Surrounded by the withered skeletons of trees and the stench of stale water and rot, they stand quietly watching the other. The bleak half-light isn’t too different even as the sun has risen; thin mists and wraiths of trees clad in absinthe-green moss seem to gorge on whatever light that manages to trickle down the matrix of gnarled branches. As she reaches out towards him, a crude smile spreads luxuriously on his thin lips; he may be thin of shoulder an uninviting of mouth, but the black stallion is infatuated with closeness – however unlikely that may seem. He returns the gesture as such, extending his long, swanlike neck to allow for his own sooty muzzle to touch hers. Proceeding then, dauntless and uncaring, he takes a small step forward and traces the soft curve of her jaw, through the dramatic curtain of her mane, and up to the tip of her ear. Skywalker’s breath is warm and dangerous, running down her neck – slow and vicious like tar. “So true,” his confession is a whisper as thin as the mists that encapsulate them, low and light it becomes a lilting hiss, a precious butterfly to bedew his lips. “And that makes this all the more exciting, no?” Another sound somewhere in the distance: these perpetual moans and sudden sounds of water being expelled from the cavities of death ring like warnings through the marsh. He ignores them, just as she. There are other things that keep a bridle on his attention: feral, uncouth, dangerous things.

“I am come here to offer you my loyalty. A rare thing, I assure you. And from what I’ve learned so far, you can never have too many loyal subjects – given your, precarious situation.” How could she possibly refuse him here, caught in the treacherous marshlands without any more than dreams and delusions? Skywalker, ever true to his ruthless, obsessive ambition, does not shy away from honesty when honesty is called for – and if she asks, she shall have her answer. “Who will bring you glory, who will bring you home, who will bring you a true crown? Your group of willing members; are they the key to your kingdom? Forgive my cynicism – I know it is as unattractive as my nose – but I do not think I am wrong to doubt the ability of a wayward group of madmen hiding in a godforsaken swamp.”

He exhales; still so terribly close he inhales, greedily devouring her scent. His heart quickens while the suffocating quality of the marshlands seems to intensify, tenfold and ever more. He falls quiet for a moment, entertaining mild amusement over her questions and savoring the memory of her strange laughter. “It would be foolish to dispose of something that you haven’t tried out yet, per se,” certain that the meaning will not be lost on her (she may be crazy but he doubts the mare to be stupid) he takes yet another step forward to let his tar-black lips brush down the length of her neck, towards the generous slope of her shoulder. Roused, he struggles to keep himself in check, taking care to speak as slowly and dispassionately as if they were debating the weather, “whatever use you want me to be of,” he whispers languidly and there is something distinctively threatening about the way in which his voice carries itself in the fetid air. Like a ghost is swirls around the mare, much in the manner that he would like to swirl around her, “I am not surprised,” he adds. A pause then, in which the marshlands suddenly seem unnaturally quiet, for once adhering to the traditions of a graveyard, “you strike me as someone who does – perhaps we shall get along well then, as I too am always hungry for more.”

When she detaches herself from his imposing proximity he watches her, letting his curiosity rear its ugly head and peer voraciously at the queer mare. She moves towards the mouth of a dark tarn of pestilent water, stopping only by the grey, treacherous tussocks of swamp-grass. Lo, that daunting precipice's edge! Skywalker does not hesitate: looking as if he were one of the shadows of the marsh he follows her slowly, a sloshing wraith in her wake. And for the briefest of moments a flicker of uncertainty rustles through him, a memory of boyish fright and a child long gone. When she turns to ask of his name he does not answer but slides up to her instead, shoulder to shoulder. With the sound of something moving out of the water, towards the blue-eyed mare he inhales sharply, lungs filling with rot and death, and takes it as his cue.

Skywalker’s face seems chiseled from dark, uncaring rock and he steps past the lip of the last tussocks and down into the cold water. This is suicide, he immediately thinks, but that first pang of mortal angst is quick to subside, even as he feels something viscous and slimy entwine itself between his legs. The stallion knows that he is not meant to drown in these godforsaken waters; there are no ghouls that will be able to contain him – Skywalker will render himself immortal, he will conquer and he will burn, and there is nothing that can change that. Assured by the thought that today is not the day he will die, he almost relishes in the strange grip that clenches and constricts and crawls up his legs. This dark thing that slithers relentlessly towards its prey is voracious and unforgiving. He turns his head back towards Eris, “my name is Skywalker,” he laughs dryly and somewhere at the nadir of his voice is a morsel of fear as the creature tugs at him with otherworldly force, “and this is exactly why you need me.”

