"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
{ and in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times }
I'm not certain what's going on yet, but the politics are making my head reel; despite my meeting with Bane, it would seem that Hyaline is missing one particular prisoner. This absence does little to calm my nerves or lend my decision making skills any credibility, and frankly, it does shit for how I feel towards Loess, especially in regards to my respect for her pirate king.
And to top it off, Panthera had spotted Lepis attempting to goad Valdis out of Hyaline - I've not determined her success in that endeavour yet, but I'm not going to wait around for my children to go missing before taking action. They're making it personal, criminal; it's one thing to steal a knowing, participating diplomat. It's another to try and kidnap a royal child; and even if it hadn't been to kidnap, I don't trust Lepis at all. They are tampering with my family. They wouldn't stand for either, were the situations reversed.
It's my second time sneaking through Sylva, though I do so knowingly this time. The eternal autumn of the kingdom sends shivers down my spine, even though the climate here is warmer than the one I've become accustomed to in Hyaline. I cross the border in silence, blood pounding, knowing that I could meet unnameable dangers in these accursed woods - but I have to take the risk.
Arthas is the new king here, as I'd heard some weeks ago when passing through from Mountain to Hyaline, unless he'd not been accepted; but I'm here to find that out... Among other things.
I stop in a thicket, feeling thoroughly lost and utterly vulnerable; but I hold my antlered head high, breath rising in steaming huffs as I stand like a wraith in the night, perfect to pick apart, but with something irresistible to offer.
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.
{ and in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times }
He appears, lips crowned in blood and eyes reverent of my towering spires. In the depth of the forest, only slivers of moonlight pierce through the canopy of wiry branches above, slicing our figures like knives in its precision. Where its light falls, shimmering marks of the leopard appear on my skin: a tribute to my grandmother, for whom I was named... And somewhere in the woods behind me, the manifestation of these markings silently prowls. She doesn't trust him, and nor do I; but he is a tool, and I must wield him.
No one comes here, comes the sound of his voice like stones falling down a cliffside. Unless they want something. He smells like death and rotting, a coat of bile making up the first layer of his aura and only festering the deeper one dared to journey. My ears press back at the words, spoken through smiling lips, though their upturn inspires no friendliness within me. Or unless they are for me. My nostrils twitch once, upper lip threatening to curl in disgust and to show that his words have no effect on my confidence here.
But I stay the movement for now, pinning the wretched creature down beneath the weight of my practiced gaze. From there, the slip of my eyes to trace the stallion as he crawls forward with the air of one both worshipful and hungry is the only sign that I am indeed alive. No steam rises from my nostrils, no hair moves in the wind. He asks if I am a gift, raising his head to challenge the authoritative position of mine, such that it is I who must look up at him. But this is no threat to me. My eyes continue to glower into his.
Or do you want something?
"Silence your tongue, snake." The words are monotone, somewhere between a mutter and a whisper as my lips do now peel back, disgusted by the smell of him. "Listen, and you will find your questions answered."
A single heartbeat passes before my need for personal space - in light of my encounters with Vulgaris and Magnus - overwhelms my good sense, and suddenly my chin snaps to my neck and I press the stallion back with a thrust of my many-pronged swords. I don't aim to actually pierce his skin, but he'd gotten so close, eyed me so hungrily - a rage nearly inexplicable fills me, forcing my hand and clearing the space around me as efficiently as possible.
Rats.
My head rises only just from it's defensive position, leaving my glaring up at the green man from beneath the bones of my brows. The wet, muddy and leaf-strewn ground reflects an image of us now, standing like vipers, coiled and flared and ready to strike. My lips, flattened now, part again to direct my captor's attention.
"I come to reveal to you what you want. To show you what could be yours." A thread of dream burrows into the synapses of his brain, causing an image of subjects bowing at his hooves to flash just behind his eyes. "It's a gift," I mutter at last. "If you'd like to call it that."
