09-03-2016, 03:38 PM
<link href='http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Great+Vibes' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'><style>.malislayout {width:560px; border:1px solid #000;box-shadow:0px 0px 25px #000;background-color:#ddfffe;} .malisgradient {width:560px; border:1px solid #000;padding:10px;background-color:#060917;background: -webkit-radial-gradient(#ffffff, #ffffff, #ffffff, #061a78, #060917, #010104); background: -o-radial-gradient(#ffffff, #ffffff, #ffffff, #061a78, #060917, #010104); background: -moz-radial-gradient(#ffffff, #ffffff, #ffffff, #061a78, #060917, #010104); background: radial-gradient(#ffffff, #ffffff, #ffffff, #061a78, #060917, #010104); box-shadow:0px 0px 25px #000;} .malispic {width:560px; height:800px; background-image:url('https://s26.postimg.io/41yuj4oxl/malis.jpg');background-size:contain;margin-top:-140px;} .malispost {padding-left:30px;padding-right:30px;text-align:justify;font:12px times;color:#112a47;} .malisquote {width:560px;font-size:24px;font-family: 'great vibes', cursive;color:#112a47;padding-bottom:10px;padding-top:10px;}</style><center><div class=malisgradient><div class=malislayout><div class=malisquote><center>if truth is north, then i am true south</center></div><div class=malispost>This pain makes her furious, the fissures opening along the surface of her heart the longer she watches him. He left her, he promised it would be easier together, and then he left her just as everyone else had. When she turns back to him, she does nothing to hide her heart in shadow, to hide the hurt and the pain and the fury from him. He will know anyway, even if she did show him only that stony blue mask carved from dark and fury, because he knows her better than anyone.
Except, perhaps, Killdare.
He had seen her beautiful and he had seen her ugly, and somehow he still found a way to love her.
She turns away from Erebor once more, and there is so much power in the straining of the musculature of her legs, so much fury feeding into the way she weaves away and back, pinning her ears and flashing her teeth. In this moment, another moment as impossible as the dozens that had come before it, she is wholly at war with herself. The dark in her heart urges her to push him away, to doubt anything he will tell her, to doubt why he has returned at all. Surely, not for her though. But she is weak and greedy and the idea of losing him again, of not tasting the pulse where it flutters in his neck or the dust where it sleeps in the brittle black of his coat, is enough to undo her.
This time when she turns back to him she is soft, there is more pain than fury and it is perhaps the most honest she has ever been with the darkness that fills her chest. She reaches out to touch him again, press her nose to his jaw and tell him how cruel he’s been, how she is too selfish to lose him again, and the world falls out from under them. She has enough time to trace the horror in his face, enough time to know that her own expression must be identical, before the world goes dark.
She has known dark before, true dark like this. Dark without possibility or reason, dark without end. She knows it well enough not to fight it, not to feel fear for herself when it swallows her – though, she does know fear for her family and it is far more endless than even this true dark.
When she wakes, if you can call it that, stumbling forward in a stupor to find bruises and cuts and various other insignificant wounds that will not heal, she knows something is wrong. She slows to a halt and for a long moment she does nothing more than turn her head (the weight of it is so wrong now, so bare with only a strange, single horn) to identify the faces nearby. None of them mean anything to her and so she turns, frowning at the frailty of her dark indigo body, and disappears into the cacophony of voices calling for those that they know. Her own lips are still, frozen, and she calls for no one.
<i>‘MALIS!’</i>
Her body curves towards the sound, those emerald eyes scorching like green fire. The voice does not belong to Killdare, and she can feel her belly tighten with the nausea of not knowing. She may not deserve him, but she does love him, and nothing of her vow to protect him has changed. Nothing would ever change that.
