The Burning Grounds [Psyche]

the Rift

The Burning Grounds [Psyche]

Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380

Deceased

Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE

RayoDeSoleil

#12

01-16-2013, 10:16 PM

The shadow-mare smiles at her newly-named pupil. The fae's flat, ebony orbs seem to shift with emotion, a feat that, while generally quite impossible to discern, did not go unnoticed by the Lady. I do love your point of view, my Lady…" she says, and the words are appreciated by a regal nod. "...Truthfully, though, I’d had no former opinions on the subject but, I’ve certainly no problem with becoming a fan." The sentiment is not one that the Dark Empress hears often; very seldom does she encounter beings that have no opinion on the subject. There are racists and there are equalists - there is very little middle ground. Still, it is a blessing that she relishes, for it makes her quest for support ever-so-much easier.

"Darling, if you have any idea how many poor, ignorant souls roamed out lands, you too would seek to show them the error of their ways." It is the truth, to her, for in her hatred is a righteousness, and unexplainable piety. Her tales are just that - tales - concocted for her own rhyme and reason, for her own gain, but she has come to believe that which she spews like poison from between dark lips. It is her religion, her salvation, and so, too, can it become her followers'.

She had not lied to Chernobyl, not really - her intentions were, as ever, to rule supreme, as was her gods-given right. For what was a horn unless it were a crown? What other purpose would it serve? It would stand to reason, then, that the hornless were inferior, lower subjects of their realm, fit for servitude and not much else. And those disgusting, winged skyrats - what use were they? What god had created them, and in what image? They were a monstrosity, the form taken by a mutated gene somewhere along the way. They were fit for nothing but slaughter, no better than pests. She and hers would be rid of them. One day.

One day.

She looks around, ensuring that they are, in fact, alone on this quiet, dark night. "You are not the first, my dear, to seek something more, to sense that you are of a higher purpose. We are called the Plague, and already our ranks are growing. But you, Chernobyl, are not like them, are you, darling? You want more. And you shall have it," her words were a promise, the alluring hiss of a cobra before it strikes down its target. But she would not strike down her newest addition; no, she would raise her up.

[W/C | xxx]

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.