09-12-2018, 03:41 PM
it was a blood-soaked feast
that never ceased
that never ceased
He’s there as he always is - a enigma of twisting shadow and darkness, spun from unforgiving waters and mercilessness - lurking amongst the cold, frozen pines that stretch onward into infinity. Despite the fierceness of winter that shudders all of Beqanna, Sylva’s forest remains ever burning and silent, where muddy bits of ice and snow collect against damp trunks and overgrown roots.
His pale lips - cracked from the cold weather and lack of overall moisture in the air - scrape against the brittle bark of the closest tree as he moves towards her. The sensation of the rough bark cuts at the dryness of his mouth, splitting healing cuts into new wounds with ease. The color of rust collects and pools in the crevices of his pearlescent mouth, dribbling from his whiskers and staining the icy ground with tiny drops of wet blood. Maugrim’s eyes never leave the sight of the great antlers that protrude from her proud head as he steps into the opening of the thicket, glazed and abysmal irises wide and ever-curious.
It is then that his gaze falls to her own face - scarred and indifferent, grotesque in its gnarled appearance as it attempts to heal whatever wound has opened up the delicate tissue and muscle. There is a sparkle that seems to ignite in his eyes at the sight, his bloody mouth upturning into the most terrible of smiles - one that appears to be a smile, yet truly isn’t.
“No one comes here,” his voice rattles, his breath a cloud of vapor on the frigid air, “unless they want something.” The drowned god pauses, a slight rise in his brow as he tilts his head a fraction of a degree, realizing that his statement isn’t exactly true. “Or unless they are for me.”
Mine.
Mine to control.
Mine to wield.
Mine to kill.
“So what is it then, dearie?” His eyes rake from her face to tip his chin upwards, gazing at the grand antlers almost admirably. The evergreen and lavender stallion nearly challenges her and the protruding spires as he comes ever closer, his blood drying into caked rust on his mouth. “Are you a gift for me,” A pause, his chin remaining upright (above her own) while his dark and foreboding eyes (lifeless yet burning like coals) peer down at her with a sinister click. In the distant silence there is a forlorn howl, though it is unable to be placed as a creature or merely the wind.
“Or do you want something?”
His pale lips - cracked from the cold weather and lack of overall moisture in the air - scrape against the brittle bark of the closest tree as he moves towards her. The sensation of the rough bark cuts at the dryness of his mouth, splitting healing cuts into new wounds with ease. The color of rust collects and pools in the crevices of his pearlescent mouth, dribbling from his whiskers and staining the icy ground with tiny drops of wet blood. Maugrim’s eyes never leave the sight of the great antlers that protrude from her proud head as he steps into the opening of the thicket, glazed and abysmal irises wide and ever-curious.
It is then that his gaze falls to her own face - scarred and indifferent, grotesque in its gnarled appearance as it attempts to heal whatever wound has opened up the delicate tissue and muscle. There is a sparkle that seems to ignite in his eyes at the sight, his bloody mouth upturning into the most terrible of smiles - one that appears to be a smile, yet truly isn’t.
“No one comes here,” his voice rattles, his breath a cloud of vapor on the frigid air, “unless they want something.” The drowned god pauses, a slight rise in his brow as he tilts his head a fraction of a degree, realizing that his statement isn’t exactly true. “Or unless they are for me.”
Mine.
Mine to control.
Mine to wield.
Mine to kill.
“So what is it then, dearie?” His eyes rake from her face to tip his chin upwards, gazing at the grand antlers almost admirably. The evergreen and lavender stallion nearly challenges her and the protruding spires as he comes ever closer, his blood drying into caked rust on his mouth. “Are you a gift for me,” A pause, his chin remaining upright (above her own) while his dark and foreboding eyes (lifeless yet burning like coals) peer down at her with a sinister click. In the distant silence there is a forlorn howl, though it is unable to be placed as a creature or merely the wind.
“Or do you want something?”
m a u g r i m.
@[Kagerus]