bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Boredom bubbles in his veins, and he loathes it.
The land around him is quiet, Bright is off doing who-knows-what, and there is nothing of interest for him to study—not truly. He has recently resigned himself to meddling in the lives of those who pass him by in increasingly shallow and petty ways. How do they react when the land beneath them turns to water? How do they react when bad news filters through them—the voice of a lover’s transgression? His shoulder is caked with blood, the coppery scent of it rich in the air, but no matter how he plucked at the strings, manipulating the reality around them, he never was able to feign interest in the outcome.
They were all such silly, unimportant things.
Still, he is not an overly cruel stallion (although not particularly hung up on morals either), and he doesn’t stay for long—doesn’t needlessly draw out torture for his own amusement. Soon, he sighs and turns from them, letting them settle back into the dull patterns of their everyday lives, their everyday concerns.
Mindlessly, he turns from the abandoned kingdoms to the river.
The ground is wet and his heavy hooves sink into it, the mud rising up and staining the feathers on his legs. He sniffs, mildly annoyed, and rinses them clean with a flick of his ear. The magic is small and the price he has to pay is minimal, just a single drop of blood that stains his already stained shoulder. It is a worthwhile price to move through the land clean, the dirt repelling from his coat of mulberry,
Not caring if he moves or stays, not caring if he remains alone or if he is interrupted, the stallion finds a place to rest—the crashing of the river just far enough away for him to hear. One ear flips forward toward it, but he doesn’t bother lifting his head to examine it any further. He just sighs and waits.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
