07-15-2017, 03:16 PM
god make me pay,
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
“My home is the water.”
His voice is methodical and steely, dismissing her offer (for he truly didn’t want to be around them, the idea seems stifling) as the truth in his statement fills the air between them, accidentally reverting back to the strange and disturbing stallion he is.
Deliberate, calculating, and cold, he turns his gaze to her, unable to hide the unsettling way his voice slips from his pale lips, his true self slipping through the cracks that he has been working so hard to seal. It might frighten her, he knows, the way his confession seems to even dim the light of the brilliant sun that shines down upon them. He is abnormal, he knows. He, apparently, can only put up the charade for so long, and without much skill in being normal, it does not take it very long into their conversation to become the strange creature he truly is, especially with the water lapping at his dark legs.
It calls to him with a sinister voice; he wonders if she can hear it, too. The call from the deep, dark abyss that lies hungrily at the bottom, mouth agape.
Her voice, like the tinkling of seaglass, brings his darkening gaze to her with an emotionless stare. He wonders then, as they enter the water together, her shouts of encouragement causing his pulse to climb, where is Kharon? Surely the winged stallion would be here by now, utterly concerned that Maugrim had found his way back to Ischia and was delving into his precious sister’s life.
She is kind. So kind. Uncertain, yes, but maybe, just maybe, there would be a little bit of understanding from the lavender and pearl mare, where she could look past his social ineptitude and unnerving way he presents himself. Her kindness is her weakness, her fragility; she is too keen on having fun and being nice, that she might even begin to enjoy his company, without him pretending to be anything else but himself. The idea causes his lips to curl into a smile, stepping into the gentle and crystal clear ocean without so much as a thought.
The water bends to him almost immediately, melts against his flesh with cool and watery kisses, embracing him wholly. Suddenly more confident, less apprehensive, now that the water surrounds him, pressing up against the patterns of his stomach, he turns to Kylin. The water at her hooves begins to pull gently, as if the tide was beginning to drain from the shore, and he wonders if she will realize that something is amiss, or unnatural, about its movement. He does nothing drastic, merely coaxing her and maybe even sparking a bit of curiosity, to draw her out where he lingers.
“The ocean is alive, you know.”
His voice continues to be icy and dimming, but he had a feeling that she would not turn away from him – not yet.
His voice is methodical and steely, dismissing her offer (for he truly didn’t want to be around them, the idea seems stifling) as the truth in his statement fills the air between them, accidentally reverting back to the strange and disturbing stallion he is.
Deliberate, calculating, and cold, he turns his gaze to her, unable to hide the unsettling way his voice slips from his pale lips, his true self slipping through the cracks that he has been working so hard to seal. It might frighten her, he knows, the way his confession seems to even dim the light of the brilliant sun that shines down upon them. He is abnormal, he knows. He, apparently, can only put up the charade for so long, and without much skill in being normal, it does not take it very long into their conversation to become the strange creature he truly is, especially with the water lapping at his dark legs.
It calls to him with a sinister voice; he wonders if she can hear it, too. The call from the deep, dark abyss that lies hungrily at the bottom, mouth agape.
Her voice, like the tinkling of seaglass, brings his darkening gaze to her with an emotionless stare. He wonders then, as they enter the water together, her shouts of encouragement causing his pulse to climb, where is Kharon? Surely the winged stallion would be here by now, utterly concerned that Maugrim had found his way back to Ischia and was delving into his precious sister’s life.
She is kind. So kind. Uncertain, yes, but maybe, just maybe, there would be a little bit of understanding from the lavender and pearl mare, where she could look past his social ineptitude and unnerving way he presents himself. Her kindness is her weakness, her fragility; she is too keen on having fun and being nice, that she might even begin to enjoy his company, without him pretending to be anything else but himself. The idea causes his lips to curl into a smile, stepping into the gentle and crystal clear ocean without so much as a thought.
The water bends to him almost immediately, melts against his flesh with cool and watery kisses, embracing him wholly. Suddenly more confident, less apprehensive, now that the water surrounds him, pressing up against the patterns of his stomach, he turns to Kylin. The water at her hooves begins to pull gently, as if the tide was beginning to drain from the shore, and he wonders if she will realize that something is amiss, or unnatural, about its movement. He does nothing drastic, merely coaxing her and maybe even sparking a bit of curiosity, to draw her out where he lingers.
“The ocean is alive, you know.”
His voice continues to be icy and dimming, but he had a feeling that she would not turn away from him – not yet.
m a u g r i m.