"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
They say to understand light you must first experience darkness, and the dark god has found that the reverse is just as true. It’s too easy, to just give them monsters – to truly shape them, he must know what’s in their heart, what manifests when they are at their best.
Give them hope, only to reclaim it.
There is only so much misery one can take before it ceases to matter, and so, he tries his best to balance. He gives them this chance, this tainted deal. Most take it. One – his brief, sweet lover – does not, and he lets her go into the wasteland, to deliver their star-stricken daughter.
He collects his tolls, pieces of them – some physical, some abstract, some only to be discovered later – and he lets their paradise unspool.
Ledger comes back half mad, or perhaps completely mad. He throws a tantrum, and his eyes gleam fever bright, and Carnage is bored of this man whom he had taken twice now. He ends it, here, a guttural word and Ledger is gone, released back into his home with new scars and new brands. He keeps the boy’s heart, though, as a trophy. He replaces it with glass, his own subtle mockery that will only be felt as a certain aching strangeness in the chest.
The rest, he keeps. There is one final game. One final test, to rend and tear what’s left of their sanity, their hope.
They knew sweetness, in the paradise, however they defined it. Family or children or lovers or power.
They made. Now, they must unmake.
How terrible it is to love something that death can touch, the saying goes, and indeed, it’s a terrible thing – and so easy to exploit.
They’re caged and helpless, so he sends them help. The final key. The way out.
But, as always – there’s a catch.
Into their stalls walks a great love. This appears in different ways, for some love family more than another individual, some have children. Some may love only themselves. Some may love nothing, and for those, he has nothing to give.
“To escape,” he says, “you must destroy the thing you love.”
Here, the darkness. There is light, somewhere, but it’s at the end of a very long tunnel.
“Or,” he says, “you can stay. Sacrifice yourself instead. The choice is yours.”
A false choice, of course, because none of them had chosen to be his playthings – but playthings they have become, creatures to break and burn.
He is quiet then, waiting for one last show. One last finale.
NOTES:
Tangerine withdrew and escapes unscathed (save for some dehydration and hunger; and the brand). Ledger was sent back because Carnage achieved his goal of making him pretty much go crazy. He’s also sending Ledger away with a glass heart (0 space trait, feels strange and light and empty but keeps him alive).
Final round! You’re back in the cage, and Carnage sends in some great love of yours – mother, father, sister, brother, child, lover, dear friend, whatever. This can be a real character, or a made up one they met outside of BQ or in their paradise they built in the last round. If it’s not in your character’s nature to love, their own self appears. To get free, they have to kill it. Or, if that’s not in your character’s nature, they can choose to sacrifice themselves instead, either by killing themselves (not for real, obviously), or agreeing to be Carnage’s prisoner for an indeterminate amount of time.
Also, since I know some of these horses in the quest are entangled, no one can see anyone else in this round, they have no idea it’s happening to others.
You have until Friday, October 6th, at 11:59 PM CST to respond. Results will hopefully be posted next Saturday, Sunday at the latest.
As always, PM me with any questions <3 thanks for indulging me in this!
Love.
Was it even a real feeling or just fantasy?
It comes in so may forms and too often it waivers. Once you loved one thing and another something totally the opposite.
I had never felt love, so as I lie broken on the cold dirt of my cavern cell I hardly lift my skull to view what was coming for me. This time there were iron bars caging me. Preventing my escape if I found life worth living. At this point, why bother. My family was dead. Not once but twice I was tricked into the depths of my own worst fears. I was alone, and now I knew it.
A familiar voice echoed around me. The same voice that had presented itself here before. To escape, you must destroy something you love... Or you can sacrifice yourself. It's your choice.... If there had been a menacing cackle it would have all been to predictable. My thoughts go to my family, bloated and dead on the grey silt. Had I even loved them? How can you love someone you do not even know?
My head rises from the dirt as I force my damp body to stand. Ebony ears flattened to my skull. My scarlett eyes burned with anger as I lunged for the cell door. Narrowing my eyes to the figure loaming in the shadows. Venom laced words hiss from my lips, "What if I am incapable of love? What then?"
No figment of my imagination would appear. There was no one. Never has been. It was always just me. Even then, I can't say I loved myself...
