03-07-2021, 11:29 PM
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Peace settles heavily on the gathered crowd like unwelcome fog. A few – stragglers – blow in behind her and she grabs them up in curls of serenity, too, like children cupped in the tender paws of Tranquility. Some fight against it and others drift along on the wave of her favor and the little chimera smiles her strange, stiff, smile. There is little to it that might be called friendly, but they may look back on it and think that it was. Memory is such a fickle thing, and she has grown adept with her gifts. Above them all, the sky turns a shade lighter as the first light of the shuttered, sickly, dawn reaches out from behind the swallowing moon and the ravenous clouds that greedily keep its light for themselves. Unsated. Manikin chirrups a soft understanding into the gloom. She, too, is never quite satisfied, never quite full. Like the bilious magic that stains Beqanna, Manikin has only darkness, emptiness, within, and nothing is hungrier than that vacuum of space where her heart ought to be.
The Fairies come to them looking like prey nearly worn down from a long chase. They will be on their knees, soon, prayers on their lips and their eyes lifted skyward to whatever gods such creatures might imagine. This is not their first war, the grim set of their lips says, but any war can be the last one. The beaked girl watches, and she listens, and despite the waves of peace still rolling from her skin, there is no soft place inside her for the plight of the otherworldly creatures, for the mangled souls that formed them. It does not matter to her what the reason is for their existence, for their malice, and she does not want to drive them from the land – or, at least, she does not care that they are here. The only thing she wants is the feel of their sharp teeth against the wrong side of her skin again.
One by one the tributes choose amongst themselves to distract or rescue. Surely they both mean death, but Manikin is not afraid of the Afterlife. She is not afraid to die. Did she not answer her grandfather’s call? Did she not suffocate under his weight and play at his feet while her corpse grew cold beneath them? Oh, it was a merry chase through the stripping fog that stole her skin away, gave her hooves and velvet lips that told the sweetest lies! She has no fear of <I>that</I> place (nor of the one after that stole her bones – and did Grandfather not give those back as well?) It makes the choice so easy. Manikin isn’t after new experiences, she isn't seeking honor, she wants to fill herself up again on lost souls, to gorge herself on their malevolence.
She is not a sacrificial lamb, she is a huntress and she makes the choice of a predator. <I>Rescue. </I>More or less.
</div></div><a href="https://www.deviantart.com/starrynightxxi/art/The-Hippogryph-868809565" style="padding-top:10px;">Image by ratty</a></center>
Peace settles heavily on the gathered crowd like unwelcome fog. A few – stragglers – blow in behind her and she grabs them up in curls of serenity, too, like children cupped in the tender paws of Tranquility. Some fight against it and others drift along on the wave of her favor and the little chimera smiles her strange, stiff, smile. There is little to it that might be called friendly, but they may look back on it and think that it was. Memory is such a fickle thing, and she has grown adept with her gifts. Above them all, the sky turns a shade lighter as the first light of the shuttered, sickly, dawn reaches out from behind the swallowing moon and the ravenous clouds that greedily keep its light for themselves. Unsated. Manikin chirrups a soft understanding into the gloom. She, too, is never quite satisfied, never quite full. Like the bilious magic that stains Beqanna, Manikin has only darkness, emptiness, within, and nothing is hungrier than that vacuum of space where her heart ought to be.
The Fairies come to them looking like prey nearly worn down from a long chase. They will be on their knees, soon, prayers on their lips and their eyes lifted skyward to whatever gods such creatures might imagine. This is not their first war, the grim set of their lips says, but any war can be the last one. The beaked girl watches, and she listens, and despite the waves of peace still rolling from her skin, there is no soft place inside her for the plight of the otherworldly creatures, for the mangled souls that formed them. It does not matter to her what the reason is for their existence, for their malice, and she does not want to drive them from the land – or, at least, she does not care that they are here. The only thing she wants is the feel of their sharp teeth against the wrong side of her skin again.
One by one the tributes choose amongst themselves to distract or rescue. Surely they both mean death, but Manikin is not afraid of the Afterlife. She is not afraid to die. Did she not answer her grandfather’s call? Did she not suffocate under his weight and play at his feet while her corpse grew cold beneath them? Oh, it was a merry chase through the stripping fog that stole her skin away, gave her hooves and velvet lips that told the sweetest lies! She has no fear of <I>that</I> place (nor of the one after that stole her bones – and did Grandfather not give those back as well?) It makes the choice so easy. Manikin isn’t after new experiences, she isn't seeking honor, she wants to fill herself up again on lost souls, to gorge herself on their malevolence.
She is not a sacrificial lamb, she is a huntress and she makes the choice of a predator. <I>Rescue. </I>More or less.
</div></div><a href="https://www.deviantart.com/starrynightxxi/art/The-Hippogryph-868809565" style="padding-top:10px;">Image by ratty</a></center>