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SHE entered, stage right. She crosses to center. It was almost as if the heavens had opened up at his thought of not killing her immediately. Yes, this was his notification from the heavens that his plan was blessed. The bitch was precisely how he remembered her: radiant, beautiful, and wearing his chains. It filled him with some small satisfaction to see that she'd never been able to rid herself of his imprint. His breath hitched as, from his hiding spot, she fell to the ground.
Calstron was lost in himself. His mind was a rolling tide of blood and love to which he saw no clear end. How could he? This was the mare who'd stolen his heart and then killed their love child. This was the mare who'd comforted him in his worst fits of rage and then fucked every soldier in his company on her way out. This, this......this demon. This angel who he'd always assumed was his to keep. She lay before him clearly in some sort of pain and he could do nothing but want to beat her skull in with his hooves.
He doesn't want to act on that thought, not right away, he wants to relish in this moment for a while. After so long searching, so many dead following her trail, the fallen angel was before his eyes....for only him to see. But then he sees it: the knotted marking. Its delicate, painted with care, and Calstron thinks that the marking could only be something done by a lover. The thick muscles of his jaw clench and release as he carefully considers his next move. The gods had blessed his plan of keeping her alive. But, perhaps, she could suffer a little bit.
His blood-stained hide slinks from behind the brush towards her prostrate body. Her left side is curled away from him, her shoulder exposed, and an thought claims control of his body: If she would let one lover permanently mark her then it was only fair that he, her first and most important, be allowed the same. He whips his hind end around and takes careful aim, body twisted, before letting loose the most pointed kick he could muster. He assumed that, if it hit how he intended, she'd be marked with a crescent "C". The scar would be messy and violent and bloody....just like her. He drops his head to whisper in her ear. "You should have known better, my dear, than to let another mark your body. You are mine and mine alone. No matter how far you run, how long you hide, or who you fuck you will always be mine." Then he breathes out, the air ruffling her forelock, before planting(or trying to) the softest of kisses on her poll.
Its punishment, but its sweet, and he hopes she won't hold it against him in the future. His massive frame moves away from her as he makes to blend back into the shadows. Should she speak he might turn around to listen to her. Perhaps, if her case was made well enough, he'd let her know that the murder of their foal had not escaped him. That he knew what she truly was: a murderer.
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