05-30-2017, 04:50 PM
make me pay,
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
He was too tired, too weak, to protest this stallion’s presence. Maugrim awaits the glare or a haughty glance (besides, this stranger is much older than him and probably wouldn’t be too keen on a younger colt showing disrespect). It never came. In no way was this stallion looking at him somberly or with pity, it was almost as if the same attitude was given back to Maugrim – flippant, uninterested. Maugrim’s mind whirls with spiteful words that he could unleash and deter his company, but he could not find his tongue. The tides had favored him and saved him from drowning in the depths of a black and watery grave, but did not find it necessary to steer him away from the rocky shoals and coral that dwells in the shallows of Ischia. The adrenaline that once coursed through his veins and thus had kept him numb from the pain when he was washed ashore was now beginning to ebb and wane. He did not want to argue, he wants to sleep…
The yearling does not let his weary eyes fall shut. He refuses to appear weak and lifts his chin defiantly, his dark eyes watching him closely, curiously. Maugrim’s nostrils wrinkle as the smell of smoke and ash enter him, snorting in surprise as the sharp smell becomes recognizable. He cannot help but tilt his head inquisitively, and does so much as to even turn himself to face this stranger, peering over his shoulder to watch him. His brow furrows confusedly, his legs shakily bringing him a few steps closer. The stallion speaks to him with a short and almost impatient statement. Maugrim’s eyes flash to the stallion’s, for his gaze had been mesmerized by the fire that seems to have ignited from thin air. Of course, Maugrim was not vapid – it was obviously coming from the large equine beside him.
Maugrim takes a step back, curious as to why he would use such a precious gift to help him. He narrows his gaze, wondering why he had not set the flames under his hooves and seared his young, wounded flesh. His nose twitches at the idea, imagining red and orange flames (some nearly blue with their heat) eating up flesh and bone. With a slow slide of his eyes downward towards the water, he realizes now that the water he had heated would now be boiling. Maugrim had half a mind to spin the water into the stallion’s eyes, his stomach rolling with anticipation at the idea of burnt retinas. Without a thought the water rises sharply and quickly, expertly: coming upwards in a thin, needle-like strand. The satisfaction at how easily the water moves for him causes a grin to spread across his cracked lips. It steams and bubbles before the stallion’s eyes, lingering threateningly as the reflection glistens in Maugrim’s ravenous, dark eyes. It would not stay hot for long and Maugrim was not one to move slowly.
He would not call it empathy, or compassion. But the colt instead chooses to move the water through the sluice of flesh on his shoulder instead of flicking the water into the stranger’s eyes. He does not move away as he flushes the water through the wound, though he could not hide the pain on his face nor the soft whimper that leaves his lips as the boiling water burns inside his raw skin. Maugrim then keeps the water still once it began to lose its red-hot sting, holding it inside the gaping wound much like a bandage. When the heat had left, he lets the water fall, splashing onto the ground at his hooves and soaking into the sand.
His dark eyes stare at the bay stallion, lifting his chin slightly with a shuddering breath. “I need to close it.” It was not a command, nor was he begging. It was a statement, a fact. The wound was deep, the muscle beneath white with exposure. Maugrim falls silent, brooding…waiting.
The yearling does not let his weary eyes fall shut. He refuses to appear weak and lifts his chin defiantly, his dark eyes watching him closely, curiously. Maugrim’s nostrils wrinkle as the smell of smoke and ash enter him, snorting in surprise as the sharp smell becomes recognizable. He cannot help but tilt his head inquisitively, and does so much as to even turn himself to face this stranger, peering over his shoulder to watch him. His brow furrows confusedly, his legs shakily bringing him a few steps closer. The stallion speaks to him with a short and almost impatient statement. Maugrim’s eyes flash to the stallion’s, for his gaze had been mesmerized by the fire that seems to have ignited from thin air. Of course, Maugrim was not vapid – it was obviously coming from the large equine beside him.
Maugrim takes a step back, curious as to why he would use such a precious gift to help him. He narrows his gaze, wondering why he had not set the flames under his hooves and seared his young, wounded flesh. His nose twitches at the idea, imagining red and orange flames (some nearly blue with their heat) eating up flesh and bone. With a slow slide of his eyes downward towards the water, he realizes now that the water he had heated would now be boiling. Maugrim had half a mind to spin the water into the stallion’s eyes, his stomach rolling with anticipation at the idea of burnt retinas. Without a thought the water rises sharply and quickly, expertly: coming upwards in a thin, needle-like strand. The satisfaction at how easily the water moves for him causes a grin to spread across his cracked lips. It steams and bubbles before the stallion’s eyes, lingering threateningly as the reflection glistens in Maugrim’s ravenous, dark eyes. It would not stay hot for long and Maugrim was not one to move slowly.
He would not call it empathy, or compassion. But the colt instead chooses to move the water through the sluice of flesh on his shoulder instead of flicking the water into the stranger’s eyes. He does not move away as he flushes the water through the wound, though he could not hide the pain on his face nor the soft whimper that leaves his lips as the boiling water burns inside his raw skin. Maugrim then keeps the water still once it began to lose its red-hot sting, holding it inside the gaping wound much like a bandage. When the heat had left, he lets the water fall, splashing onto the ground at his hooves and soaking into the sand.
His dark eyes stare at the bay stallion, lifting his chin slightly with a shuddering breath. “I need to close it.” It was not a command, nor was he begging. It was a statement, a fact. The wound was deep, the muscle beneath white with exposure. Maugrim falls silent, brooding…waiting.
m a u g r i m.
@[Levi]