02-02-2016, 07:06 AM
it's strange what desire will make foolish people do.
Will it always be like this? First him and now this one. Is the filly just destined to be found by horror after horror (perhaps too soon to label this a horror, but she is tainted by fear, and so much more prepared for pain than pleasure)? The crackle of lightning frightens her less than the slippery-warm voice, because her punishments have been verbal - she does not know just how far her body can be pushed, physically, before it breaks, but she knows that her mind is so close to crumbling.
Not much pushing left to reduce the filly to ashes and ruins.
For a moment, the pair look at each other, so different and opposite, yet with much in common (deeply hidden for one and plain as the green-and-red coat for the other). Then the older mare speaks, and the filly tenses up again, those four words shaking her - does she know? Is this silver mare looking for her, hunting her, because she escaped from him?
But something tells her (and that something has not served her well up to now) that the mare does not know the answer to this question. And so the filly tries to relax, tries to stop her ears from whipping around at every sound. A frown flicks across her face, just there for a second and gone again, much as her whole body is.
“A stallion,” she says, because she is afraid to give much away. And because she does not have a name for him, not a real name, only ‘monster’ and ‘nightmare’ and ‘fear’. And none of these words can convey what he really is.
She wants to say no more, to just let this drop, to turn and to walk away and to find someone who doesn’t have a snake-skin-smooth voice and dangerous, dark eyes, but she can’t. Those same eyes draw more words from her, and she finds herself talking: “I ran away, I think he’ll be mad. I don’t want to make him mad. He, he scares me when he’s mad. I think he wants to hurt me.”
She stops, shocked at herself, biting her lip and staring at the ground. She wishes she hadn’t said a word - now that she has spoken, the threat of him seems much more real.
Not much pushing left to reduce the filly to ashes and ruins.
For a moment, the pair look at each other, so different and opposite, yet with much in common (deeply hidden for one and plain as the green-and-red coat for the other). Then the older mare speaks, and the filly tenses up again, those four words shaking her - does she know? Is this silver mare looking for her, hunting her, because she escaped from him?
But something tells her (and that something has not served her well up to now) that the mare does not know the answer to this question. And so the filly tries to relax, tries to stop her ears from whipping around at every sound. A frown flicks across her face, just there for a second and gone again, much as her whole body is.
“A stallion,” she says, because she is afraid to give much away. And because she does not have a name for him, not a real name, only ‘monster’ and ‘nightmare’ and ‘fear’. And none of these words can convey what he really is.
She wants to say no more, to just let this drop, to turn and to walk away and to find someone who doesn’t have a snake-skin-smooth voice and dangerous, dark eyes, but she can’t. Those same eyes draw more words from her, and she finds herself talking: “I ran away, I think he’ll be mad. I don’t want to make him mad. He, he scares me when he’s mad. I think he wants to hurt me.”
She stops, shocked at herself, biting her lip and staring at the ground. She wishes she hadn’t said a word - now that she has spoken, the threat of him seems much more real.
ELVE
![[Image: n2oih3.png]](http://i64.tinypic.com/n2oih3.png)