His eyes cannot help but flicker back to the proudness of the antlers that are settled atop her head like a crown; they beg for his attention and he contemplates their ability to tear skin from skin, as well as their hardiness - just as bone can snap, so can these beautiful weapons. He wonders if blood would spill from each broken piece, or if merely marrow will flow. His thoughts on this last only lasts a few moments, as her voice and posture demands his attention again. His ears flick back possessively, irritated at her vile words that she so carelessly throws into the air - as if name-calling will affect his temperament or would bide him to become something to be commanded. Her facial expression and overall countenance lets him know that his presence is something to be disgusted by, though it does not deter him. It almost beckons him to step closer, to press the ruby of his lips against the gnarled wound of her face, intermingle his blood with her own. But again he eyes that glorious crown, and refrains.
Maugrim’s lips now press together tightly into a thin line, the movement spreading the stickiness of coagulated blood further across his pearlescent mouth. He does not move away from her - not yet - and instead finds the blackness of his irises staring down at her interestedly, one side of his mouth twitching as he attempts to feign patience. “Quickly then, dearie,” he drawls harshly, though at the same moment her own movement is quicker, snapping her chin to her auburn chest and shoving the brunt of her bony spears towards him. He shuffles backwards, his eyes alight with something like excitement, pressing him away with the threat of sharp swords into the sheer skin of his face. Laughter bubbles in his throat as one of the antlers pierce just beneath his right eye, fresh blood easily rolling down his cheek.
He has given her the space she has requested, but only at a small breadth where he is just out of reach of her prying spikes, a sparkling gaze finding his eyes as a sinister smile rolls onto his bloodied lips. “A gift?” he murmurs thoughtfully with amusement as her dream presses into the inner recesses of his mind. He wonders what it is she could truly offer him when she knows nothing of his true desires and wants, but it is admirable in the way she attempts to do so.
However, the feeling of her in his mind strikes a chord with him - it is a familiar feeling, one of being possessed and overtaken, offered a gift but then taken advantage of and tricked. His sick and charming demeanor suddenly changes, his eyes blinking wildly at her as he attempts to force the dream away with a savage shake of his head, pressing in towards her despite the antlers she keeps before her in defense. A smart move, for if they had not been there his attack would have been much more effective.
Maugrim eagerly presses himself against the force of her antlers, forcing her to take on his weight. His wild gaze stews with sudden anger and hunger. “How dare you take me for a fool,” he seethes, the bony spires of her crown piercing into his upper neck and the bottom of his throat, not caring the way that they easily slice into the soft and supple skin. He attempts to reach around them with a snake of his head, snapping at the air in hopes his teeth would catch on skin, or that she would begin back away from him, where he knew his lake would swallow her whole. “I don’t do deals with witches,” his voice is raw and deadly ominous, using his own ability to press whatever moisture that is in the springtime air into her nostrils. It would be barely noticeable for a while; perhaps in a few minutes she would begin to feel droplets of water leak into her lungs.
m a u g r i m.
@[Kagerus]
:|
basically violence offered him power and then possessed him just for fun, and now he's pretty triggered by anyone who attempts to find a way into his mind or seems like they're just trying to trick him. IM SORRY. i'm sure kag will be able to convince him it's not a 'deal', but more of a win-win for him?
{ and in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times }
As I raise my eyes to consider the blood-hungry man, I glimpse a droplet of that which he thirsts gathering upon his brow, glistening wetly in the cool autumn air as it, too, could reflect the light of the sun. There's laughter on Maugrim's lips and nestled deep in the blackness of his heart - but it's not the kind of laughter one spells for their children, nor even for the ones they love and trust. It's nature is malicious to say the least, and as it bubbles, a chill runs down my spine.
He's not scared.
He's not even phased.
And as the dream seeps into the shallowest layer of his subconscious, I see that he is not to be appeased or guided towards a desire, either. A derisive snort is all I have time to muster before the crazed stallion presses his massive weight against the frame of my antlers; I hold it for now, though the bones yaw under the strain worryingly. He spits the word fool, then witches, and I almost want to smile as I settle into the fact that this title suits me well; but then his weight doubles and the air thickens, and my smile turns to a gritting of teeth as I realize that I am more than a little fucked.
