"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
Falling apart would have been the simpler path, but it seems that I was not meant for a life of ease. I shouldn't be surprised - Mother had told me as much - yet there is a striking difference between feeling prepared and truly being prepared. I hadn't been as ready to deal with the outcome of my actions as I thought I was, and the consequences had been forced onto me. I had expected to feel rage toward him, but his whispered words replayed in my mind (remember, you wanted this) as a reminder that the pain was a result of my own actions.
My fault.
Arthas had not come to rescue me as he'd sworn he would. My fault, and my responsibility to deal with the aftermath.
The image of a life spent in Sylva stretched out before me, and it is as dark as the evening around me. The trees block most of the light from the setting sun, and my pale coat stands out among the thick black trunks. I pull my wings closer against the cool night wind. I long suddenly for the warm air of Ischia, with the thick smell of tropical flowers and salt water. I had been there so briefly, but I start to drift to sleep and a dream of the island comes quickly.
It is the darkness of night that draws him out from his howling tomb, crawling into the fiery dying light of day while the trees burn into the atmosphere of vibrant red and gold. The forest of Sylva brims with thrumming darkness and blood, bringing forth an entirely different beast that once only reigned where water had been readily available. Now the stallion truly begins to show his true intentions and desires, while the reckoning of Sylva preens and ripens his bloodlust and darkened soul, flourishing beside his counterparts and quickly becoming a powerful presence within the clown’s forest.
His breath is ragged and wheezing as he lingers in the shadows, his dark and ravenous gaze unwavering as he watches her. He has heard of the prized gift that Loess has bestowed onto Sylva as a sign of good faith, and Maugrim found it such a pity that he had not yet seen an ounce of reward from her. She sleeps fitfully, it appears. Her cream-colored wings flutter gently against her sides, and the stallion snorts softly, curiously (though most likely alerting her to his presence) as he wonders if he’s ever encountered one with such beautiful appendages.
Evergreen and pearl painted body moves from beneath the shadow, stepping onto the damp pine needles that riddle the earthy floor. Maugrim gives her a wide berth (he is slow in his stalking, long and drawn out is best), circling her in a fashion that could appear as if he is inspecting her, his black eyes roving her cream and cobalt coat, brows rising with thoughtfulness.
“How is it you’re able to sleep?”
The second you close your eyes, you know someone will be watching.
His voice is grave and dim from misuse, rough against his vocal cords. He’s standing directly before her now, his head turned slightly so that his bottomless eyes peer carefully into the depths of hers.
05-30-2018, 09:35 AM (This post was last modified: 05-30-2018, 10:40 AM by Lepis.)
My eyes open immediately at the sound of a snort and my ears flick toward it, though the rest of my body remains still. A slow inhale reveals it to be a stranger, and I raise my head slowly to meet his gaze. He is unfamiliar, with a broken coat that is not quite black and white (the light is too dim and red to discern the real hue). I pull my wings tighter around me (I doubt a bluff will work on a creature already circling me like a wolf circles a doe), the rustle of their hard silk feathers serving as both warmth and comfort. They are mostly a shade of pale cream that matches my hide, though the patch of feathers nearest my shoulders is a bold shade of navy with a thin strip of lighter blue below.
I've spent a lot of time looking at myself in the water, after all. There is not much else to do in the woods.
'How is it that you're able to sleep?' he asks, and I realize that to him I look just like I do in my reflection. Small, weak, with too-wide eyes and spindly legs. I had felt that way in the past, too, so I cannot blame him. Some days I still feel it, especially when I am reminded of my position in Sylva by the male residents.
Most days I let it happen, because I know that is my role. There is no use denying it, and I refuse to let Mother down even if she is long gone. Tonight though, I had been enjoying my dream of Ischia. I might even be able to catch it again if I can get this stranger to leave quickly enough.
"Come closer," I say, cocking a hip with exaggerated relaxation, the very picture of a willing woman, "And I'll show you."
For whatever reason, they rarely decline the request. It doesn't matter that I feel like a sparrow in this world of swans and peacocks, that while I am 'pretty enough', I will never be renowed for my beauty the way that the kelpies are. It doesn't matter who I am, only what.
