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06-06-2013, 11:54 AM
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When his ice spike rises from the ground, too close to you for my comfort, I feel a spark of rage that only you can quell. Your bright eyes catch my dull ones to soothe my wracked heart; I watch admiringly as you fearlessly move closer, curling your body around the spike, biting holds into it's sides with your fire. Your tail waves, tipped in flame, towards the snow-king, and it seems you've taken on some of my fearless habit. Isn't his cowardice amusing, brother? I can hardly contain my sick glee at watching him crumble before us. Even when he speaks, it is an admission of defeat. Has he somehow convinced himself that knowing this vulnerability is all he must do to conquer it? Oh, how wrong he is, brother. He only wishes to change, he does not will it. What a weakness, what a pathetic attempt at suckling upon the tetchy, milk-less breast of life! I can muster only a snort in response to the whine that springs from him. I hear nothing but complaint, nothing but a declaration of failure. "It's charming that you consider decline into a dithering colt simply being 'out of whack,'" I comment blithely with a sneer of disinterest. If he has nothing more to say than this drivel then perhaps I've no desire to stay in these ranks after all. We need a home. Yes, you are right. If that means we must craft it ourselves from the few scraps of materials Mauja has left us, then so be it. "My bonded does not fear you, Mauja; why do you fear yourself? You were once great, a powerful king, a master of the unfeeling. Where has your darkness gone?" I ask with a piercingly distant gaze in a low whisper. Let him feel shame as I speak to him as if he stands below me; as if I am older, wiser. Perhaps I am, in some manner, wiser. I hold more power, I am certain of this, for I have strength of mind when he stands shuddering weakly, whipped by his own self depreciation. And I must lend him that strength, mustn't I, brother? If I wish to see him strong again, standing atop a mound of the dead on the battlefield, I must help him along. I have always enjoyed being the master of puppets—the conductor of each song I play. And power, too—is it not a glorious, lust-filled creature, power? When I had become the forger in a clan of ill-bred sand-spitters, had I not done it for the power, brother? You know yourself the extent of my greed, you bear it in unfading scars left by chains that I once wrapped about you without care. Power makes me sick and drunk, but I will never leave my want of it behind. I have learned, I have grown stronger and know that even with power I must still keep close my own bare emotions, my own few morals, but I have not forgotten that glorious sensation. I know this, brother: I must feel it again. "Let me stand beside your throne, Mauja; lift me up among your ranks and let me remind you of that old glory, that heartless joy we once reveled in. It is not too late to move past this hindrance of a heart you've grown; it is not too late to rise up, to declare war on the equines and pegasi. Have you not wished to crush those that once stole from you your homeland? Why do you hesitate, when the opportunity hangs dead in the air, waiting for your breath to give it life?" Fervor of the newly converted overtakes me as I sense power rising in my bones. Beside me, your flames rise along your back hungrily. Yes, brother, do you feel the rush? Can you feel that splendid heat as it courses through your veins, telling you of your potential? The world is your camphor, Pyr—just waiting to ignite. My tongue presses at the cage formed by my remaining teeth, and pressed out from between them comes a last whisper—the whisper of the living dead, come back to sway weaker, mortal minds: "Make me your council, Mauja—your general, your confidant—and I will return you to greatness." —  |
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please tag Prometheus in all replies!
magic & force is permitted at your own peril.
