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10-22-2015, 02:33 PM
Zsoka
I live the death of the young and the free The sickness fades but the stubbornness remains. Always, with Zsoka, there's that attitude. Oh, if only he'd had a mother to breed such wretched insolence out of him. Oh, if only his father hadn't eaten his mother alive in a ritualistic display of extending one's life. Immortality could never come without a price. Cem's white beauty, preserved still in Knox's breast, was not to come without consequences. "I don't care," Zsoka says with a sneer and a spit. He kicks the dirt with a hind hoof, spatters saliva before and perhaps even on the filly. She was pretty, and had this form reached maturity it surely would have humped her madly, but he was too young to care. She was just like anyone else, and thus she was obligated to get up and play. And when he saw that eye, revealed as the forelock fell away with ease, he knew exactly what game he wanted to play. He wanted to play "debtor. I want to play debtor. It's called you're a loser and I'm a winner but I can make us both win," he says. His tone oozed obnoxious superiority. He understood life far better than she, and he knew how to get what he wanted. I win, you lose, and then I win and you lose again, the colt thinks with malice as he kicks again at the dirt. "I'll fix your eye, if you play with me." It is a chance, really, given that Zsoka has never before used his host's magic and even Knox has not used it since its enhancement, but Zsoka isn't one to much care for whether or not an idea is a safe one. Chances, bets, they are his territory. Surely he would have grown to be an incorrigible gambler of fates. "" "" |
