Lead to the river [Magnus]

[magnus]

— find what you love and let it kill you —

There were few things Magnus regret more than not being there for the war. Not that it had been an intentional act on his part, but it was impossible to explain. He himself still not understand; he could not wrap his mind around the place he had been yanked. The whispers who had told him that it was for his own good, who had chained him to a place of solitude and smoke. He had tried to fight it at first, pulling against the restraints with all of his might, but he hadn’t been able to break free.

He hadn’t been able to find his way back home.

So he had no way of knowing what had transpired, by what bloodshed had been cast on either side. He himself had never claimed any moral high ground though. He had plenty of his own burden to wear, and he had plenty of blood on his own hands. He had taken life before and been the first to reach for the gun. He had picked up the sword for so long that he began to like the way it had felt in his hands.

Still, he did his best to live honestly. He did his best to be honest, straightforward and direct. He did not take kindly to double-faced spies or traitors, and he had no way of knowing Nymphetamine for anything but. So when he heard the other stallion call for him, he did not immediately direct his path toward him. He contemplated, the shadows dappling the width of his broad back. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his gait and made his way toward the other, arcing around so that he could watch him as he approached.

“Nymphetamine,” he greeted, his whiskey voice curt.  He would at least hear him out.

magnus