Dynast
Friends with the Monsters
I guess she remains prisoner since there is no one for her to kill... Or whatever Carnage wants to do with her
Feast is fast becoming used to the screams that ring through the cavern and the prison that holds him. He is content to munch on a mixture of stale hay and grass, and sip from a puddle of brackish water. His needs are met and there is a song in the agony that pervades the air with it’s howling noise that he listens to, even sleeps to, having grown accustomed to it. Screams like these never sounded half as sweet to him until now. Perhaps it is the last lingering taste of power that he’d had that muddles his senses and renders him a sedate captive as he waits.
He never has to wait long because the dark god’s voice rings out to him -
“To escape,” he says, “you must destroy the thing that you love.”
Feast narrows his black eyes; he doesn’t love much - Famine, his twin and Sinew, his mother. That’s about it. Maybe even the little fanged sister, Femur. Could it be one of them that comes to him? He can see light in the darkness then the light is blocked and he tenses, the expectation is that it will be either the twin brother he faces, the mother that bore him up from that original darkness, or the littlest sister that he feels some shred of fondness for. Lo and behold, it is neither of them! Much to his surprise!
What blocks the light is none other than himself - - an exact replica that still retains the wing he had given up in the dark god’s last test. His mouth drops open as he stares in shock at himself. Feast loves only himself? The realization makes sense… but not so much in that he only loves himself, just that he loves himself best - better than he can love his twin, his baby sister, or his mother. That rationalization strikes him as accurate as his doppelganger matches him look for look, but then the look changes and Feast #2 begins to sneer.
“You never loved them, don’t lie to yourself.” says Feast-copy to the original.
“You only think you loved them but love is for losers. Are you a loser?” his tone is goading, and it sounds like Feast but also isn’t Feast - it is Famine’s voice, as if it pulls on the shreds of attachment he still has for those few he counts as family and gives importance to.
Feast stares at himself, still aghast at how real and solid this personification of himself seems to be. It shouldn’t be but it is but the goading gets into his gut, curdles there and he sneers back before answering in a growling tone, “No!” It has more vehemence than he meant to muster. “I just didn’t realize I loved myself more.” here, his tone grows more sinister and whatever decency had ever existed in his eyes dies the way that light does when swallowed up by darkness. How fitting.
The original Feast advances on the duplicate Feast, taking one step after another forward now that he realizes the stall he’s been kept in has been opened. More of the dark god’s tricks, even though he cannot recognize that this too, is one of them - this mirrored self that glares back at him in challenge. However the duplicate Feast does not begin to shake or cower, nor does he back down - he bows up, puffs out his chest and arches his neck, blowing hot harsh breath after breath out of his nostrils as he builds up to a snort. Come to me, his mannerisms seem to say and the original Feast can do nothing but obey some deeply bred instinct to face off against another stallion, even if that stallion is himself.
Original Feast paws a hoof at the stony ground and only stops when he is nose to nose with himself. Both of them squeal and flag their tails and it appears that they will fight but then, both of them grow so very still and that it is almost hard to see if either of them is still breathing. It grows very quiet and then! - duplicate Feast makes the first strike by snapping his yellowing teeth near original Feast’s delicate nostrils. Feast jerks his head back, squealing again and he is incensed, maddened by how he must fight himself but he does.
Each of them mimics the other, a beautiful pantomime of flesh and fighting as they rear back on their haunches, lock forelegs and bash their skulls together. Teeth nip at tender parts of the skin and hooves scrape along ribs and flanks; kicks are thrown out as they spin and whirl and somehow a cloud of dust has been raised up from along the cavern floor. It gets in their eyes and lungs as they battle each other - as Feast fights himself again and again, until at least, they stand there in a face off, sides heaving and both of them grunting just a little.
“I’ll kill you.” he vows to himself.
Feast #2 grins recklessly at the original Feast, “You can’t kill what you already are.”
The original Feast has no idea what that means - not yet anyway, but it gives him a new sort of endurance and he lunges at himself, rearing up and then coming down with both hooves on his own skull. The pain the duplicate feels is felt inside the original and he sinks to his own knees, sickened by it. Original Feast has almost crushed his duplicate’s skull - almost, but stunned him enough to leave him unable to rise up and fight again. He clambers to his feet, a feat that is near impossible given the immense amount of pain he is since he is battling himself and feels every blow and every wound twice over that they’ve given to each other - to himself.
