"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Guilty by association. Astarael had never had the opportunity to stumble upon the gimpy mare outside of Sylva and, admittedly, she had no true reason to target the otherwise plain mare. Hiro spying her conversing with Belgaer had been a pure coincidence and, truly, she had no way of knowing the depth of their conversation. It was her prejudices against her own family and Ischia that had provoked her deepest curiosities.
Held by the Finisher, the mare had little hope of a peaceful existence among them. Already Maugrim seemed to have a peculiar fascination with the mare - an obsession, almost. The lithe demoness cared not for the stallion's twisted interest, only the things he could learn from the little trinket.
Lurking just beyond the realms of Wound's sight, Astarael lingered her emerald gaze fixed upon the mare's fragile appearance. Slowly, like an predator stalking its prey, red tongues of fear slithered toward her, eagerly wrapping itself around the outline of the mare's figure. Blood clung to her otherwise midnight coat, wet and freshly drawn. Maugrim was not one for subtlety and Astarael admired him for his dedication.
Leaving the cool embrace of her shade, she inched closer the true terror of her unusual appearance being made visible. Seemingly larger, the queens wings framed her body terrible and cruel when paired with the arching horns that erupted from her skull.
Hello Wound, she greeted her voice deceptively warm. We meet at last.
he’s been subdued under the weight of their violent words and violent actions. Her hope wanes with every rise of that bleary-eyed, haze-shrouded sun. Each night brings upon new bruises and fresh blood, leaving her weaker than the night before. The chill of the cavern seems to cling more fiercely to the marrow of her bones, forcing a deep cold to rest along the vertebrae of her spine and the length of her leg-muscle. Autumn has descended into the forest-kingdom, although the only signs of its arrival are the bitter nights and the scattering of gold and maroon and sunflower yellow upon the ground.
Wound will not grow a heavy, warm winter coat. Although she had spent some winters among the snow-drifts and ice that the common lands received, her body has grown used to the eternal humidity of Tephra. She will spend the snowy days shaking and shivering in her summer-thin body where her ribs poke against her sides and her womb swells with the weight of a child.
When the demon queen’s hazy red fingers slip along Wound’s bruised and bloodied body, she’s hardly thinking of winter. The subtle threats of fear slipping through her mind bring her thoughts of Modicum Mortem’s torture in this cave not so long ago. The gashes from his hooves against her sides and the ache of his forceful invasion are still noteworthy injuries, even paired alongside Maugrim’s recent harmful gropings. The remnants of the once-king’s actions carry deeply-rooted memories that will haunt Wound for the rest of her life — carried with her in her nightmares and in the face of that little boy she will birth and in the scarring along her crest from angry, restraining teeth.
The silvery mare startles at the sound of a warm voice echoing off the high, roughened walls of the cavern. Wound’s heart wearily prepares itself for whatever damage may come next, as a naughty child might anticipate the slap of a ruler across their outstretched palm. She doesn’t have much of a defense, the majority of her fighting words disappearing as the once-king had slipped out of the cavern with satisfaction. Her knotted, ratty forelock slips over one coffee-brown eye as Wound turns her petite head to look over the stranger.
A throat-dry, grating voice slides from her cracked lips, her vocal chords rough with the frequent slice of her screams. “It seems we have.” There is a dark abyss of nothing in those empty, husky words.
credit to nat of adoxography.
@[Astarael] / sorry this is so late :/ pleaaase frick her up <33
Remaining stoic, Astarael does little to hold back the full force of her terror. The mare is weak. Defeated. The abuse she had received left her bloodied and swollen and her head hung low, her muzzle nearly touching the soft of the earth. Not far from where they stood the soft gurgling of the lake's surface could be heard above the normally deafening buzz of insects. The world around them almost seemed to hold its breath, ears trained to catch the exchange between the mares.
Circling once more, Astarael felt the weight of her unborn child within her. Gazing upon Wound, Mortem's infidelity did not come with waves of unsuspected surprise. Before his death, he had visited their prisoner and, it seemed, their tangle had bore fruit. It seemed the clown had beaten Maugrim to the treat between her legs. The demoness rolled her eyes at the predictability of men.
I must admit that I expected more of you. Astarael mused as she halted just before Wound. She clicked her tongue thoughtfully.
The red fog that surrounded them grew thicker and Astarael smiled wickedly as she watched it tangle around the blackened creature. Fear had become a concept the queen did not recognize. Without its grip upon her she had been freed and emboldened. Its relief was intoxicating and she breathed it in deeply.
Tell me, Wound, do you know why you were chosen to be kept here?
Astarael suspected the the little Tephran thought her capture to be unprovoked, but it had been her seemingly innocent encounter with Belgaer. Intel was hard to come by and, in that moment, she'd hungered for the knowledge she hoped the little mare could give. It was her brother's undying loyalty that had been her inspiration - it was only pure happenstance that she would also be a favorite of Warrick. A victim of her circumstances, Wound had placed herself directly into their hands.