<i>‘MALIS!’</i>
The sound of her name as it falls across the broken world is enough to spur her into action. She turns, moving quickly, if not stiffly, across the side of a mountain littered with root and rock, until the ground flattens into a meadow and she is relieved for the even footing. The third time he yells her name, she is close enough to see him, to see another stallion approaching from behind. Adrenaline burns like fire in her veins, it boils beneath the blue of her skin, and in an instant she has torn apart the distance between them to weave close against Erebor’s dark side. She is none of the languid grace she had been before, but she is feral in her lack of understanding, wild when her ears disappear into the tangle of mane at her neck.
<i>“Me.”</i> Is all she says to the stallion she does not know, a stallion who looks suspiciously similar to Erebor himself. But she has no time for anything but wariness, and when she weaves between them again she pushes her mouth possessively against Erebor’s hip as if to claim him as hers in this ruined world with a landscape she does not recognize. Her chin lowers a little, and the point of a horn that is not hers dips toward the stallions neck. <i>“Who are you?”</i>
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malis is claiming a horn for her temporary trait <3
Except, perhaps, Killdare.
He had seen her beautiful and he had seen her ugly, and somehow he still found a way to love her.
She turns away from Erebor once more, and there is so much power in the straining of the musculature of her legs, so much fury feeding into the way she weaves away and back, pinning her ears and flashing her teeth. In this moment, another moment as impossible as the dozens that had come before it, she is wholly at war with herself. The dark in her heart urges her to push him away, to doubt anything he will tell her, to doubt why he has returned at all. Surely, not for her though. But she is weak and greedy and the idea of losing him again, of not tasting the pulse where it flutters in his neck or the dust where it sleeps in the brittle black of his coat, is enough to undo her.
This time when she turns back to him she is soft, there is more pain than fury and it is perhaps the most honest she has ever been with the darkness that fills her chest. She reaches out to touch him again, press her nose to his jaw and tell him how cruel he’s been, how she is too selfish to lose him again, and the world falls out from under them. She has enough time to trace the horror in his face, enough time to know that her own expression must be identical, before the world goes dark.
She has known dark before, true dark like this. Dark without possibility or reason, dark without end. She knows it well enough not to fight it, not to feel fear for herself when it swallows her – though, she does know fear for her family and it is far more endless than even this true dark.
When she wakes, if you can call it that, stumbling forward in a stupor to find bruises and cuts and various other insignificant wounds that will not heal, she knows something is wrong. She slows to a halt and for a long moment she does nothing more than turn her head (the weight of it is so wrong now, so bare with only a strange, single horn) to identify the faces nearby. None of them mean anything to her and so she turns, frowning at the frailty of her dark indigo body, and disappears into the cacophony of voices calling for those that they know. Her own lips are still, frozen, and she calls for no one.
<i>‘MALIS!’</i>
Her body curves towards the sound, those emerald eyes scorching like green fire. The voice does not belong to Killdare, and she can feel her belly tighten with the nausea of not knowing. She may not deserve him, but she does love him, and nothing of her vow to protect him has changed. Nothing would ever change that.
<i>‘MALIS!’</i>
The sound of her name as it falls across the broken world is enough to spur her into action. She turns, moving quickly, if not stiffly, across the side of a mountain littered with root and rock, until the ground flattens into a meadow and she is relieved for the even footing. The third time he yells her name, she is close enough to see him, to see another stallion approaching from behind. Adrenaline burns like fire in her veins, it boils beneath the blue of her skin, and in an instant she has torn apart the distance between them to weave close against Erebor’s dark side. She is none of the languid grace she had been before, but she is feral in her lack of understanding, wild when her ears disappear into the tangle of mane at her neck.
<i>“Me.”</i> Is all she says to the stallion she does not know, a stallion who looks suspiciously similar to Erebor himself. But she has no time for anything but wariness, and when she weaves between them again she pushes her mouth possessively against Erebor’s hip as if to claim him as hers in this ruined world with a landscape she does not recognize. Her chin lowers a little, and the point of a horn that is not hers dips toward the stallions neck. <i>“Who are you?”</i>
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malis is claiming a horn for her temporary trait <3