Feast groans but stands, even if slightly swaying, above himself. There is a glimmer of victory in his black eyes as he looks down upon himself and the bloodied wing spilling feathers across the cavern floor. He is not done - not yet, and he begins by breaking the wing off his opponent in a slow torturous way that so Feast #2 screams time and time again and by the time his screaming how grown quiet, the original Feast has a headache that won’t go away but he figures that is the price he will just have to pay. An ounce of pain for every ounce of flesh he extracts from himself. If anything, it was like reliving the last round in which he gave up the wing in the first place - having it broken off and the feathery nub on his wither stings with an old familiar pain all over again.
“Killing me is killing you.” scoffs Feast #2 through a miasma of pain.
Feast gives no answer to himself. This is what the dark god said he must do - kill that which you love and since it seems that Feast loves only himself the best, he must finish the job. The blow to the head and the breaking off of the wing had not been enough to slaughter himself but it had been enough to sharpen his resolve with every sharp stab of pain felt by them both.
Then he thinks back to an earlier test where he ate his older half-brother’s heart and it comes to him then, that this is what he must do. So he sets about with blunt teeth and hooves not meant to cut as he works on shredding first the stomach open to the point that he disembowels himself and this is a new agonizing sensation as he steps on his own guts spilling across the floor. He then works his way up towards the chest, still ripping and tearing as best as he can but it a clumsy and tedious job and he has no idea how much time has passed. Time here though, has no meaning.
But now he must break through a different cage - one of bone, as he reaches the ribs and can see inside, the still beating heart because despite it all, Feast is still not dead - not yet. He will be soon enough! Because the triumphant light in his eyes grows brighter, more feverish as he paws and stomps his way forcefully into the chest cavity and he can hear himself groan and moan and scream every now and then. Those sounds seem to come from his own throat and the pain almost makes him black out - he can barely see the Feast on the ground that struggles and struggles again, then goes still.
All he can focus on now is the heart.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It is a slow beat that slows even further and Feast nuzzles it tenderly as if it was a newborn foal. He draws his head back a few inches then strikes hard and fast with mouth open and teeth bared. Feast rips the heart from Feast’s gaping bloodied chest and shakes it about like a dog with a bone. He lets it drop upon his own side and begins to eat it piece by piece. Feast feels a certain terror in this as he consumes himself - his own heart, and the heart inside him begins to slow down to a stutter that is not natural. Am I dying? Is his final thought before he blacks out.
The original Feast and his duplicate blur together until there is but one Feast on the ground, bloodied and unconscious and barely breathing. It makes no difference if it is the real Feast or not - there is one there, in Carnage’s lair and he’d killed himself because that was the only choice he could make. Make or unmake. Well, he’d unmade himself as the dark god had suggested.
Feast killed himself if it wasn't obvious because I like hardcore torturing my ponies. <333
Don't try to stop me now, don't you make a sound. You've built yourself up oh so high just to tear me down.
She can no longer feel the ache behind her hip where teeth and claws had dug into her supple flesh – she can no longer feel the pulsating of her blood pouring from her empty, sullen eye socket, for a clot has finally formed, and though it is stiffened and sore from the absence, she cannot tell it apart from the numbness of her mind. She is coiled up, with a battered wing draped over her side with the once pristine feathers (now tainted, unkempt) outstretched to keep her seeping wounds from prying eyes. Her heart is heavy and sordid inside of her chest, and she cannot suppress the bitterness rising inside of her throat like an acrid bile – why had he not taken her heart, instead?
Why had he not taken what she no longer had a use for?
Cold, callous, bleeding and broken –
Ledger had cast her away, with accusation and supposition made. He had no faith in her, in them, and so it is just as well that he has shattered her heart – like father, like son.
(would she leave him to die if given the chance, as he had done to her?)
Dahmer – she cannot bear to think of him; of what might have happened to him –
Had he been thrust into a world of fickle fantasy as she had? Was he once more bound to the steel and iron cage that she was? She does not look for him – she cannot hear beyond the stifling, suffocation of her own angry, sorrowful thoughts echoing loudly in her own mind – her one eye is closed tightly, sheathing her from the darkness and from what might lay before her outside of her confinement.