They are predictable, the men, and that is why I know how to deal with them when I want to be alone. I let them get close enough, pressing against me in a way that enhances my gift, and then force emotion on them. Most often it is embarrassment, which is enough to send the cowardly among them (and so many of them are cowards) fleeing. The stronger ones fight that, but sadness is often a solution. So many of the evil monsters in Sylva are just broken children at heart. Then there are the ones that break through my shields and use me all the more violently for it (at least there is always lust to make the interaction shorter).
I hope that this circling stallion is not that last type. As I must twist to keep him in my line of sight, my weariness dissipates, and with it my warm dream of a tropical paradise. My position doesn't change, but my blue-grey eyes are narrowed with calculation as I keep them on the stranger. Most men don't focus much on the face, after all, and I want to be able to find out as quickly as I can what I can use to make him leave.
"What's your name?" I ask, reaching back to pluck a stray feather from above my left shoulder. I let it drift down to the forest floor like a pale yellow leaf, and turn my attention back to the painted stallion. "I'm Lepis."
The wings interest him the most, he realizes, and there are sharp, vivid images that placate across his mind of her beneath the murky depths of the lake, her body tinged a sweetwater brown instead of a lovely cream, with wide and bulging eyes from far too much pressure against her skull, mouth agape as she floats suspended in time beneath the -
Come closer.
The blackness of his eyes refocus, forgetting for a moment that he had asked her a question. A loud snort dishevels from his nostrils, a calculating tick of his head as it tilts questioningly. He does not move towards her, even with the swift tilt of her hip or the way her voice is sultry and thick in the midst of brewing darkness. A single brow quirks amusedly, though the expression quickly fades into one of extreme thoughtfulness.
“The prey has learned to survive,” he notes, mostly to himself though it is obvious he is speaking of her. His pale tongue dampens the pearl of his lips, a slight nod to his head causing the darkness of his forelock to fall to one side of his emotionless face. “Smart prey,” Maugrim murmurs again, stepping closer though there is no need or want for him to touch her. Willingness does not attract him, and most of the time, neither does the promise of sex. He is strangely primal, and his urges stem merely from his need to control and have others fear him, and her unabashed willingness does not stir a rumbling of desire in his chest. If anything, it only stirs more curiosity. “Smart prey,” he repeats thoughtfully, a flick of his tail against evergreen and lavender legs as he steps closer to her.
“Lepis,” he repeats her name, his voice gravelled as it scratches through his throat. His dark eyes follow the feather that flutters gently to the ground, staring at it moments after it had landed. “I’m Maugrim.”
“If not careful, the prey can become predator.” His eyes are unblinking as they shift back to hers, emotionless and unreadable. He’s seen it happen - he was once prey, and now fear nor helplessness are not found in the abysmal depths of his gaze. He had done it himself.
He does respond to the invitation, and an icy finger of nerves runs down the back of my neck. This is not a good sign. They usually come without hesitation, and those that do not are the type that have left the deepest of scars on the soft yellow of my skin. At first I'd tried offering again, but what I (by now) give without thought had not been what they truly sought. Though I have tried, and tried terribly hard, I cannot understand their sadism. It is not an emotion I have felt and so is not one I can grapple with, pick apart, inspect. It is a mystery, and one that I do not want to experience again.
Why can't I just have my warm dream?
The stranger comes closer, and I feel my belly tighten involuntary, my muscles tensing as I wait for the first blow. It doesn't come though, just his odd riddles about prey and predators.
"I don't want to become a predator." I say sharply, the words surprisingly clear despite the fear the holds tightly to my throat. "I just want to be left alone."
I am not usually so bold, and never with strangers. Perhaps my interactions with Kwartz have emboldened me; I certainly have enough practice mouthing off. Better to curse than cry, I tell myself during those times. A princess does not cry. Rage is easier to process than sadness anyway, and far easier than dealing with the gaping cavern of emptiness that I so carefully traverse the edge of.
“You must,” the stallion tells her with a sense of finality in the garbled tones of his deep voice, bottomless eyes searching her with an animalistic hunger that cannot be satisfied with cunning words or the supple curve of a woman’s body. He is a different breed of monster (yes, with riddles and looming darkness and constantly damp, water-swathed skin) and though in the past he has launched onto his victims without much thought, he is developing, learning, calculating. He cared not for the order of monarchs or the rise and fall of regimes, only for himself and the water that is his slave, too far from here for him to use against the pretty little trinket that stands so boldly before him.