S K Y W A L K E R.
Eris

WC 964
No worries lady! <3

There are heartbeats and breaths and a wild surge, irrevocable and absurd in the stillness of the marsh. This quiet and sepulchral world of stale water and decomposing bodies, barren trees and unkind shadows seems to shiver for them: as if the feral intensity of their actions would be enough for galaxies to collapse into themselves. Skywalker, try as he might, cannot retain his essence, he cannot keep the steely grip around his restraint any longer. A tremble runs down the length of his gaunt neck and he abandons his frugal sense of composure for the intoxicating closeness of his queen. A fair trade, he decides with his heart beating like an angry rod of vengeance in his chest and the sound of his blood rushing like a melting glacier in his ears.

She is enough to distract him from his wild ambitions; the nearness of her is a strong enough poison that he nearly forgets the cold fingers of death that avariciously claw against his soft black skin. Fingernails and bones: rot and despair. Just a little longer, he thinks while a shadow drifts towards him from the nadir of the marsh; just a little longer, he thinks without feeling how the frigid grasp of winter still resides in the water. Just a little longer, her voice echoes in his head and he watches her blue eyes, cloudy with a remarkable trinity of lust, madness and ghastly shadow. Amidst the stench of death and pestilence, she seems to smell of wildflowers: treacherous briars of blood and thorn. Skywalker is woozy with the cider of his desire, this strange thing that has fermented for eons in dark cellars of solitude. Had she been anything else than queen, he might not have wanted her in the manner of the madman he feverishly denies that he is, but that prospect of a crown entangled with her red mane is to him what a opium is to the addict, and for that he would sell his soul, if need be.

The marsh reaches after him and in doing so it knows no penance, it does not recognize the proud, intelligent conqueror – the grip tightens and he finds that his mouth is dry with the fear that he should feel but does not. Awakened by a giggle and the swat of her tail, he realizes the prowess of his self-induced plight and struggles to find his traction again. She is watching him as he ascends, with great effort and a hideous, sucking sound, from the pallid grip of ruin. Water and mud is rushing off him, leaving him standing: a thin, wet ghost in the middle of the marsh. With every muscle taut – the immense exertion mingling blasphemously with his uncouth desires – and his breath far up his throat, he turns towards her again; a stinking, unapologetic monster emerged from her marsh. The pious submerge themselves in holy water and cleanse themselves of their sins, Skywalker on the contrary, does no such thing. Only the opposite is good enough for the untested conqueror. “I am my word,” finally he answers and the sound is hoarse and reminiscent of the looming death he stood in, only moments ago. He looks at her, unusually honest in his desires, assured that their little ritual should be a heavy enough stone to anchor his promise to. The queen moves away from the subject, but he does not immediately follow – perhaps the marsh still clings on to him, his muscles rendered stiff by the icy waters? Stranger things have happened. “Their power only belongs to you for as long as they chose to give it to you,” he continues, gathering up the hems of their conversation, making sure that there will be as little interruption as possible, “and that may be a reassurance to you, but for how long? Their power will belong to you in truth, only when you dictate when they should give it to you.”

Now he follows her as he moves out of the marsh, his head poised elegantly aloft his thin neck, his short mane sticking to it, making it seems even thinner. While the fury of his desire – all components of her: the singsong voice, the giggles, the gentle sway of her hips, the lunacy simmering complacently in her eyes – pulses relentlessly through every morsel of the stallion, he cannot quite abandon the matter-of-factly questions that remain unanswered. “I’m more than willing to give you that trinket crown, make me your general and you shall have it,” a shameless proposal, no doubt, but who said that there was room for shame among madmen? Again he closes the painful distance, his slick, black body brushing against hers – the mud and the grime and the stench of death entwining them in a sickly, wet embrace. Lowering his head he carefully traces the lines of her again, that complex juxtaposition of vermillion and dirtied gold. The curve of her cheek. The ridge of her nose. The underside of her neck and the gentle, dizzying tingle of her mane. To her withers where his lips linger for a while. A gentle tug at that last mouthful of mane before the beginning of her supple shoulders. “I’m here for you to try,” he whispers against her wet, soft skin – she reeks of the marsh as much as he does, and somehow the pungent smell turns alluring, “do with me as you please, but I must warn you, I am not exactly the docile kind. You see: I always get what I want. And so happens, I want you, empress,” a slow, outdrawn murmur, pregnant with the promise that there is no return from here.

They are doomed.

He presses himself against her as if her was her shadow: now his lips are at the slope of her croup and they bear the pleasant burden of a smile that betrays his every intention. Everything is quiet, everything is still; the world is waiting. There is his shoulder by her hip; there is a painfully slow exhalation and the movement of his chest – he breathes and knows that that steady breathing is the only thing that keeps him from defiling her. “Yes,” he purrs while his muzzle crawls down the length of her thigh, “please do,” because he can’t keep his fingers outside the cookie jar for much longer.

They hold hands, walking onto a field of mines.

S K Y W A L K E R.
Eris

WC 1068
OMG, this makes me blush. Stupid Skywalker being all horny -.-