The imagery of her children, wandering and forlorn – searching for their mother, for their fathers, for an eternity – it does haunt her. She can only hope that Dahmer had found a way to escape; that he had found a way to run. She can only hope that Carnage has taken from Ledger what she would, if given the power, if given the opportunity - she would tear his bleeding, pathetically beating heart right out of his chest.
Her children held what fragmented pieces of her broken heart remain – the rest no longer mattered.
Her quiet reverie of simmering fury is interrupted by the heavy clang of metal releasing metal, grinding across a too-worn, rusted and corroded track – slowly, the passageway of her enclosure is drawn back, and the cold had already begun to creep in, crawling across the grime and grit of the cobblestone that lay beneath her. It envelopes her, sending a shiver traversing the length of her coiled spine, stirring the filthy and soiled feathers that lay across her battered wing into a bristling frenzy. She can sense the presence of another, but the darkness is too much for her single eye and her aching, empty eye socket to bear.
“To escape,” he says, “you must destroy the thing you love.”
There is nothing else. She cannot hear him – only the echo of what was, of his humor-laced voice, wry and wicked, reverberating off unseen, invisible barriers that keep her barred in. Caged in, like a wild and rabid animal – no longer is she an animal of prey; her anger is raw and hot and unyielding, and she’d stop at nothing to tear the flesh out from his neck, to silence him, teeth of prey be damned.
Love, over and over, it echoes, and her mind imagines Ledger standing before her, bleeding and broken, and in her blind fury and heaving, devastating ache, she might. She might destroy him, take the tender marrow of his bones and crush them beneath her weight, pin him to the dark and unforgiving ground with an array of long, coiling spikes wrought from the bones of her own body. She might collapse against him, feeble and weak - no, never weak; she loathed the thought of it and the heartache is swallowed by the white-hot rage surging within her veins. She would never allow herself to be so vulnerable again – he had taken her heart, tender and fragile, and he had decimated it, handing the brittle ashen remains of it to her and left her to die.
Slowly, carefully, she rises – standing at last, her chest broad and her stance wide, as each wing flexes to the side, poised for violence; yearning to be freed from her imprisonment, to nourish and nurture her son and daughter who had been born of lust and nothing more (she can see the error of her way; she had always known there was nothing of her to love – she had been a fool to think otherwise. Quietly, the eerie darkness is stirred by movement, and what lay before her is enough to steal the air from her lungs, and nearly cause her weary and worn legs to buckle beneath the burden of truth.
One leg, then two – then three, and four, and five - six legs emerge from the shadow, seamlessly moving toward her with grace befitting a creature of flight. Coiled upon his spine are paper-thin, intricately designed wings, allowing each one to shield his flank with their thick but nonetheless fragile chitlin. Along the slender slope of his neck lay bare skin, paler than her own, trailing up to his gaping ear-holes and the long, curling feathered antennae perched above his brow, where large, glimmering compound eyes lay – glistening, glaring in the sudden and obtrusive light shining down from above. His face is gaunt (as slender as she remembered in her youth – deeply dished, where her pale lips had long ago brushed its final kiss – a goodbye she had never intended to be forever). Elysium. Her father, her heart.
A deep, shaking sob has begun to wrack her body, as the salty brine of her own tears begin to fall from her single, bleary eye, standing the gilded surface of her cheek. ”Daddy,” she whispers, the once lost child emerging from within, trembling and uncertain as her warm breath reaches for his own, to feel him, to envelope herself in his warmth – but she cannot, she will not, and as his own mouth brushes across the bridge of her nose, her nostrils flare to wrap herself within his familiar scent.
”Ellyse,” he murmurs softly, ”you have become such a disappointment – I hoped for so much more from you,” and she is crushed, her heart shattering tenfold within the tightness of her chest, while the blood roils furiously inside of her veins, flooding her with adrenaline and a tremor of disbelief.
”You don’t mean that,” she whispers, turning her cheek away to hide what is bare and raw and gone, with little else but a gaping wound to show for what has been taken from her.
”I do,” he urges, as his proboscis slowly emerges from between his pale, withdrawn lips, caressing her muzzle and drawing her back into the light, where the fragmented pieces of his vision can see what lay where beauty had once been – now broken, bleeding – a shadow of what she had once been. ”you were meant for so much, for power, for presence, and you let a fickle heart stand in your way. Have I taught you nothing?”
Never underestimate your strength, never overestimate your weakness.
And she had!
