drowned in the tide of desperation.
But then—they cleared; they fell, to someone's magic, or to Tembovu's reach, or simply dispersed. Mauja didn't know which, just saw the bulk of his (
The chaos had ceased. The mayhem had been stopped. There were only the Rifters and the Helovians and the Goddess doling out macabre gifts and—once again, Mauja fought to keep his bitterness down.
Overlooked yet again. He had been burnt in the last battle—here, he had been burnt again. Then, he had pierced a fucking God with his spires of ice, and here, he had shielded their own Lady Moon.
And what did he get for it? Nothing—
Pain caught up, and the icy stallion crashed onto his knees by the bitten, torn form of Tembovu.
"Temb—" he managed to get out; he wanted to ask, why do all my friends end up falling? but he knew—this was the nature of war.
War didn't care for causes.
Everybody bled and died all the same.
In the back of his mind he heard the Goddess, but he paid little heed to it. His shoulder was throbbing, the agony rising up chilled nerves to a head that didn't want to cope with it; silent tears pooled in the corners of his eyes as he knelt there, but then—it eased, slowly replaced by the itch of healing. Blinking his blurry eyes Mauja peered around, but there was no one who seemed focused on him. He craned his neck, bracing for a flare of pain that never came.
Had he been dreaming fire again?
"SOMEONE, GODS, HELP!"
The plea for help startled him, propelling him up again—he cast a glance at his friend, knowing—shit, knowing in his bones—how much help could mean.
It had been his owl dying, then.
This time, it was his best friend's daughter.
"Aviya," he breathed, suddenly there, fresh trickles of blood from the broken boils by his flank; he had grown used to that pain. But this—no. No. No.
He'd never get used to watching family die.
"Aviya, no—" d'Artagnan had already lost Kou—did he need to lose his daughter as well?
Fuck. Did he know anyone who could heal? Hadn't d'Artagnan been there?
"d'ART!" he finally yelled, hoping to see the blood bay's head swim out of the press of bodies.
