06-26-2017, 01:03 AM
" I'd Rather Die Young , "
Our friend Oxytocin is a very broody, angry man.
It's easy to tell just by glancing at him—the glare that is always present on his face, the general lack of empathy. You know, that sort of thing. He's finding that he's growing rather grumpy in his (self-proclaimed) old age. He's not even that old, somewhere in his mid-to-late teens, and it suits him. He has plenty of muscle and sinew stretching over his bones, and his dark coat, though dull, is shot through with scars from fights long forgotten. He looks battleworn but not old—it probably has something to do with immortality, the blasted thing that it is.
He should have died when Kindling did. They were something of a similar age, after all, and she was well past her prime when she passed. Perhaps she was a year or two older—he remembers that he was a spry, cocky yearling when he challenged her claim to the throne, and look at them now. She's dead and he's drifting. He's not going to die or kill himself—he keeps his promises—but he is nothing of the former stallion he was in his youth. That Oxytocin would have told him to get over himself (it's just a girl, and one that abandoned you, at that) and move on. He can't.
He knows that deep down, he's angry at her for producing such vile offspring with such a vile stallion, who in turn produced a filly who murdered them both. He had always despised Osric, and look where it had led Kindling—to a grave she now shares with her own daughter, Oxytocin's once partner in ruling (how fitting that he had ruled alongside two generations). Perhaps it's just that Kindling herself was vile, only out to further herself in the long run. She had used him, abused him, and tossed him aside. She hadn't even stuck around to watch their daughter grow up, and it's only just coming to him quite how bitter he is.
A twig snaps behind him and he is dragged back to the surface of his thoughts, his brown eyes gleaming harshly as he turns his head to see who is approaching. "What do you want?"
It's easy to tell just by glancing at him—the glare that is always present on his face, the general lack of empathy. You know, that sort of thing. He's finding that he's growing rather grumpy in his (self-proclaimed) old age. He's not even that old, somewhere in his mid-to-late teens, and it suits him. He has plenty of muscle and sinew stretching over his bones, and his dark coat, though dull, is shot through with scars from fights long forgotten. He looks battleworn but not old—it probably has something to do with immortality, the blasted thing that it is.
He should have died when Kindling did. They were something of a similar age, after all, and she was well past her prime when she passed. Perhaps she was a year or two older—he remembers that he was a spry, cocky yearling when he challenged her claim to the throne, and look at them now. She's dead and he's drifting. He's not going to die or kill himself—he keeps his promises—but he is nothing of the former stallion he was in his youth. That Oxytocin would have told him to get over himself (it's just a girl, and one that abandoned you, at that) and move on. He can't.
He knows that deep down, he's angry at her for producing such vile offspring with such a vile stallion, who in turn produced a filly who murdered them both. He had always despised Osric, and look where it had led Kindling—to a grave she now shares with her own daughter, Oxytocin's once partner in ruling (how fitting that he had ruled alongside two generations). Perhaps it's just that Kindling herself was vile, only out to further herself in the long run. She had used him, abused him, and tossed him aside. She hadn't even stuck around to watch their daughter grow up, and it's only just coming to him quite how bitter he is.
A twig snaps behind him and he is dragged back to the surface of his thoughts, his brown eyes gleaming harshly as he turns his head to see who is approaching. "What do you want?"
