| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 8 |
| M.E. |
07-12-2013, 11:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-16-2013, 12:08 PM by Zikar-Sin.)
That is the last time I go about and slaughter things so haphazardly.
Such were the thoughts the young Disciple, standing chest-deep in the fiery water pit that sat in the bowls of his frozen homeland, dipping his muzzle over and over again into the murky waters for as long as he could hold his breath. His head would thrash about like a beached trout, but it was all for naught; lifting his dappled head from the tepid bath, Sin could see with crossed eyes how his beard stayed matted and oh so slightly tinged with an encrusting of orange; a metallic scent clung about his nostrils, and he knew that the blood remained there, refused to leave the hairs of his beard and return it to its original state of cleanliness.
Such was the case with poor Sinny; he had killed and wounded before, accidently and on purpose, rarely out of the heated passion of hatred and usually out of the wholesome desire to spill blood for whatever scientific purpose he had plucked from the great unknown void of his own mind. His unfortunate mane was a testament to that sanguine history, though he had paid no attention to such a minute detail before. His appearance had never truly been cause for worry or fretfulness on his part—but today was a new day, this age was a new age. Somewhere in the backwards track of his perceptions, Sin supposed that, as a Disciple and a student vying for the highest reaches of learning, Sin should at least look the part and endeavor to straighten out at least some of the beastly wrinkles that permeated his presence. It wasn’t such a pressing issue that the dappled boy considered spending hours upon hours upon his visage, as he knew certain stallions to do—he wasn’t so vain as all that—but Sin supposed he should at least wash the blood from his face. Besides the idea of more civilized appearance, it was superbly unhygienic to leave crusty, moldy blood upon one’s person regardless.
It was the first chance in a long while for Sin to visit the hot springs, and while he spent the majority of his time trying futilely to wash the blood from his beard, he nonetheless recognized the soothing warmth that crept into his body, the thick, swirling, calming tide that weaved around him and lulled him into a state of comfort. The pits of his hooves began to release themselves from the knots that had formed; the Disciple had let out multiple sighs of relaxation over the course of his time here. Only two things truly disturbed the dappled boy out of the possibility of complete bliss: the darkness, and Crowley’s affliction.
Lacking as Sin was with some pivotal, empathetic piece of humanity that many of his kind possessed, the darkness of Helovia didn’t shake him as one might imagine. True, it caused his mind to whirl with analytics and philosophies and hypotheses—Were there special chemicals in the sky that caused the sun’s heat to burn out? Was there a special stratus clouds made of some sort of stardust that elicited complete darkness?—but the Disciple didn’t feel a wrongness with the dark, didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of fear and catastrophe to associate with the black of the days. No, all of his anxiety was given to Crowley in spirit, the Weaver and colleague that had possessed a clear affliction of the skin when Sin saw him last. And though the brindle hadn’t been spotted in some time, Sin was afraid to search out the stallion—suppose the ailment was contagious and had warranted quarantine? Whatever the case, Sin supposed to was too farfetched for him to consider his commissioned piece—the wool and antlers had been tucked away neatly in a cave where they wouldn’t be disturbed—and only wished his Weaver luck and wondered what had caused such a spectacular display of unhealthiness.
With a pensive snort, Sin came back to his surroundings, but the bath had lost its relaxing luster; his mind was a buzzing mess of things now, and it was clear that there was no washing the bloodstain out. Heaving slightly, Sin reared and launched himself sloppily out of the spring, sending droplets of the murky water to and fro. The wintry air of the Basin bit into his sides and back, but it was a bracing chill that he welcomed nonetheless. It was a reminder of home, forever and always. He was just finished shaking himself, dreadlocks flying to and fro, when he witnessed a piece of shadow moving in his direction, a horse-shaped void that moved about in the backdrop of dark. Sin’s ears perked, his eyes going slightly wider as he guessed at the identity of the stranger.
“Crowley?” he asked, voice raised in mild interest; dripping wet and slightly shrunken looking, Sin wasted no time and trotted toward the dark shape, his eyesight becoming clearer the closer he got. “I—oh no, my apologies,” he said quickly, stopping in his tracks and forlornly missing the Moon God’s gift of night vision—for this passing, morose gentleman wasn’t Crowley, not in the slightest. “I must have minerals still in my eyes,” Sin said in his pleasant tenor, eyes bugged and lamp-like, almost glowing eerily in the darkness they were so blue, “I do beg your pardon, sir, for I don’t believe I know your name...?” How absurd he must appear, this sopping wet scholar with eyes like saucers, recognizing the aura of brutality that emanated from the shadowy brethren of the Basin—but feeling no caution from it, no overbearing instinct for preservation, broken as his psyche was. The only thing he noticed was that this stranger wasn’t quite as polished as Crowley had been, though the brute certainly seemed to have a chip on his shoulder of some kind.
[Hope you don’t mind me plopping Sinny in here :I ]
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IMG Credit: ness094@deviantart.com
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