09-11-2016, 09:28 PM
Loyalty is an unfamiliar curse that does not flow through his veins.
He does not tie himself to others, does not pledge himself to causes. Even though he is a young boy, still spindly in his youth, he recognizes that in himself. The only loyalty that could be argued was that of him to his father, the golden monster by his side, and even that could be argued as self-serving. He had things to learn from Pollock, tricks and skills to master—or, at least, he would as soon as he could get such gifts back from whatever cruel mistress saw fit to strip him of them.
He was not like his sire. He had not been born bare of the true Gifts; he had not known that from a young age. He had, instead, been given a sweet taste of Fear’s nectar and then had it taken from him. He had been allowed to walk down the mountain with nimble feet, generous horns curving beautifully from his skull. He had known what it meant to master your own body—to traverse dangerous paths without concern. He had even known the darker corners of his gift. He had seen beauty and art when he had pulled on the thread of Fear and the mare had collapsed. He had known love in that moment.
He had let her name him, unknowingly. He had loved her.
[He still thinks of her, coat of cream and eyes of emerald. He will think of it often.]
But then, then the faeries had stripped him of his gifts. Wrenched them from him for the sins of others and that would not do. That would not be an injustice he took willingly. So he walks next to his father, aching for the gifts of agility and speed that had been but briefly his own. He walks and then stands silently next to him as they pledge themselves to dark god—a magician of powers beyond his imagination. A dark god who had committed atrocities he could not comprehend. Bruise found he did not care of it much at all.
He would not pledge his loyalty or give unnecessarily, but he would stand behind him if he could get back what was his. He would join alongside his father if he was to take back what was rightfully his own. So he nods toward Carnage, surprisingly hard and stern for his age. He knew that Carnage did not need them, did not care for their best interests (he would not, if he was Carnage), but this, he does not care about either. He did not need the dark god to love him or protect him like a lamb. He needed Carnage to tear apart limbs and rip apart the earth until it spit up their gifts, until Fear once again was his to wield.
Bruise
head like a hole; as black as your soul.