whose afraid... // Weed, Kushiel, Erebor, Cellar

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

A task? How unexpected. He scowls as he approaches the meeting of men, his step as graceful as his body. He was not built for war like the other stallions. He was slender and refined, his head dished and his limbs long. It wasn’t that he wasn’t strong, he was as all wild stallions must be, but he himself did not hunger for the clashing of body against body. If he was to set the world on fire, it would be from a distance or with the helpful twist of a vine. He did not particularly like to get his hands dirty in the battle.

Even more so, he did not like to feel himself ordered around or given tasks like a minion. His handsome face broke into the frown and something cruel curled in the back of his mind, his temper flaring momentarily as he thought of the words he might share with ‘his’ Queen. To be grouped with the rest of her lackeys and sent out to accomplish some job for her as if he was nothing more than a soldier.

Still, his curiosity won over his distaste and he listened to the red-eyed stallion, one ear flicking forward lazily in interest. “Luckily, I would like nothing more than to see the Gates fall,” he said in his elegant voice, rolling one of his shoulders. “Although perhaps we do not need to burn everything.” His gaze wandered over to Kushiel as his vines wrapped protectively around him. “Sometimes, it is better to simply pull it from the root,” he looks toward the ground where one plant began to wither, the leaves and branches falling off of it faster and faster before splintering into pieces. “It’s harder to rebuild than from ashes.”

Not that it wouldn’t be interesting to combine the fire and the vines.

WEED

© oscar keys