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12-23-2015, 08:57 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-20-2016, 07:11 AM by Albrecht.
Edit Reason: Per Admin Request
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Albrecht Too many words, too many faces, too many memories; all swirling around in the space between his ears, demanding attention. Just moments earlier he might have answered the winged mare with bawdy jokes and indecent commentary, sassed the piebald’s warnings, or challenged the bay mare’s mockery, but his wounds are still too fresh and the triggers too exact to be ignored, too hairpin light to shield from provocation. Wolf stink chokes his airways and he wonders accusingly what these three youths could know of tragedy with their shining coats and filled out forms, their proverbial anchors of home and hearth. Not one of them could be a day over six or seven years old. They were in their prime with entire lives ahead of them and the memories of a warm teat to soothe their dreams. No matter how illogical, he couldn’t help resenting them for their fortunes. "If you wanted to know my name you should have asked.” Without sarcasm and filthy humor to pad his tone the words come out a startling growl. He rails as the bay mare steps forward, all false smiles and deliberately pricked ears. Blood rises in his veins and his inner thoughts warn that whatever civility might be left in him threatens to unravel, but the usual tropes of responsibility and reputation are distinctly absent. He has no reason to avoid the low road now. "Why yes, in fact, I am scared of the little fuck. Scared he’ll shit and piss all over the place as his kind is like to do and leave the stench of it lingering with me for days.” He tells himself he’d liked the piebald anyway, that the walking snowflake could bed mares or eunuchs or whatever else it is that suits her fancy and that the big bay bitch could shove her patronizing badger face up her own ass for all he cares, but he’s not entirely unashamed of his actions. It wasn’t all that long ago that he stood a firm believer in chivalry, though it might as well be centuries from this moment. "Does it look like I fucking run?!” He shouts after Tangere, turning to follow with ears pinned flat against retaliation. He won’t meet the others eyes in passing, but he wonders what emotions they might find there if he did. He’s almost sorry (almost), but what’s his broken heart without defenses and deflections to hold the pieces steady? // OOC: I'm sorry he's a jerk, but thanks for threading with me! The Curmudgeon |
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