11-17-2019, 04:24 PM
He is perched somewhat oddly on an outcropping of red-gold sandstone, sitting unnaturally on his haunches with one black claw picking at the hard shell of his nostril. He sneezes - once, twice, three times - then returns to the delicate work of pulling feather dust and horse hair from the inflexible cavities in his cere.
The yearling was slow to come to Pangea. It wasn't that he hadn't heard that call as so many of the Others had, it was more that He was not Them, and so he had not assumed it referred to him. When the grey mare met him in the Meadow with her demons and shadows and the ice in her eyes, he had feared her, feared her through and through, and that has not changed. It has not changed, so the beaked youth has come, but he has not announced himself, keeping to the edges where the glossy black monsters hunt their prey through the box canyons. He fears them less, somehow, than the unassuming little dapple grey mare that rules here. Their strangeness make him feel less alone, though he makes no attempt to interact with them, nor they with him.
He has not come alone, Hippogryph is near as always, bristling and bullish and ready to defend, but ready, also, to reciprocate the intimate curl of her son pressing against her side when his loneliness is too great. A year under his spell has made her easy to manipulate, but mostly he lets the mare be, leaves her to her grazing and her quiet muttering. Her heart is soft under his touch, responds immediately when he tugs at it, and he thinks, for a moment, that he will call her, but the thoughts are interrupted suddenly by a rabbit and a dog-eared creature that burst into view near-by with a lick of thunder ringing behind them.
The thunder does not frighten him, but the horse awakens a familiar panic in his breast. The rabbit, though...
Almost without thinking, he reaches out. He cannot see the magic he extends to it, but he imagines it like a tendril, like a snake, slithering down the burrow until it finds the rapid beating heart of the she-rabbit, pulsing with fear from the chase. He cannot calm her fears but his touch lets her know that he loves her, reminds her that she should love him, and he would like to see her. By the time the colt is dropping down near the wolfish girl with a breathy hiss and and a rattling curse in the crows' language, the whiskered nose of the rabbit is at the burrow's mouth, smelling the air. She is cautious of the grey wolfmare, but Dreamscar jibbers at her in his most soothing voice.
It is not a very soothing sound, actually, if you are not already under his spell.
Come out, Little Rabbit.
She comes, slowly, still cautious of the mare, keeping the yearling between them. When she is close enough, she lays furred paws against the black scales of his foreleg, reaching up, and he drops his long head to catch her black gaze with his amber eyes. Her fur is brown and soft and smells faintly of the fresh earth dusting across her back. Gently, the rabbit touches her nose to his lowered cheek, grooming the long bearded hair that gathers there.
The colt purrs softly, and then he kills her.
She screams as the long talons of his other forelimb grab and crush, but they always scream and it no longer makes him cry. This is love, this is her love of him, her sacrifice. There is no sadness in it. One shining black claw finds her heart while the rest crush breath from her lungs, it is a quick thing. He does not make them suffer.
That is his love for her.
He has nearly forgotten the other horse, but he remembers now and the feathers gathered across his chest stand up in display as though to make him appear larger. He hisses again and pulls the limp rabbit beneath himself, protective of the small meal she will provide, then clambers awkwardly back up to his rocky perch on three legs. It is quick work to eviscerate the rabbit, to consume the innards and unceremoniously flick the remains from his ledge down below. For the wolfmare, for the crows, he does not care who takes the rest, but he takes the time to hiss at her a third time, a sound that dies in his throat as he realizes they are not alone at all. That there is another lurking nearby, dark where Dreamscar is pale, horned where he is beaked, but marked similarly with constellations and stars. The yearling growls softly at him.
The yearling was slow to come to Pangea. It wasn't that he hadn't heard that call as so many of the Others had, it was more that He was not Them, and so he had not assumed it referred to him. When the grey mare met him in the Meadow with her demons and shadows and the ice in her eyes, he had feared her, feared her through and through, and that has not changed. It has not changed, so the beaked youth has come, but he has not announced himself, keeping to the edges where the glossy black monsters hunt their prey through the box canyons. He fears them less, somehow, than the unassuming little dapple grey mare that rules here. Their strangeness make him feel less alone, though he makes no attempt to interact with them, nor they with him.
He has not come alone, Hippogryph is near as always, bristling and bullish and ready to defend, but ready, also, to reciprocate the intimate curl of her son pressing against her side when his loneliness is too great. A year under his spell has made her easy to manipulate, but mostly he lets the mare be, leaves her to her grazing and her quiet muttering. Her heart is soft under his touch, responds immediately when he tugs at it, and he thinks, for a moment, that he will call her, but the thoughts are interrupted suddenly by a rabbit and a dog-eared creature that burst into view near-by with a lick of thunder ringing behind them.
The thunder does not frighten him, but the horse awakens a familiar panic in his breast. The rabbit, though...
Almost without thinking, he reaches out. He cannot see the magic he extends to it, but he imagines it like a tendril, like a snake, slithering down the burrow until it finds the rapid beating heart of the she-rabbit, pulsing with fear from the chase. He cannot calm her fears but his touch lets her know that he loves her, reminds her that she should love him, and he would like to see her. By the time the colt is dropping down near the wolfish girl with a breathy hiss and and a rattling curse in the crows' language, the whiskered nose of the rabbit is at the burrow's mouth, smelling the air. She is cautious of the grey wolfmare, but Dreamscar jibbers at her in his most soothing voice.
It is not a very soothing sound, actually, if you are not already under his spell.
Come out, Little Rabbit.
She comes, slowly, still cautious of the mare, keeping the yearling between them. When she is close enough, she lays furred paws against the black scales of his foreleg, reaching up, and he drops his long head to catch her black gaze with his amber eyes. Her fur is brown and soft and smells faintly of the fresh earth dusting across her back. Gently, the rabbit touches her nose to his lowered cheek, grooming the long bearded hair that gathers there.
The colt purrs softly, and then he kills her.
She screams as the long talons of his other forelimb grab and crush, but they always scream and it no longer makes him cry. This is love, this is her love of him, her sacrifice. There is no sadness in it. One shining black claw finds her heart while the rest crush breath from her lungs, it is a quick thing. He does not make them suffer.
That is his love for her.
He has nearly forgotten the other horse, but he remembers now and the feathers gathered across his chest stand up in display as though to make him appear larger. He hisses again and pulls the limp rabbit beneath himself, protective of the small meal she will provide, then clambers awkwardly back up to his rocky perch on three legs. It is quick work to eviscerate the rabbit, to consume the innards and unceremoniously flick the remains from his ledge down below. For the wolfmare, for the crows, he does not care who takes the rest, but he takes the time to hiss at her a third time, a sound that dies in his throat as he realizes they are not alone at all. That there is another lurking nearby, dark where Dreamscar is pale, horned where he is beaked, but marked similarly with constellations and stars. The yearling growls softly at him.
Dreamscar
Carnage x Hippogryph
@[draco] @[Meiilyn]