every scar will build my throne; T/w any

[Vercingetorix]

	There are often misconceptions of death, so my mother tells me. She told me about my grandmother, a beautiful golden mare, with eyes like ice, but a soft tongue. I thought as I yawned, that it was going to be another tedious tale, but no, it was one worded in a way that made me think of death, of how someone could be driven to die by their own hand, or even kill another. It seemed so simple, so easy to take away a life, but perhaps it was always the thoughts that accompanied such a task that drove them mad. My mother had taken lives, she told me with a glistening of memory in her eyes. She had taken their lives, because they would have taken hers (in a way, of course, not literally.) so, it was like an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A life, for, well, freedom. My mind tweaks and turns, like spinning cogs and wheels, just whilst I watch the colt, his fascination with the soon-to-be-dead animal. My lips twitch in a form of a smirk. 'No.' I say, and it comes out far darker than I intend, the shadows line my grey face, darkening my facade even more. 'No. He must learn what it is like to suffer, what it is like to wish for death. Death would have been easy for him. Learning to withstand the suffering, not so much.' my smirk seemed to twist at all angles. A chuckle, dark and deep fell from my lips. I turned my head to observe the brush, wondering if the squirrel had made it somewhere, home, perhaps. Or maybe in the jowls of another predator. 'Then I will make sure I will stand well back, I wouldn't want a knife embedding into my back now, would I?' There is good humour in my laugh. A sliver of irritation of my mother. My father was right, to name me something so frivolously long, it would be a burden. But perhaps, perhaps I could make it my own. 'Raelynx.' I taste his name on my tongue. Remembering it to his face. There is not many youngsters in the chamber, not at all. And even little in the playground it seems, well, hardly any considerably worth my attention. But Raelynx. He made me think. 'Where do you come from, Raelynx?' for he smelt nothing of the Chamber, no pine, nor earth. In fact, I was having quite a hard time placing his scent. Was he a wanderer, a rogue drifting along? The idea seemed fanciful for a moment. A drifter, a shadow.