“You must,” he repeats, lifting his chin slightly upwards as he takes a step forward, curiosity and inquisitiveness (intelligence) brooding in his black irises, “or you will die.” Another tilt of his head allows the ivory forelock on the bridge of his nose to fall to one side, obscuring one eye from her. He snorts, his breath warm against the cream of her smooth cheek as he extends his neck towards her, idly brushing the pearlescence of his mouth to her skin - the gesture is not sexual, but somehow pensive and reflective.
The feathers distract him again, ignoring whatever expression might be on her face and shifting his weight slightly to inspect them once again. A few are out of place and it bothers him, (everything has a place - in his cave, at the bottom of the ocean - everything) so he steps forward, his muscular shoulder brushing past her own to preen them with gentle, damp lips until they lay smoothly and perfectly.
Maugrim is not the first monster I have come across, and I know that he will not be the last. Sylva is full of them; the world is full of them. Beqanna is a dangerous place. That has been pressed into my mind since I was a child: the outside world is dangerous and Loess will keep you safe. Mother had told me that. Arthas had told me that. Maybe it is true, but I am not in Loess anymore. I am not a princess or a queen or anything important at all, and there is nothing to keep me safe but my own hooves and teeth.
I've never been taught to defend myself, and my attempts at resistance have been futile. I am not a strong creature or a large one, I have no glittering teeth or talons. Maugrim is wrong; I can only be prey. That is what I have always been - will always be. I've accepted this; why must this stranger insist other wise?
"Death might be preferable." I reply without hesitation, because his mention of dying is not the first time I have thought of it. Death would be the easy way. I have stood atop a boulder whose height would mean a deadly fall and watched the ground below beckon. Too easy. Life was not meant to be easy, I know, and have always backed down from the ledge. My situation is my fault, and I still have my promise to Arthas to keep. It occurs to me that he had wanted a virgin queen, that he had whispered his promises to me when I was unsullied.
Would he still want me now, when I am damaged goods?
About to be further damaged, I realize as Maugrim comes closer, and I release a shuddering breath as he reaches toward my cheek. There is no click of teeth, just a damp touch. I remain motionless even as he moves toward my wings. I fight the urge to pull them closer (they have not yet been broken), but I have seen how fear drives these monsters. The piebald stallion is gentle as he smoothes my wayward feathers, but his careful touch does nothing to quell the fear (if anything, I feel the hard knot of panic grow. There is no use running away. I'm always caught. Kwartz has taught me that. He has instilled the fear of touch, both kind and cruel that I am unable to battle.
"I can't change what I am." I tell him. "And even if I wanted to, they wouldn't let me." I don't name the 'they'; I don't feel there is a need.
He never had a mother (or he did, and fails to remember her in the slightest), and thus learned the ways of the world through his own discovery. The absence of family and a structure could very well be the reason he has turned out the way that he has - merciless, calculating, emotionless. His only true relationship - the only one that had been positive - had been with his ability and the water, creating a gap in his social ability that keeps him from building any sort of connection with anything or anyone. Of course, he had always been drawn to power and strength, which is why he finds himself here now in the deep and shadowed forest of Sylva, growing and brooding beneath the darkness that thrives here.
Death might be preferable.
He snorts softly in amusement; so many often begged for their lives, pleaded and bargained to keep their precious breath in their lungs. It was almost refreshing to hear the opposite - near stimulating, actually. It flips a switch, and though there is no malice in his voice (there hardly is ever, emotionless as the stallion is), there is a hum that vibrates in his throat at the idea.
“I could be of service, if that is truly what you desire.” His voice is smooth and sultry, beckoning and encouraging. Say yes, it croons in the undertones of his tenor.
Maugrim knows that his touch is unwarranted, for it hardly ever is welcomed on a woman’s skin. She is frigid and terse beneath the gentleness of his mouth, but that fact does not deter him. He is rather enjoying himself, and even if the coldness of fear tightens in her belly, he could not find it in him to decide that he cared.
I can’t change what I am.
“Perhaps,” he replies, finished with preening the soft cream of her feathers but still lingering, imagining all the ways she has been ravaged and mentally defeated long before he had arrived. “You will die eventually, then.” She must have already accepted her fate. Pity, he had hoped there was a tiny semblance of bravery remaining (something he could snuff out), but it seems someone has already broken that piece of her. “Soon, I should think.”
The evergreen and pearl stallion pauses, stepping back so that his eyes peer curiously into the depths of hers. “Not tonight, little bird. Not tonight.”
