05-02-2023, 12:11 PM
Achille seethes with a rage he does not understand. So rarely does his depression evolve into fury that he is almost certain it never has. He was always a quiet boy growing up, more interested in how his magic worked with nature than how to wield it for violence.
But oh, does such wicked violence call to him now.
The lightning in his blood crackles and hisses, so incredibly loud that it rings like TV static in his ears. All he can hear is that never ending hissing, so much of it that the noise morphs into the words, the words into images in his mind.
You were never good enough, boy. What would your father say about this? Mother never wanted a baby son to coddle. You’re the reason that she died. You’re the reason that they all died. They’re dead, Achille. They’re dead. They’re dead they’re dead they’redeadtheyredeadtheyredead.
The feathered stallion’s breath hitches, his head shakes, the feathers all over his body stand on end after startled end.
“An insult.”
Achille’s head snaps up suddenly. His emerald eyes sharp and bright with sudden clarity. He doesn’t feel like himself, robotic—the sad, self-deprecating version of him trapped within a cage of lightning, of violence, protected.
“How can things like you exist here, in this world, when all I’ve ever known is dead? It makes me sick.”
Deep down, Achille knows that Altar is impressive. He knows she is beautiful, that the tone of her voice bodes more of a threat than he ever has. But he can’t stop himself as he walks forward, can’t stop because if he does his knees will crumple beneath him. He’ll bow down to her in worship, desperate for someone else to take his destiny out of his own control.
So he stands. He steps close. He whispers.
“I’m tired of feeling sick.”
But oh, does such wicked violence call to him now.
The lightning in his blood crackles and hisses, so incredibly loud that it rings like TV static in his ears. All he can hear is that never ending hissing, so much of it that the noise morphs into the words, the words into images in his mind.
You were never good enough, boy. What would your father say about this? Mother never wanted a baby son to coddle. You’re the reason that she died. You’re the reason that they all died. They’re dead, Achille. They’re dead. They’re dead they’re dead they’redeadtheyredeadtheyredead.
The feathered stallion’s breath hitches, his head shakes, the feathers all over his body stand on end after startled end.
“An insult.”
Achille’s head snaps up suddenly. His emerald eyes sharp and bright with sudden clarity. He doesn’t feel like himself, robotic—the sad, self-deprecating version of him trapped within a cage of lightning, of violence, protected.
“How can things like you exist here, in this world, when all I’ve ever known is dead? It makes me sick.”
Deep down, Achille knows that Altar is impressive. He knows she is beautiful, that the tone of her voice bodes more of a threat than he ever has. But he can’t stop himself as he walks forward, can’t stop because if he does his knees will crumple beneath him. He’ll bow down to her in worship, desperate for someone else to take his destiny out of his own control.
So he stands. He steps close. He whispers.
“I’m tired of feeling sick.”
achille
a little bit of bad thing never hurt anyone
but too much of a good thing
is like a hand on your neck
@altar