08-11-2020, 08:05 PM
GRETA
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
As she stood before the two anchors of Beqanna - she understood that there was something more here. Stories that ached with destruction and rife with history. She held before her a textbook of Beqanna, pages where one mare could fill the gaps when the other could not. They had eons behind them (and perhaps many more). But Greta - did she have anything to say? Did she have anything to tell? No. She did not. And so the best she could do was listen, learn, drink in the world that she was suddenly surrounded by and honor the mares as they should be.
She holds her demure position - eyes down, chin low - this is how you wait to be absolved. This is how you wait to atone for your sins. She awaits the lash - the heartened grip of magic inside her skin - and instead, she receives laughter from the ancient one. Light (and nothing malicious) and almost encouraging. Her apology is unnecessary (unwanted?) - and as her eyes lift to look at the two before her, her head involuntarily follows. A small tug, like the one she feels upon her soul, something she cannot disobey. And then: a command. Do not apologize. Sealed and set in stone. And the words dissolve from her tongue. Do not apologize: a command. Something she understands.
Greta stands still, bewildered in the solidarity of a command that comes from anyone but her father. She can feel it like a stone in her stomach - something that cannot be undone. While she digests this sudden order, the two before her continue on - and she lifts her head a little more properly before stepping closer to listen. A story - this she could fathom.
She is still so much a child - and as Straia weaves her magic, she falls further into its tomb. It is like the snowglobe her father kept her in - the magic rolling up her legs, seeping into her skull, divining all of her senses. This feeling she knows. This carries a sadistic sort of comfort. Home is what you know - and what more has she been familiar with than others tugging on her strings?
She sees the division of lands stretch before them, and she sees equines that look much like her father, and much like the dark mare before her. The smell of pine tickles her throat, and a sneeze escapes. A taste of darkness flooding her throat. A tree pulsing with fire. Why does this feel familiar? Why is this so true? Why does her heart ache and throb? Home home home.- her father’s voice tears her asunder--
She startles, her head jolting backwards, and she shakes her head as Straia clears her magic. This - she is used to, at least. Worlds created around her that she cannot escape. Things that others create that she is only a whim to. There are so many questions. So many things she wants to know - she wants to feel in that same way.- that she wants answered. But there are introductions floating around. Blasphemare - the ancient black one. Straia - the dyed and magic one. And she? Who was she?
“Greta. I’m Greta. Greta my father said. I can answer to nothing else.” While normally she is timid, slow, and quiet - she hardly waits a beat to introduce herself. There are too many things spilling forth she must know instead.
“You are evil? You do bad things? There’s a tree - I know there’s a tree. What is the tree? Why aren’t we all different now?” She turns to the darker mare, and still more comes ”Do you remember this? What were you? Are you evil too? Where did you go that you are back here now?” Did she have a snowglobe too? Were they both as awful as her father? This felt both like the place she should be- and perhaps should not be.
@[Blasphemare] @[Straia]