08-27-2018, 04:11 PM
it was a blood-soaked feast
that never ceased
that never ceased
There is silence amongst the blackness of his cave save for the sound of his hooves dragging against the smooth, damp stone and the way the vibrations cause the thin bones of past corpses to shiver and jolt delicately in the darkness. The riverlord stirs amid the ivory bones (nearly turned to dust with time and age) and the flesh of rotting carcasses. Her scent is stale yet ever-present, reminding him of blood and racing heartbeats and white-rimmed eyes. The stallion snorts, his nose wrinkling disdainfully as he remembers her (the memory is bitter, and the notion that he is able to recall such an emotion sends him into disgust).
She will return - he knows she will - and he will be waiting.
Until then, however, he will remain busy.
The water-mage had never truly understood loneliness (why it was something that others constantly tried to avoid or how it could make one feel so utterly hopeless), but there is a sense of the word floating somewhere in the recesses of his one-track mind, bumping against his skull and reminding him that he has indeed been alone for quite some time. It’s constantly there, thrumming like a weakening pulse as it throbs, forcing him to think thoughts he never had before and to trek out into the open forest with the slightest of hopes that perhaps someone would be at the still, black water of his lake.
The frigid air of autumn reminds him of the past year, where he had spent his company with a nameless soul from a distant island. The memory plays gently in his head (like a lullaby, and the stallion nearly smiles at the thought of the drowning) and for a moment there is a smoothing of his distraught as his hardened face softens. Dark evergreen legs - the color of moss, of algae - bring him to the precipice of the stagnant lake, staring into its reflection like a mirror with thoughts of his grip around throats and the small, delicate bubbles that rise from their nostrils as they twist in turmoil just beneath the surface.
Without much thought, he searches for something deep in the water. Appearing bottomless (but Maugrim knew better), small treasures and trinkets adorn the murky floor; though the drowned god searches for one thing. Expertly he plucks the smooth, emerald shell from its protective hiding place, pulling it from the depths with a mere thought. The water spirals gently around the bauble, spinning it upwards through the lakewater until it breaches the surface with a tiny, minuscule sound. The stallion swirls the shell in watery fingers, his nearly-black eyes reflecting the soft glow of jade from the magical trinket. It soothes him - to methodically twirl it with expertise, to think of nothing but its meaning to him and the beautiful, shining color that seems to be the only light in the dark, dismal forest.
She will return - he knows she will - and he will be waiting.
Until then, however, he will remain busy.
The water-mage had never truly understood loneliness (why it was something that others constantly tried to avoid or how it could make one feel so utterly hopeless), but there is a sense of the word floating somewhere in the recesses of his one-track mind, bumping against his skull and reminding him that he has indeed been alone for quite some time. It’s constantly there, thrumming like a weakening pulse as it throbs, forcing him to think thoughts he never had before and to trek out into the open forest with the slightest of hopes that perhaps someone would be at the still, black water of his lake.
The frigid air of autumn reminds him of the past year, where he had spent his company with a nameless soul from a distant island. The memory plays gently in his head (like a lullaby, and the stallion nearly smiles at the thought of the drowning) and for a moment there is a smoothing of his distraught as his hardened face softens. Dark evergreen legs - the color of moss, of algae - bring him to the precipice of the stagnant lake, staring into its reflection like a mirror with thoughts of his grip around throats and the small, delicate bubbles that rise from their nostrils as they twist in turmoil just beneath the surface.
Without much thought, he searches for something deep in the water. Appearing bottomless (but Maugrim knew better), small treasures and trinkets adorn the murky floor; though the drowned god searches for one thing. Expertly he plucks the smooth, emerald shell from its protective hiding place, pulling it from the depths with a mere thought. The water spirals gently around the bauble, spinning it upwards through the lakewater until it breaches the surface with a tiny, minuscule sound. The stallion swirls the shell in watery fingers, his nearly-black eyes reflecting the soft glow of jade from the magical trinket. It soothes him - to methodically twirl it with expertise, to think of nothing but its meaning to him and the beautiful, shining color that seems to be the only light in the dark, dismal forest.
m a u g r i m.