The night was steady; the only beacon of hope before them was the shine of the Moon. Their dark forms were both difficult to focus on in the darkness, but the misty, condensed air around them sparkled with the rays of the moon and parted with their motions, much like the Red Sea did for Moses and his people as they tread to safety and away from Pharaoh’s army. But unlike the basket-case leader of men, Donovan’s staff stuck firmly to his forehead. The tool would not strike earth tonight, would not make oceans move, but it would, however, make another bleed.

Mirage feigned to the right, and Donovan stopped, his hind end bunching underneath him, his fetlocks scraping along the damp earth, Mud covered the light feathers, thickening their darkness like a phantom of something he once was. Steadying his trained body, Donovan tucked his chin and pointed his dangerous weapon for the smaller, hot-blooded draft mutt. Grunting, Donovan swung his head to the right as Mirage lifted her body up into a rear, hoping to slice her front legs or shoulder. The dark Weyrleader’s teeth grasped his cropped mane, pulling a clump of it loose without any pain inflicted on the dark warrior. With his hind legs still bunched, and his front hooves steady on the earth before him, Donovan rolled his right shoulder forward and then launched himself towards Mirage. He hoped to knock the smaller, lighter mare off balance and away from him. Donovan’s Friesian and warmblood lineage would offer him an upper hand in the strength department, but the hot Arabian blood that dished the Weyrleader’s face would give her an advantage of speed and agility he did not possess.

As the gears turned in the dark warrior’s mind, memories of so many battles drifted like a forgotten life in a cloudy mind. The older knight had shed the blood of Mirage’s equine counterparts, as well as pegasus, for the sake of his father’s idea of supremacy. Donovan, the obedient warrior with hidden desires, watched and listened as his victims screamed for mercy, as their bonded companion’s fell with them, as their blood pooled around his dark, dangerous hooves. The dark warrior had wished for something greater in life, and he had hoped to gain that in the ranks of the Grey, but his position as Mason did not fit him. What was that saying? Oh, yes—you cannot teach old dogs new tricks. Although Donovan wished for something greater in life, yearned for the malicious years to flee his reputation and mind, it could not be done. He was a war beast bred for murder, and he was good at it. The Crimson King did not put him on the front lines for nothing. He was a honed weapon, a mindless droid of chaos. Today, Donovan brought that same wrath with him deep down in his soul.







[WC: 650 | PC: 1/4 | M&C: 0/2]