but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

We are engines of destruction—

If it was one thing Mauja had potential for, it was destruction. He had swept through his life like a hurricane leaving nothing but death in its wake—ahead of him lay more violence, and behind him laid a trail of broken bodies. How many had he killed over the years? How many had died because of him?

Far, far too many, and still the hounds of war kept on baying, crying, and the ice lay so close at hand when the darkness of his fury bore down upon his mind (—heart). Bitter, angry, vengeful and aimless—how could he not fall back into this pit of vipers every time? How could he not rise to the bait, fall for the ruse, and in erratic bursts, unleash the ruin that lay within? He wanted to be better, to create something beautiful, yet the only thing he knew was how to destroy.

He had broken Ophelia's heart—burned her, as he had burned Rohan. He had brought Nyx to her knees. He had burned Tembovu. They had been friendly spars, all of them.

What did he know of peace? What did he know of creating? Of life?

All he touched turned to death and ashes while the regret rose like bile in his throat.

The blood on his chest smeared against Rohan's sandy fur, leaving a grim stain as the Warlander joined him in rising; Mauja's hooves fell through the air like leaden, aimless weights, darkness clawing its way up from the abyss—

(so you're at it again)

—in a stark mockery of his half-blind state. He wanted nothing more to do with war—with violence and with pain, suffering. Gone was the perfect, pristine soldier, the one that watched and waited, circled and spun and struck, quick and clean, precise and efficient.

What was left was just a monster, body weeping red while pale eyes wept tears. Raw power, badly contained, badly used, leaking out through the cracks in his skin (like golden scars in a dream, bursting from within with that light—) as he fell helplessly towards the earth. The shock traveled up his legs from his hooves, jarred his nerves, dragged his head through hell and back; the right side of his face pulsated viciously, and as Rohan toppled Mauja was content to simply stand there.

He was done with this shit.

Broken nerve endings sang a hymn of pain, the dull throb of bruises rising like a crescendo as the adrenaline—the anger at Rohan's joy—slowly washed away, leaving him brittle and broken, hollow.

But Rohan would not remain fallen. As if from afar Mauja watched his blistered skin stretch and crack, droplets of red racing for the sunlight; the sandy stallion rose, and still Mauja simply watched him, even as he charged.

Defying his pain for the sake of war—

He wondered if he was a coward, for giving in. He wondered what would've happened if this had been a fight to the death.

But, as Rohan spun and presented Mauja with a grade A view of his ass, a small, wicked smile curved his dark lips—an expression so at odds with the leaden apathy settling in his soul. If this had been real, he thought, dully, as he twisted left, Rohan would've been dead with an ice spike through his heart.

Two, pale hooves smacked solidly into the flat of his right shoulder, smearing dirt upon the streaks of red—Mauja's eyes rolled back, a gasp and a grunt leaving his mouth as he absorbed the pain.

Because for one brief, blessed moment, it almost felt like pleasure.

But then it was just a throb, a dull ache in both muscles and bone, and Mauja turned his head to watch the other stallion with his one open, tear-blurred eye—looking at him in silence, as if asking, are you done now?.

Because I sure as hell am.

[ Closing defense || @Rohan || 650 words. ]
I noticed the roll for Rohan's last attack was incorrectly labeled as a critical hit, but the damage taken in the calculation matched the dice roll (3). ^^

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same