Oh, she had - her heart, her weak and pathetic heart had been her downfall.
She had failed him; she had failed herself –
”- what do I do?” she breathes, the polarity of her aching, broken heart becoming numb, as the sheer weight of his disappointment is settled between the weary bones of her shoulders.
"Show me that you are more than what you have become – prove to me that you are not the weak and faltering thing that is standing before me.”
How, she does not ask – a tendril has found its way into her mind, whispering softly, you must destroy the thing you love.
Destroy, the insidious voice echoes – it echoes, and it echoes! – and the anger and the resentment and the sorrow and despair return to her at once, seeping from her pores, fueling her with vehemence and vengeance and a longing to be. Show me, he urges - destroy, says the other – escape, escape - her daughters, her sons – she had to escape.
A guttural cry emerges from her throat, as her neck sharply lurches to the left before, being thrown toward the tender column of her father’s neck as her forelegs rise with the sheer force of her body making impact with his own, knocking him against the iron bars and causing his four forelegs and two hind legs to buckle beneath him. Stunned, the complexity of his compound vision is unblinking but struggling to focus upon her, blearily looking up to the vision of rage and light looming over him.
(destroy, destroy, destroy)
(disappointment)
(show me)
(prove to me)
(weak, destroy)
”Ellyse, I –“
”I –“ she growls, rearing up and crushing her weight onto his brittle and fragile shoulder, as the delicate chitlin of his wingspan is left crumbling and falling away to dust, as a cry of anguish echoes into the darkness. ”- AM –“ she snarls, rising again to urge her adrenaline-laced energy into his skull, pressing against the fragile bone of his eye socket, puncturing his eye and crushing the bone beneath. ”ENOUGH!” she bellows, pounding, stomping, slaughtering her kin beneath her rage, as her lungs fill with the ashy stench of death and the dampness of spilled blood, as her lifeless father lay before her.
As the hatred and the fanning flame of anger slowly dissipates, it is so filled with grief, brim to brim and leaving her eyes hot and stinging with unshed tears. She does not cry for him – she does not mourn her loss; her dying heart lay barely beating inside of its iron cage as she does, too, before lunging toward the light promised to her in return.
Nothing would stand in her way.
I'm not going to change, so stay out of my way. I don't need you to understand that I'm already saved
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT & SATISFACTION BROUGHT HIM BACK
His turquoise blue eyes remain closed. There's nothing he wants to look at, anyway.
He had lost his family. Again. His wings. His immortality. His very soul.
The black beast does not move from the musty floor. His sides heave for a few moments but then his breathing has a chance to slow, and Dahmer's chest feels heavy. So heavy. He does not dread opening his eyes, the thought of it does not make fear rise in his chest as it had done the first time he awoke in this cell -- instead, he's simply too weary and broken to put in the effort.
After a time, his heartbeat returns to normal. His shallow breaths are calm and steady. The thoroughbred's forehead throbs, heated and uncomfortable beneath Carnage's brand. It pulls a groan from Tephra's Commander and he jerks his head upward to get the tangled strands of his forelock out of the wound. He shifts slowly, testing his limbs for injury; they seem trustworthy despite the massive gouges in his shoulders. He considers opening his azure eyes to study the cell (perhaps there is a weak wall again, though he does not believe that Carnage will play the same game twice), but just then the musty air grows warmer, as if he's been joined by another.
Dahmer's nostrils flutter to inhale sweat and blood. Carnage's voice resounds in the dark cell but the black beast refuses still to open his eyes. The sound of small hooves on the hard ground rises above the Dark God's voice and dread creeps into Dahmer's head. He doesn't even have to look, doesn't want to look, can't look at the the being he loves more than anything else in the world. How foolish it is to love someone so much, he thinks almost whimsically as he forces himself to open his eyes.
The black stallion groans softly as his battered frame rocks upward, slowly bringing himself to his hooves. Dahmer's bones ache and his head stings but he still finds it in him to smile, bleary-eyed, at his yearling son. "Hey there, buddy," the black beast murmurs to the bone-armored boy. Tears begin to stream down his dark cheeks and all of his other pains are forgotten - his wings, his immortality, his old life pale in comparison to the bright-eyed colt before him. He would give it all up again, and again (bound, like Sisyphus, to hell), if it meant that his son would always be safe.
