Яikyn

She reminds me of Mordecai, and with a flicker of guilt, I wonder about the young mare, who I hadn’t seen in quite a while. Refocusing my attention on the steel-cast mare, I wonder if she, too, is as prone to quick anger as my winter comrade, respecting the crown on her head much more than I had the desert girl’s wings and basic hooves. Sure, they could fly, but what pain could feathers bring, in comparison the glistening points of cranial daggers?

Like she snorts at my name, I do hers, too, but with more humor, finding the casual use of what, to me, anyway, is essentially a curse word, in reference to herself, amusing. That sort of wryness makes Duir all the more wary of her, however, disliking my proximity to someone with such a dark heart; he thought mine was steeped enough in shadow, without anyone’s help.

Do explain, she asks, and it takes me a moment to figure out what she means. Explain what? What is happening to her ass? Do I look like a doctor or something?

She mean Puppeteer, stupid, smarts my buck from my flank, where he has quietly approached. My eyes narrow contemptuously, but I otherwise offer him no retort, doing my best to restrain my impulses to kick at him in the presence of a herd mate. Besides, it’s done no good to curb his calling me stupid or foolish, so far.

Maybe it's that she tells me what to do, or just my general mood, but I don't immediately feel obligated to do anything she asks of me. Though Duir usually disapproves of my use of magic, especially before the Time God had sent me out to learn about how horrible it was to have it used on you, he urges me with mental signals and sensations that, perhaps, the best way to explain would be to show her. She’s a herd mate, part of me disapproves, while another takes that as a reason; she should know, it purrs, they should all know just how far they stand beneath you. A dark, fleeting smile races across my lips, my golden eyes hardening.

"Observe," I state, will collected, focus placed upon the Mutant, before it is unfurled with crackling speed. Upon the bullet of electrical force, my spirit seems to speed forth, rushing to the dark gray woman until we might collide, seeking to writhe through her being until I can grab hold of that which controls her.

Should the magic succeed in gaining control of her mind, I’ll ask her forelegs to bend, forcing her into a bow. What better way to display the truthfulness of my chosen title?

in every heart a hole