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