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IN SEARCH FOR THE GUIDELINES TO THE GATEWAYS OF SIN
Sophistication as cruelty and perfection as virulent truth
Varath waited, half expecting Psyche to greet his call. When he was here last as only a small yearling, she had done so and introduced him to a filly who had seemed quietly beautiful - at least as he remembered. At the time, he had not been overly interested in girls or their habits, but now he had grown and changed. Much was left to learn, and the horizon was forever out of his grasp, but at least now he could make out the clouds in the distance.
Much had changed, it seemed, in his absence - not that he was any particular visionary when it came to remembering details, but those he recognized were hidden. Instead, a mare approached almost violent, perhaps hesitantly? As if she were unsure if attacking him or greeting him valiantly were the correct choices. The pride in him swelled, thinking that he would feel no remorse in gutting her to prove his newly honed prowess in battle, but that notion would be counter productive. Damn.
He watched her nostrils flare, her faltering behavior with a calm void of emotion, trying his best to emulate the unwavering confidence and darkness of Deimos, but he knew that he was different. Like the Crimson King, his grandsire, and even his sire, a burning passion, all consuming like fire, ran through his veins. The gray colt was not ice, he was flame. Wild. Barely controlled. And destructive.
The mare seemed to settle on a response, and Varath's silver and red eyes settled on her own icy blues, and he barely shifted the muscular weight of his body onto a hip, frost pluming from his breath in a white cloud. "My name is Varath, and I hail from a land far from here - a land of fire and blood," he murmured in his newly deepened voice. "I followed a gray here once, and I was intrigued by his society, but I left before Psyche allowed me official entrance," he explained, gaze pulled by the very sight he spoke of.
Would he be proud? Varath hated himself for how much he looked up to Deimos, but he could not help but feel drawn to the blue-eyed demon. The younger colt dipped his head in a respectful vow to the silent stallion, feeling his chest restrict in anticipation of validation or a curse. Carefully, he lifted his gaze once more, and he hoped that Deimos was able to see the maturity and darkness that had been nurtured and pruned so carefully. Would he desire the same ashen land as he? To rule all those who deserved to stand beneath their hooves? To wage war, shed blood and offer but a harsh laugh at the cries of subjugation and death?
The vision in his mind was clear, but he needed someone to share it with, someone to teach him, to guide him like the father he never had.
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