04-14-2018, 12:43 PM
god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
He comes from deep inside the gut of the silent forest, moving with the shadows fluidly and silently. His stoic gaze - dark and unmoving - is locked on the small grouping ahead of him, and though something in his mind whispers prey, he ignores the necessity for blood. He remains in the shadow, lurking and listening, silently processing the scene before him. The mist of the woods shroud him and cling to him, drawn to the power that resides so deep in his blood and in his soul. He is dripping wet - barnacles shining dully in the dim and red light beneath the thickness of his damp mane, while algae - dark and green and wet - seems to grow from the steel-grey of his mane. The still lake - surrounded by boulders and pine needles and dark, twisting trees - is where he had emerged from, and his legs and lungs ache for him to return to the darkness of the water, to the bottom of the silted lake.
Maugrim sets his eyes on the obsidian man with the bright red muzzle, his pale lips twitching into a snarl. They come to him from seemingly nowhere, slithering beneath the shadow and nightmares to come towards the beast. There are still no words spoken - something that Maugrim can appreciate - as a tall and silent predator comes to stand beside the first, thin tongue licking at sharp and pointed teeth. A buckskin mare rushes past him, too focused on joining the fray to realize there is someone in the shadows, and the two-toned stallion side-steps with a roll of his dark eyes, his mouth opening as his ears pin instinctively against his neck. But she is already gone, joyfully calling out to the dark men before her with a voice that is nearly maniacal, if it wasn’t so cheery. He watches as the scene grows, and another stallion - dappled and marbled in the red light of Sylva.
The darkness within him calls to the brooding group of disaster that is forming before him, but he is too calculating and logical to show himself just yet. His solitary life begs him to remain just so - the bringer of a watery grave - to return to his oceans and rivers and lakes to collect his prizes and watch them wither away into skeletons picked clean by the fish. But there is an urge that causes him to step forward, to reveal himself, to the group just ahead.
He snorts sharply to announce his presence before he moves forward, each step squelching as water runs down the musculature of his evergreen and opalescent legs. He serves no king but the blackness that is in control of his soul, but there is darkness here, and there is madness, and his soul begs for more. Maugrim does not place himself close to the others, but enough to where it is clear of his intentions.
If they will not have him, he will drag him into his placid lake one by one.
Maugrim sets his eyes on the obsidian man with the bright red muzzle, his pale lips twitching into a snarl. They come to him from seemingly nowhere, slithering beneath the shadow and nightmares to come towards the beast. There are still no words spoken - something that Maugrim can appreciate - as a tall and silent predator comes to stand beside the first, thin tongue licking at sharp and pointed teeth. A buckskin mare rushes past him, too focused on joining the fray to realize there is someone in the shadows, and the two-toned stallion side-steps with a roll of his dark eyes, his mouth opening as his ears pin instinctively against his neck. But she is already gone, joyfully calling out to the dark men before her with a voice that is nearly maniacal, if it wasn’t so cheery. He watches as the scene grows, and another stallion - dappled and marbled in the red light of Sylva.
The darkness within him calls to the brooding group of disaster that is forming before him, but he is too calculating and logical to show himself just yet. His solitary life begs him to remain just so - the bringer of a watery grave - to return to his oceans and rivers and lakes to collect his prizes and watch them wither away into skeletons picked clean by the fish. But there is an urge that causes him to step forward, to reveal himself, to the group just ahead.
He snorts sharply to announce his presence before he moves forward, each step squelching as water runs down the musculature of his evergreen and opalescent legs. He serves no king but the blackness that is in control of his soul, but there is darkness here, and there is madness, and his soul begs for more. Maugrim does not place himself close to the others, but enough to where it is clear of his intentions.
If they will not have him, he will drag him into his placid lake one by one.
m a u g r i m.
either warrior or spy! whichever you think would be best for him. also send people you don't like to the lake, please.
