10-23-2020, 08:11 PM
Nashua evades the duplicate’s reckless attack with a skill that suggests he has fought before, but it is unlikely that he has fought many battles with someone completely unconcerned for their own welfare. It does not matter at all to Wherewolf if the duplicate is crushed and destroyed, its wings torn from its sides, its bones broken and piercing through ragged skin. As long as it could stand, the duplicate would fight – if that is how the dappled boy directed it – like a mindless machine, and the tight coils of his bitterness tempt him to thrash away at his brother, loosing feathers and blood and wretched, aimless anger, but he pauses at the question tossed his way.
“I always feel like dying,” his voice is a whispered growl, but the words leap easily to his tongue. They feel true enough, though he is not overly concerned with the veracity of the claim. There is so much of his mother in him, wound between each fiber of his being, but this is his own, he is sure, this desire to die. He's wrong, of course, his mother has never planned for immortality, but he doesn't know and so he clings greedily to this theory. “But I never seem to get there.”
This he says more nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder coolly and in the same instance, sending the duplicate charging again in a wild scatter of gravel and sea-ice. How many kamikaze colts does Nashua wish to fight today? How many can he fight? For one shadowed moment full of all the anger and venom of his being, he considers how easy it might be to overwhelm his brother, but there's a deep chasm that separates him from wishing he could die, and wanting someone else to do the same - really wanting it - and he still hasn't learned to fly. At the point of impact, the duplicate falls apart, a heat mirage shivering away around the red-gold pegasus. Wherewolf's scowling lips tilt into a ghostly smirk as he releases his hold on the magic, shreds of himself scattering like ribbons in the air and blowing away, caught in the updrafts around them.
"What about you? Is it a good day to die?"
“I always feel like dying,” his voice is a whispered growl, but the words leap easily to his tongue. They feel true enough, though he is not overly concerned with the veracity of the claim. There is so much of his mother in him, wound between each fiber of his being, but this is his own, he is sure, this desire to die. He's wrong, of course, his mother has never planned for immortality, but he doesn't know and so he clings greedily to this theory. “But I never seem to get there.”
This he says more nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder coolly and in the same instance, sending the duplicate charging again in a wild scatter of gravel and sea-ice. How many kamikaze colts does Nashua wish to fight today? How many can he fight? For one shadowed moment full of all the anger and venom of his being, he considers how easy it might be to overwhelm his brother, but there's a deep chasm that separates him from wishing he could die, and wanting someone else to do the same - really wanting it - and he still hasn't learned to fly. At the point of impact, the duplicate falls apart, a heat mirage shivering away around the red-gold pegasus. Wherewolf's scowling lips tilt into a ghostly smirk as he releases his hold on the magic, shreds of himself scattering like ribbons in the air and blowing away, caught in the updrafts around them.
"What about you? Is it a good day to die?"
@[Nashua]
