05-24-2015, 12:17 AM
So far, his return to Beqanna has been thoroughly disappointing. The land is a sad shadow of the place it had been when Elite had ruled the Valley. Back then, the traditional title of ‘evil mythical kingdom’ had meant something, had commanded respect. The other kingdoms had feared them.
But now the kingdom is nothing. Or, that is, it’s just the same as all the other kingdoms. Which amounts to the same thing in his mind. Oh, there’s still a magician patrolling its borders, but it’s not him. Not the all powerful God that had watched over them before. Carnage must have sensed the oncoming downfall, and abandoned them in shame.
He wishes that he could do something about it, that he could restore the Valley to the powerhouse it once was. But he is only once stallion, and few horses seem to still follow the ways of Elite and her kin.
So he will have to downsize his dream, and settle for something smaller. A herd - a tiny kingdom of his own. The only problem is finding mares to fill it with. So far he has had little success in claiming mares for his herd, even though he has lowered his standards to include the untraited (they still have the potential for carrying his traited spawn after all). He has copulated with a few mares this season (drawn in, as they often are, by his impressive ability), but so far none of them have expressed any interest in living with him. Pity. Hopefully their offspring won't be worthless.
But, it's not enough. He wants a herd, and to have a herd, he needs mares. And so he has come to the meadow this time, scoping out the few mares brave enough to venture there during breeding season.
Most of the mares are accompanied unfortunately - likely a precautionary measure against rapists. Not that he can blame them, he supposes - he himself is not above such behaviour, though he has no intention of engaging in it at the moment.
He’s contemplating heading back into the field, when a roan mare catches his eye. He can’t see her face - it’s hidden in a patch of thick grass - but she seems passable enough, with a hint of tempting vulnerability. Her thin sides and scarred coat speak of a difficult past, which could make her either easier, or more difficult, to manipulate. He might as well find out.
He slips a charming smile on his face and approaches, then stops a respectful distance away and clears his throat to catch her attention. He knows that he must cut a very impressive figure - 17 hands of pure iron, his sides gleaming in the sun that streams down from above. Hopefully the combination of charm and induced awe will reel her in. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?”
But now the kingdom is nothing. Or, that is, it’s just the same as all the other kingdoms. Which amounts to the same thing in his mind. Oh, there’s still a magician patrolling its borders, but it’s not him. Not the all powerful God that had watched over them before. Carnage must have sensed the oncoming downfall, and abandoned them in shame.
He wishes that he could do something about it, that he could restore the Valley to the powerhouse it once was. But he is only once stallion, and few horses seem to still follow the ways of Elite and her kin.
So he will have to downsize his dream, and settle for something smaller. A herd - a tiny kingdom of his own. The only problem is finding mares to fill it with. So far he has had little success in claiming mares for his herd, even though he has lowered his standards to include the untraited (they still have the potential for carrying his traited spawn after all). He has copulated with a few mares this season (drawn in, as they often are, by his impressive ability), but so far none of them have expressed any interest in living with him. Pity. Hopefully their offspring won't be worthless.
But, it's not enough. He wants a herd, and to have a herd, he needs mares. And so he has come to the meadow this time, scoping out the few mares brave enough to venture there during breeding season.
Most of the mares are accompanied unfortunately - likely a precautionary measure against rapists. Not that he can blame them, he supposes - he himself is not above such behaviour, though he has no intention of engaging in it at the moment.
He’s contemplating heading back into the field, when a roan mare catches his eye. He can’t see her face - it’s hidden in a patch of thick grass - but she seems passable enough, with a hint of tempting vulnerability. Her thin sides and scarred coat speak of a difficult past, which could make her either easier, or more difficult, to manipulate. He might as well find out.
He slips a charming smile on his face and approaches, then stops a respectful distance away and clears his throat to catch her attention. He knows that he must cut a very impressive figure - 17 hands of pure iron, his sides gleaming in the sun that streams down from above. Hopefully the combination of charm and induced awe will reel her in. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?”
K H A O S
iron son of carnage and oswyn
hell is empty and all the devils are here
Reference here
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