04-23-2018, 08:26 PM
god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
This thing, though he knows not what it’s truly called, is the embodiment of death. He can feel it permeate the air as he draws a breath in deep to his lungs, tossing his head as the creature speaks to him. His blood runs boiling through his veins, the needs for satiation of blood pounding in his head. He sees nothing as he peers into its gaze; a bottomless abyss with no end and no beginning. A fearsome sight, for some, but a relief to the Riverlord.
He snorts softly, then. Ah, so it is the true form - a hellish creature, almost ghoulish save for the fact that it is clearly canine. Maugrim’s gaze finally flickers to the other, his dark stare now clawing into the dappled stallion’s eyes as the creature focuses the attention to him. There is a lot of talking (Maugrim only speaks out of necessity) and he finds himself champing at the air, fidgeting beneath the hellhound’s shadowy presence. There is no water here (perhaps in the air, but in the dry weather of autumn, there is no humidity to be used) so he does not give in to the voice inside of his head, and instead maintains a posture that is what is to be expected from three beings having a chat in the afternoon sun.
“Arthas, King of Loess.”
Maugrim’s audible snort is not easily missed. King? His tail flicks idly as his eyes sweep back to the hound, ears still firmly planted backwards. It is rather enticing, he assumes for the creature, to be before a king. They hold power and dominion over their own country, whereas Maugrim hardly can begin to understand the concept. The politics and diplomacy of a king were never in his tastes, but he can appreciate the power they demand from their title, as well as their ability to do as they pleased. Maugrim’s eyes fall back to Arthas as he mentions Sylva, and their ties to Loess. I have no home, the evergreen and pearl stallion nearly spits, but then he remembers that is no longer true. Even now he can hear the whisper of the sweet voices of the forest, of the lake he haunts and the cold, damp stone of the cavern. Yes, he does have a place now and it has a name: Sylva. He hadn’t been aware of Sylva’s ties to Loess (politics, again, are foreign to him - there is only blood and power, which is the only thing he can truly trust), and he is suddenly thankful that he had been distracted too much by the hellhound to try anything with the King of Loess - Modicum would surely not be pleased with the outcome, even though he is sure the red-nosed forest King would delight in the story.
The creature - dressed by hell itself - turns back to Maugrim and the tobanio’s skin twitches delectably. He has no title to offer the beast, nothing of value beside the need for blood that has controlled him since birth. His nose wrinkles at the thought as he swallows the hunger, ravenously fixing his eyes on the hound. He wants the dark beast to follow him to the forest, to dwell near his cave and haunt his lake, to constantly feed him the high that he is feeling right now.
He would kill for it.
A king, or a murderer? Maugrim’s eyes slide keenly to Arthas. Perhaps he should kill him, just to show the creature that kings can bleed.
“What shall it be, dear beast?” A brow quirks here, dry lips cracking more as a smile splits them open as his eyes dance coldly back to the hound. “Or do you ask for blood?”
He snorts softly, then. Ah, so it is the true form - a hellish creature, almost ghoulish save for the fact that it is clearly canine. Maugrim’s gaze finally flickers to the other, his dark stare now clawing into the dappled stallion’s eyes as the creature focuses the attention to him. There is a lot of talking (Maugrim only speaks out of necessity) and he finds himself champing at the air, fidgeting beneath the hellhound’s shadowy presence. There is no water here (perhaps in the air, but in the dry weather of autumn, there is no humidity to be used) so he does not give in to the voice inside of his head, and instead maintains a posture that is what is to be expected from three beings having a chat in the afternoon sun.
“Arthas, King of Loess.”
Maugrim’s audible snort is not easily missed. King? His tail flicks idly as his eyes sweep back to the hound, ears still firmly planted backwards. It is rather enticing, he assumes for the creature, to be before a king. They hold power and dominion over their own country, whereas Maugrim hardly can begin to understand the concept. The politics and diplomacy of a king were never in his tastes, but he can appreciate the power they demand from their title, as well as their ability to do as they pleased. Maugrim’s eyes fall back to Arthas as he mentions Sylva, and their ties to Loess. I have no home, the evergreen and pearl stallion nearly spits, but then he remembers that is no longer true. Even now he can hear the whisper of the sweet voices of the forest, of the lake he haunts and the cold, damp stone of the cavern. Yes, he does have a place now and it has a name: Sylva. He hadn’t been aware of Sylva’s ties to Loess (politics, again, are foreign to him - there is only blood and power, which is the only thing he can truly trust), and he is suddenly thankful that he had been distracted too much by the hellhound to try anything with the King of Loess - Modicum would surely not be pleased with the outcome, even though he is sure the red-nosed forest King would delight in the story.
The creature - dressed by hell itself - turns back to Maugrim and the tobanio’s skin twitches delectably. He has no title to offer the beast, nothing of value beside the need for blood that has controlled him since birth. His nose wrinkles at the thought as he swallows the hunger, ravenously fixing his eyes on the hound. He wants the dark beast to follow him to the forest, to dwell near his cave and haunt his lake, to constantly feed him the high that he is feeling right now.
He would kill for it.
A king, or a murderer? Maugrim’s eyes slide keenly to Arthas. Perhaps he should kill him, just to show the creature that kings can bleed.
“What shall it be, dear beast?” A brow quirks here, dry lips cracking more as a smile splits them open as his eyes dance coldly back to the hound. “Or do you ask for blood?”
m a u g r i m.
@[Sinner] @[Arthas]