a thousand teeth and yours among them; mast / any

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

The black stallions makes his way from the Dale as the large, gray warrior, letting himself fume when he is outside of their borders. He had played it perfectly—and yet they had still questioned. He had seen it in the way that they had closed ranks and questioned, in the way that their eyes had been narrowed, their body language tense. The fury he felt licked up his sides and scorched his throat; he had not felt thwarted like that since the mother tree had split the ground beneath his feet. Weed could only hope that he had been successful in planting seeds of doubt in his mind. He could only hope that they would believe.

Forcing himself to forget the anger, Weed shrugged off the disguise and resumed his normal appearance, long and lanky, the raven made of vines flying from its hiding spot to come rest upon his shoulder, the claws digging into the flesh and leaving scars next to the ones self-inflicted. This time, he does not run. Instead, he gives himself time to gain composure, to be ready for the next Kingdom—to not let the excitement of the raid be worn around him or the indignation of the Dale’s suspicious nature.

When he is close enough to the kingdom, Carnage’s magic takes hold again and Weed morphs. This time, he becomes a small, unassuming mare—some breed of pony, he reckons. His coat lightens to a creamy gold, and his mane and tail bleach to white. His face goes from lean and hard to soft and rounded, the features friendly. This would do, he thinks, before rearranging his expression into one of concern. The raven pushes off from him and into the sky, making its way once more into the trees to find a hiding spot.

Assuming a limp, Weed makes his way, hobbling, to the border, satisfied to still see the tree dying. Pulling his mouth into a frown, he lifts his small head and whinnies quietly, the sound breaking as if he was too nervous to complete the call. Weed gingerly lifts his front leg and holds it as if injured, swallowing and waiting for whatever lucky Gates resident was the first to find him and listen to his sad tale.

WEED

© oscar keys

[Kronk]

From above, the wicked shall receive their just reward

Once upon a time Kronk had liked strangers. Once upon a time, he had welcomed them. That had changed significantly in this past year. He felt old, though he was far from middle aged. He felt like a man who had too much time on his hands and too many worries. But still, beneath the lined, burdened face of the man he had become, there was the kind boy he had been. There was the boy who would have seen a strange mare and welcomed her. He would have been glad to see her, would have shown her the closest clover and fresh water.

The boy’s heart beat faster at the sound of her whinny. To him in sounded worried, high pitched and yet soft. After a little searching, he found her waiting near the outskirts of the Gates. The boy would have immediately run to her, but the man made him wait. He watched the stranger for a second, taking in her soft rounded face and her hurt leg. After a moment Kronk sighed.

He had become hard. Somedays, he was worried that he was also becoming cruel. Feeling like a damn fool, he dropped his hellfire and damnation act and approached her, eyes weary. He took in her appearance, again critical, and spoke after a moment.

“If you want that healed you’re in the wrong kingdom.” Indeed, a mare with a hurt leg would have done better to wander into the Falls and plead for their help. Kronk had no healing water to offer her. He had no blessed garden to sooth her. The stallion ground his teeth, reminding himself that he was being ungracious. Another moment passed and he sighed, feeling like an ass.

“I’m Kronk.” Still, he said it almost reluctantly. He didn’t know why he had a squirming feeling in his belly. He didn’t know why he felt like something was watching him, from high up in the trees. The stallion looked around, feeling both paranoid and crazy. What was it? This feeling he could not shake?

Kronk

[Mast]

I've heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord
but you don't really care for music do you?

The past few years had drastically changed his view of the world and her inhabitants. No matter how good he tried to be, there was always going to be those with discord and mayhem in their souls. No matter how much he tried to look on the bright side, there was always going to be those who lurked through the shadows. Perhaps he should have learned it earlier, but he’d been raised a sheltered prince. He couldn’t much remember the horror of his birth, and images of Garbage were more and more fleeting. Maybe he’d simply blocked those things out, unwilling to allow those nightmares into his rose-colored world. But it was high time he realized what was at there.

He wouldn’t be caught with his head in the sand again.

The stallion was wandering the border in his whitetail form when he heard her call. Immediately he raised his finely sculpted head, atop which sat an impressive set of antlers. They had grown even more impressive since he first learned his new skill, and this year he sported ten points in all, with thick main beams and high brow tines. His moist nostrils quivered as he filtered through the usual smells, searching for the unfamiliar. Finally he caught it, and his ears flickered in uncertainty. Thankfully inside the deers skull his own mind remained, and he wrested down the instinct to flee that which he didn’t understand. Instead he made his way to it, his neck outstretched and his head lowered in the typical fashion of a buck tracking towards an interloper. He was not the first to arrive: Kronk had beaten him to the punch, and Mast was only a bit surprised at his abrupt greeting. They had every right to be suspicious. “He’s right, you know.” he said by way of greeting, his eyes sweeping over the small mare. She was bigger than his current form, of course, but not by much. “Sadly, the Gates isn’t a healing kingdom. You’d be much better off to find the Falls.” He was about to add his name, but his inner deer was pleading for him to take action and to flee. Something wasn’t as it seemed, or at least it seemed that way to the deer. Perhaps, had he been in horse form, he would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary. But to the deer? Something was amiss.

M A S T

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

Oh good, more distrustful souls. Not that Weed really had anyone to blame but himself; after all, he did inject their mother tree with poison. Internally frowning, he kept a brace face, grimacing a little and giving a small, brave smile to the two stallions. “You’re right,” he glanced down at the favored leg and then rolled his little shoulders a little. “Maybe I will head there next, although I’ve heard that they haven’t been real generous with their healing waters lately.” Another small smile. “It’ll heal in time though.”

As if remembering himself, Weed straightened a little, “My name is Ann, by the way.” Weed inflicted his voice with a touch of a drawl, his voice throaty and whimsical and distinctly feminine. “I don’t know how much right I have to be here,” she nodded at the burning garden, “what with what has been happening to your poor kingdom and all, but I thought that you had a right to know.” His mouth dropped into a frown.

“You see, I was in the meadow yesterday (it’s where I live), and I happened upon two strangers just chattering away.” If horses could blush, he would here, but instead, he just ducks his head a little. “My ma always told me that I was a horrible eavesdropper, and I guess she was right, because that’s what I did. I hid away (I’m a’real good at hiding) and listened in because what they were talking about seemed really important. The big one was all agitated and pacing and the younger one was squeaking something fierce.”

Weed stops long enough to gulp for some air, “Anyway, I don't know if the names Finnley and Kaelie mean anything to either of you, but they kept saying them over and over—and then they kept mentioning the Gates. I didn’t catch everything because there was this damn bee that kept getting in my ears,” he stops for dramatic effect, tears welling in his big green eyes, “but I do know they said something about kidnapping them or killing them and how everyone was going to start fearing them Amazons soon enough.”

There is a long pause where Weed focuses on a spot just behind them, his big eyes going hazy and tears just beginning to well before he blinked rapidly, swallowing hard. “Well, that bee stung me and I was so surprised that I forgot where I was. I yelped and they saw me. I guess they didn’t like my eavesdropping one bit because they started a ruckus.” He motions to the leg, “Beat me up pretty good and told me they’d be back if I ever told anyone what I had heard.” Another small pause, a frown, “But my ma didn’t raise no cowards, and she would have wanted me to tell you all what I heard. Even if I don’t know what it means.”

He paused and then finished lamely, “So I guess that’s why I’m here.”

WEED

© oscar keys