"What's wrong, dad?" Smoak asks with a shaky voice and blatant worry and it breaks Dahmer's heart. His lower lip quivers and his throat is so tight as he slowly reaches his muzzle out to the colt. He lets it run across Smoak's cheek before pulling back and whispering painfully, "I'll see you when I get home," a sob threatens to erupt from his chest, "I promise I'm coming back."
"What do you mean?" the boy asks with panic, "Dad?"
Dahmer rushes forward, a heart-wrenching scream echoing in the enclosure as his body collides with Smoak's and then they're both colliding with the wall. Dahmer sobs as the champagne boy's frame slumps against the wall. He backs up slowly, letting his son's small, unconscious body slide gently to the ground. He couldn't attack the yearling until he was beaten to death, couldn't listen to crunching bone or pained screams. There had to be something... less violent.
Dahmer lowers his own frame to the ground, perpendicular to Smoak's head. He cries freely now, the heaving inhales rocking his dark, bleeding frame. He rolls to his side slowly, trapping Smoak's head beneath his black body to suffocate him. The Commander pinches his eyes closed and tries to calm his shaky, alarming breaths. He waits, un-moving except for his sobs, until finally the champagne chest of his son no longer searches for air. Dahmer stays for a long while, too afraid to leave the cell and face another monster (but what else is there?), too horrified to turn and look at the dead body of the son that Carnage had presented him with.
The catatonia eventually ebbs away and Dahmer raises his shaky, dark body to its legs and lumbers slowly into the light that has appeared where the cell wall had been.
A part of her was desperate to show her distress – show, since she was not able to do it audibly by crying out loudly in a whinny. To walk around in circles in her cell, hooves sliding over the slippery stones. Slippery due to her own stool. Distress had made her want to flick her tail up to do so, but that only reminded her of the stomp with a few blonde hairs that was now her tail.
Food and water untouched, or perhaps it wasn’t even there. Marigold didn’t bother to look. She wasn’t hungry… No, scratch that. She ís hungry, but not calm enough to actually eat. Nauseous too, the distress and fear holding her in a tight gasp. With the darkness the eyes had come back to haunt her. And haunting her they did. Marigold would swear they sometimes reached out to touch her, sending shivers up her spine and making her jolt with an audible cry as she jumped forward. But every time when she turned around, there was nothing to be seen again.
Another part wanted to just huddle in the corner and cry. Cry of that what she was missing, for her happy paradise bubble that had burst. She had felt loved, cared for, safe. Longclaw had looked after her. Like he had promised he would. It simply made her very depressed, Marigold needed her blue protector. But instead, she was now alone. So utterly alone. Or wasn’t she?
Of course she isn’t. Hé had come for her, simply because he wasn’t done playing yet. Her paradise already destroyed. And he would continue destroying until nothing was left of her. ”To escape..” His first two words have all her attention, and she’s desperate to hear how to free herself, how to escape. Because Marigold longs to get back to Longclaw. Even with the anti-wolf brand and her now short tail. She needs her guide and guardian more than ever. She would do anything. ”.. you must destroy the thing you love.”
Or maybe not. His words are like a slap into the face. She stumbles backwards further into the corner too, her lowered head rising a little as her hazel eyes widen. This must be a joke, this couldn’t be true. How could she kill Longclaw? The thought alone has Marigold shaken. Tears well up in her eyes as desperation grows. She needed him. She needed his guidance, his protection, him. Around her. And he couldn’t be if she killed him. In distress she lifts her right foreleg, to scrape her hoof over the ground. No. ”Or..” That was all he needed to say to pull her out of her panicked thoughts. ”you can stay. Sacrifice yourself instead.”
Oh yes, Marigold wanted out. Wanted to go back to Longclaw. But she couldn’t when he was gone. And how was she supposed to kill him? One look and she would submit, lower herself and give in and thus sacrifice herself.
But when the cell door opens – this time it had been locked – it’s not Longclaw who walks in. Instead of that she finds herself staring into another very familiar face. One she hasn’t seen in ages. One she wasn’t even sure if she were still alive. With a sinking heart Marigold realises that Longclaw isn’t the one she loved most. If she even loved him at all. Yes, she wanted to love him, and yes she desperately needed him. But did she love him? Maybe.
