i’ve been both a saint & a viper
Silence engulfs them - at least, the kind of silence any sane entity would call as such. For him - the stoic knave - the silence is marred by haunting whispers, things that curl around his insides so sweetly, hushed voices of malice and destruction, begging for the one thing they always have begged him for: flesh, blood, life. Kill, they murmur to him and now that he has wholly accepted their presence, their voices are lush and gentle, despite the diabolical ideas they insist upon. They are kind to him, persuasive; loving, even. And they know that the pearlescent woman will bring them what it is they desire, giving the stallion a feeling of misplaced loyalty in Sabra. Perhaps it will soon evolve into the real thing or even something more, but for now, the blue stallion enjoys how their voices no longer scream and maim - and he is fully content on keeping them that way.
The stallion’s eyes - such a crisp blue that they nearly appear white in the dying light of the burning forest - scrapes to her, finding her voice sultry and tantalizing on the cold air as it rings out from her parched lips, himself and his demons feeding on the promises she spills with unmatched hunger, devouring her words as a starving man would shove bread down his empty throat. Utter peace finds Balto for the first time in decades, the voices and their shadows appeased by her revelations. He must make it come to fruition, he muses mildly to himself, and the voices echo in one accord, you must.
He agrees.
No smile finds his stony lips, however. Then, there seems to be an inkling of one as his mouth quirks lopsidedly as she comes close to him. For a moment her image fades - the bright pearl of her body shattering into a mousy brown, her wild eyes shifting to a calmer and deeper tone - and that image calls to Balto. Not the Balto that stands in a dark forest with ice at his hooves and darkness in his heart, but the Balto that was once alone and unaffected by shadows. This moment is but a second, flashing across his eyesight with a single blink and then is gone.
The stallion does not coil away from the intensity in her voice and the certainty that builds within it. His eyes, however, respond - they hold something deep and dark, uncannily evil and disparaging; she could kill him, absolutely, but she won’t. She had the chance back in the forest and when she failed to do so, she has now been given a man whose mercilessness knows no bounds - a creature that has risen from the ashes and is hellbent on its own survival and personal gain. Fortunately, their desires seem to align. Perhaps insanity does that on purpose.
The stake that protrudes from her gently sloping chest grates against his skin without hesitation, the splintered wood rough and unforgiving. Her voice echoes the empty Sylvan forest, rebounding off of moss-grown boulders and doubling itself over, repeating her crazed shouts in a voice that sounds not unlike the ones in his own head. He licks his lips as she steps away, her shouting now simmering to a gentle confession - an idea, of sorts, that lingers like the fog that swirls menacingly throughout Sylva.
He wonders if the trees bow to hear their plans, knowing what darkness is about to erupt within their canopies.
Blood, they remind him, grooming him and cooing sweetly. It is all he needs, now. A blood-soaked feast. Cold sinks into his skin, dripping into his marrow and nestling within the cavernous emptiness of his chest.
“I am yours to use, Sabra,” comes the dark of his raspy voice, “just as we are theirs.” They concede to their demons and will turn the quiet forest into the darkness that resides within their minds; they will not face it alone, no. Others will see their depravity and be forced to satisfy the intense cravings within them. The possibilities are endless. “By our hands, their blood will paint all of Beqanna.”
Balto
@[Sabra]