"It's not a deal," I snarl, though it's more of an angry gasp than anything as I try to hold my footing. I dig my hooves into the earth, straining against his weight; then, I thrash my neck side to side, ears pinning against the feeling of ripping flesh as the prongs of my antlers dig further and further into him as he presses into me. Another snort sounds from my nostrils as I try to clear them, but the sensation of a running nose won't leave me; I thrash again, panicked.
Pause.
"I don't want anything from you. I came only to deliver an idea." My hind hoof slips back, and I hurriedly replace it when I realize it had fallen into water. Not shallow water, either. I wonder if he can hear the sound of my heart pounding; I wonder if I'm tired enough to fall asleep. To dream myself away.
Why do I always think I am invincible? Did I earn the scar across my face for nothing? Did I lose the alliance for nothing?
"Now let me pass," I say in the calmest voice I can muster, neck trembling against the weight of him. "Spill the blood of your fruitless leaders, for mine will earn you nothing."
He’s never known fear; not in the classic sense of the word. Oh, he knows what it is - he’s seen it, tasted it, watched it breed amongst screams and blood and broken bones - but there’s never been a trace of it glittering in the madness of his black eyes. There is only emptiness there, along with hate and rage. Those feelings...those are feelings he knows well.
She’s speaking to him in the midst of his seething, bracing herself against the entirety of his weight as he attempts to plow into her, to rip anything from her body so that perhaps her magical properties no longer could host such witchcraft of the mind. He hates these types of magicians - trickery of the mind is no great feat; bend bone from skin, fill lungs with water, make them bleed...that is something to behold.
Blood pours down his chest and his forelegs, spilling from the curve of his neck and the delicate skin of his face, balking madly. “I care not for things that can be earned,” he presses with a grinding of his teeth against each other, lips twitching distastefully. “Blood spills either way,” Maugrim’s voice is thick with rage, the sparkling of his black eyes unsettling as he writhes beneath the incessant press of her great antlers, wondering how much further he would have to press himself for her to give way beneath him.
He does not relent, but his active pursuance of her grows idle. She’s captured his attention once again, this witchling.
“Who are you that you deem who is fruitless and who is not?”
His eyes flash darkly.
The fruitless are the easiest to be rid of. I will snuff them out. I am the finisher and I am forever.
god, make me pay like the devil i am
@[Kagerus]
this is all over the place i'm sorry <3
{ and in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times }
I care not for things that can be earned. Blood spills either way.
A chill runs through me; his weight has anything but lessened and my muscles are anything but fortifying against it. I barely catch the insane glimmering in his blackened eyes in the peripherals of my vision as he is held just barely out of reach of me by my antlers; they will not hold much longer. Panic fills the air around us and I consider crying out for help - but what help would come to a trespassing queen in this land of murder and sadism? I swallow back the cries and think of Solace, attempting to ground myself and to get myself to think logically as to how I can escape this.
Or how I can try to, at least.
Who are you that you deem who is fruitless and who is not?
A chance; he's presented one himself, without making me work for it. My heart pounds, but I steady my voice. I grapple with what he intends to know by the question, struggling to realize an answer as the weight of him grows stagnant, degrading my bones and my muscles as he awaits the sound of my voice. There must be a way to appease him - there has to be.
But I won't die here. I will kill him before it comes to that, if I need to.
"It takes only two eyes and a mind to see that which is self evident, Sire." I speak as lucidly as I can, mustering a voice of submission such that he might imagine others speaking to him in this way; and the last word I speak implicatively, deftly tying together the idea of kingship to the more guttural, instinctual title of a breeding stallion. My hoof slides again, but only a half-inch. He needs to take the bait.
"I am nothing except a messenger. Let he who truly opposes you be the subject of your wrath."
@[Maugrim] So not sure how Maugie feels after this one but if he wants to, he can break one of her antlers if he decides he wants to leave, but not so nicely.
![[Image: kag]](https://78.media.tumblr.com/2e8039018ce4dff6112c167ec23e886a/tumblr_p72zjit7wC1s5a0qvo1_100.png)