Slowly Diorae – Marigold is the mare that Longclaw helped shaping, Diorae the one with a past – rises her head, ears hesitantly turning forwards as her hazel eyes start to shine. For a moment she forget the task on hand and takes a tiny step away from the corner she had been huddled into. Her whole body language creamed motherly – or grandmaly – love. If she had been able to speak, she would’ve gently asked ‘Edward, sweetie, is that you?’ Her one and only grandson. And didn’t a grandmother always love and spoil their one and only grandchild?
A palomino, just like herself and her daughter Holli. Diorae remembers seeing him as a newborn colt, still fuzzy with his baby coat and hiding the beautiful dapples, which are showing now. He’s bigger than she remembers, but she doesn’t realise that he isn’t as big as he should be. She had been away from Beqanna for quite a couple of years.
With hím silent and the sudden awareness of her grandson, Diorae temporary forgets about their surroundings, the danger, and most of all, her task. The first few hesitant steps are soon followed by more and with tears rolling down her cheeks she cradles the boy against her chest. He feels solid, alive, and she can feel his heart beat is she keeps still enough. Both her ears are pinned forward now. There is not a spot on his body that she leave undiscovered, kissing, gently lipping and nuzzling him all the way from top to bottom. Edward was still alive. He had survived the change. It made Diorae hopeful that her own daughter was doing well too. If she could only ask..
That was something Diorae would do. Marigold not so much. Marigold didn’t speak, let alone ask things. Marigold accepted and obeyed. And it was Marigold who wanted desperately to go back to Longclaw. Would her longing for Longclaw be bigger and stronger than Diorae’s love for her grandson?
The boy talked and talked, telling his grandma about all his accomplishments. How hard he could run, who he had beat, his discovery journeys through the lands, from forest to beach and beyond the eye could see. Like a child, he doesn’t notice that his words fall to deaf ears. And it wasn’t like Diorae was able to reply. No, that’s not correct. Diorae would reply, not verbally, but with her body. She would smile and nod, as to tell him to continue, and gently lip and tug at his ears, just to tease him.
Marigold on the other hand. To her, the colt was multiple things. Both the key and the obstacle she had to overcome to get to her freedom. It was also the way back to Longclaw. And she desperately wanted to get back to him.
For a moment she stands frozen, the colt pulled in close to her chest again. With the very simple reason to not show him how conflicted she was, how much Diorae was fighting Marigold, all in order to not let her take over control. Her eyes are squeezed shut and ears are pressed back against her skull and through her tightly grit together teeth, her breathing is harsh. First she tenses her muscles, but she cannot stop from starting to tremble soon after.
Edward notices, how could he not? ”Gran?” she can hear him ask, before he starts backing away. Questioning he looks up to her, his head tilted slightly as his scan her face. Diorae desperately wants to tell him that it’s okay, that he shouldn’t worry, but it’s Marigold who starts to take over. All she sees is a prey, the now trembling colt, locked in a cell with her. And oh, the sweet taste of victory is already in her mouth. If she could, she would’ve growled at him, rather loudly too.
Diorae’s hold had slipped, pushed back into a silent corner of her mind. The very same place as she had been tucked away to ever since Longclaw had come along. What happens next is a mess. A big, bloody one.
Marigold rushes forward with bared teeth. Her ears are still pressed back against her skull, despair and anger in her hazel eyes. She could already see a glimpse of victory. Her hooves slip over the stones on the ground, the ones coated with stool, but it doesn’t delay her attack on the boy much. You could compare her to a raging dragon, or mad wolf, except for the noises they would make. Her teeth nip at the golden boy, digging into and ripping away his flesh.
Of course he tries to get away, but it’s only so far he can run. And Edward is no match for the she-wolf influenced mare. His blood coats both their golden coats red. He is bleeding from his wounds, and Marigold’s chest has blood spatters all over, the boy’s blood also dripped from her mouth. But it wasn’t enough.
She jumps forward, once again ready to strike. She rears and throws all her weight on him and his already weakened body isn’t able keep him standing with her weight down on him. He crumbles at the ground. Her hooves crush him, break more of his bones each time she lands. Her full body weight is thrown in there, he doesn’t have a chance. Marigold doesn’t know when he had let his last breath escape past his lips, but by the time she stops, he’s already dead.
