12-31-2016, 03:48 AM
He watches her with flat, bored eyes, tracing the feminine shape of her body and the way her eyes become cold and hazy—the fog stealing over them as he pours the magic back into her body. Bruise has no way of knowing that her heart is encapsulated in ice, but he feels it, feels the way that she is suddenly cut off from the Fear, as if it cannot reached her, cannot affect her. He would be infuriated if he was not curious.
As the bag of flesh and bones begins to jerk and move, he tilts his head. Not dismissive, but not overly impressed. It was, after all, not that different from the tricks that Violence had shown him when she had pulled the bones forth from the ground and had them dance around him. Useful trick but Bruise did not have much need for multiples of the same tool in his kit.
That melted away though as the ground began to shake beneath them.
Peering down, he looks as the rocks and rubble shake loose, the ground listening to her command. His dark eyes brightened in response and he glanced back up, looking at her through his forelock of ash. “Well, well, isn’t that neat.” It was, of course, more than neat, but he wasn’t about to give away all of his cards. “I may have use for that some day.”
He closes the gap again between them, remembering how she had done it when he first approached. He was not overly fond of relying upon his dark good looks, but he was also learning they were a weapon all their own, his sooty golden face appealing in its dark angles, the boyish charm bleeding away to leave a handsome stallion beneath. He reached over to lip at her mane, not waiting to ask permission to touch her. “What else is there?” he murmured, curious most of all about what had cut off the Fear at the source. Was she like his mother? Did she erase his powers? “There has to be more,” he whispered into her ear.
Bruise
head like a hole; as black as your soul.