it was a blood-soaked feast
that never ceased
that never ceased
She comes from seemingly nowhere (he knows that’s not entirely true; everyone comes from somewhere, even a god like him) and the sudden sound of her voice as well as the announcement of her presence brings a snarl to his pale lips, their iridescent color rippling in the darkness. He does not lose focus on the emerald shell, for he is not that surprised by an onlooker and is neither charmed by what she might have to say. For a moment it appears as if he might ignore her (he is uninterested at first, his dark eyes solely fixated on the twirling jade gem), but her last words cause his abysmal gaze to shift to her with a sinister click.
She now has his undivided attention.
The Ischian shell still spins in his grasp, expertly wielded by his craft even though his gaze no longer focuses on its soft, green glow. You’re a pretty thing, he murmurs silently to himself, though looks and beauty never truly fueled him in the way other things do. She’s pretty in the sense she is collectible, just like everything else is to him - a trinket to be played with, an item to be sculpted and molded to whatever he wished them to be. The reason? Merely because he could.
Wonder who you had to kill to get that. He has already started walking towards her the moment the last words left her lips, a curious and terrible grin spreading across the cracked dryness of his mouth. “Do you, dearie?” Do you wonder? Her voice is confident and full of charm, making the drowned god believe that there is more to the teal and violet mare than meets the eye. She alludes to much more, despite her few words.
The stallion draws the moisture into his skin as he leaves the muddied shoreline of his lake to draw closer to her, keeping tendrils of his two-toned mane and forelock damp against the silver-pearl and deep green of his neck and face. The shell follows, still entrapped in a casing of murky lake water, a snake like tube of it continuing to rise from the lake itself. “It doesn’t matter who,” he mentions flippantly as he stalks towards her, dark eyes roving each expanse of her beautifully patterned skin, wondering if how much force it would take to pierce the glowing shell between her skull, “not when they are only bones and dust, now.”
Maugrim halts before her, a breadth away as the sound of his dripping mane and tail become the only sound in the silent woods around them.
“I wonder,” he begins, parroting her earlier words, “what trinket I could get if I kill you.” Behind him, the tendril of water spiraling from the lake hovers just over his shoulder like a viper, poised to strike with the glowing shell as its head.
She now has his undivided attention.
The Ischian shell still spins in his grasp, expertly wielded by his craft even though his gaze no longer focuses on its soft, green glow. You’re a pretty thing, he murmurs silently to himself, though looks and beauty never truly fueled him in the way other things do. She’s pretty in the sense she is collectible, just like everything else is to him - a trinket to be played with, an item to be sculpted and molded to whatever he wished them to be. The reason? Merely because he could.
Wonder who you had to kill to get that. He has already started walking towards her the moment the last words left her lips, a curious and terrible grin spreading across the cracked dryness of his mouth. “Do you, dearie?” Do you wonder? Her voice is confident and full of charm, making the drowned god believe that there is more to the teal and violet mare than meets the eye. She alludes to much more, despite her few words.
The stallion draws the moisture into his skin as he leaves the muddied shoreline of his lake to draw closer to her, keeping tendrils of his two-toned mane and forelock damp against the silver-pearl and deep green of his neck and face. The shell follows, still entrapped in a casing of murky lake water, a snake like tube of it continuing to rise from the lake itself. “It doesn’t matter who,” he mentions flippantly as he stalks towards her, dark eyes roving each expanse of her beautifully patterned skin, wondering if how much force it would take to pierce the glowing shell between her skull, “not when they are only bones and dust, now.”
Maugrim halts before her, a breadth away as the sound of his dripping mane and tail become the only sound in the silent woods around them.
“I wonder,” he begins, parroting her earlier words, “what trinket I could get if I kill you.” Behind him, the tendril of water spiraling from the lake hovers just over his shoulder like a viper, poised to strike with the glowing shell as its head.
m a u g r i m.