Sweat paints her golden coat dark and her breath is raging. Her sides rise and fall rapidly in sync with her breathy pants. For a moment Marigold can only stare at the body that lies in front of her. Inside, Diorae cries, enraged and in agony. She doesn’t get a chance to mourn, forced to shut up and imprisoned in her own mind. Marigold, however, doesn’t waste time looking at the dead body.
The door had opened again. Last time hé had kept his promise. She had been able to build a paradise, but only after paying the toll. This time she had paid the price too, she had killed the thing she loved most. But Marigold had been desperate enough, out of her mind too. Longclaw. That was her price this time. Not her freedom, but his guidance and protection. She bolts through the open door without glancing back even once.
A beautiful face is a mute recommendation.
OOC: Diorae kills her grandson Edward, so she can get out.
10-06-2017, 08:53 PM (This post was last modified: 10-06-2017, 09:18 PM by Zephyr.)
Zephyr
You killed what was left of the good in me...
Broken, beaten, damned to a life a eternal grief. This is what she was given. As if making her blind wasn't enough, she was now laying in the dark god's small enclosure, relishing in her pain and sorrow. All he had given her was time - time to wallow, time to kill. Her mind often wandered to her precious Krigare; how could she tell him of her barrenness, how could she face him with the numerous scars on her body and heart?
She wasn't sure how long she had laid, wondering when she would get out, but after a few days her body began to drown out the screams of the tortured, stopped smelling the rotting flesh and dankness. The throbbing of her brand subsided, as did claw mark dragging down her stomach. The burning in her abdomen stopped too, but the reminder of no longer being able to have children was just as painful without it.
The days seemed to drag on. She didn't know if she was alone, if the others had escaped and she was left to live the rest of her days in this (literal) shit hole. She knew he was there, watching her glass heart shatter in front of him, crushing her in the palm of his hands; a piece of paper. He stalked around her cell like a ghost in the night, and while she couldn't see him, she felt his presence all around her. Words were never exchanged, she wasn't even sure she had the strength to anymore. Body curled on the floor, gaunt and dehydrated, unaware that the next test would break her more than any before.
The metal of her stall opens, creaking creepily until it slams against the frame. Wearily, she stands, legs shaking beneath her like a foal (like the ones she'll never have). How long had it been since she used them?
"To escape..." He hisses; venom words. "You must destroy the thing you love." And then, a soft touch, a caress; she doesn't have the energy to move away from it, but she is not frightened. She knows who it is.
"Oh, Zephyr. I've missed you." Velvet words contrasting harshly from the god's. Tears stream delicately from her filmy eyes. She leans into him, forgetting this is just another figment, forgetting what she must do. Krigare had come for her at last - she was no longer alone.
"You must DESTROY the thing you love." Carnage's voice lingers in her ears, and she pulls away. Heart beating deeply in her chest, she shakes her head.
"No," She growls. "I can't, I-I won't." Carnage is closer now, whispering into her ear from behind her.
"...sacrifice yourself instead."
A pause, a moment laced in uncertainty. She takes in a deep breath, rubbing her muzzle along the nape of her lover's neck, something she used to do so often...now, it would be the last time.
She backs away. An act of love that is unprecedented - she turns to the power behind her, and nods her head. "Take me instead." She would give up her life to save his - she hoped he would use this little gift to do something wonderful. He would go on to have children, have another mare as his own, and soon she would be a distant memory - something so hazy in his mind, it would be the only way he would know what its like to be blind.
What happens next is an incoherent blur. She guides herself around the cell, finding a conveniently placed rod, shaped into a perfect point. She backs up, taking one last breath of air into her lungs. Full force, she is galloping to it (as her love screams a faraway "no"), until it impales her perfectly in the heart. She coughs violently for a moment, blood gushing from her pale lips, down her neck and to the floor below her. The light in her eyes fades slowly, and for a moment her life flashes before her (a short life, that didn't have much meaning) and she feels the twinge of regret. She had done nothing - was this the lesson to learn from all of this?
And then, she is gone, body limp on the impaling rod, and Krigare is fading away from view. Carnage gives one last smile - the game is over, and he has won.
And I've got nobody else to blame, though I've tried, kept all of my past mistakes down inside.
I'll live with regret for my whole life.
So chin up and we’ll drown a little slower
From impaling herself, there will be a large scar where he heart is, above the claw mark the demon gave her.
