01-20-2016, 10:18 AM
Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies
Her head hammers inside her skull, forcing her eyes shut more than she’d like. She keeps peaking them open, looking for the monsters, unsure what to do now with the seal beneath her hoof. But she will not move, will not give up the seal. And she does not have to. The seal absorbs into her hoof, disappearing from the ground below. A scream echoes in her ears. It sounds like Conquest, but she doesn’t have the strength to open her eyes and look. Does he know? Does he feel how the seal has become part of her?
Is she that much more of a target now?
Power does not infuse her, as perhaps it should (though there is a tiny hint of satisfaction). She is a living piece holding back the apocalypse. She is more powerful than she ever could have dreamed. But despite these things, she does not feel powerful. The weight of her decisions sit heavy in her chest, one more thing trying to drag her to the ground. She is just a tiny little girl. She is nothing. And somehow a piece of the fate of Beqanna lives within her.
She doesn’t have time to dwell though. It is only a moment before the blue tinted mare, tears streaming down her face, comes. The woman scoops up Warship’s seal. Weaver’s about to pummel the already injured mare until then she hears, For Warship!. The mare is trying to help. She’s trying to join their little ragtag team.
The more the merrier. They stand a better chance. Weaver nods at the mare, sending another wave of pounding through her skull. Her coat is completely soaked in sweat, and she knows she’s burning up. Stay up, stay up, stay up, she keeps chatting to herself, willing her legs not to buckle. She can’t afford to lay down.
And then there’s another. The sarcastic boy that she’d introduced herself to, before all hell broke loose. We’re screwed, he says, and Weaver opens her eyes just enough to glare at him. “Yea, we are, if you think like that,” she hisses through gritted teeth. Fear still clenches her heart, pain still rules her head, fatigue still tugs her body to the ground. But they cannot give up. Cannot give in. The only way to win is to think that they’re going to win.
The pain in her head is lessening now though, her fever finally breaking. She hasn't noticed though, distracted as Warship stumbles into the group now. He agrees with Rhonen, cursing Conquest as blood oozes from his boils and blood trails down his legs. Weaver opens her eyes, the pounding in her head more of a memory now than an actual feeling. Panic rises at the sight of Warship on the ground. She can’t heal him though, can’t stop the pain. So she fights the panic down. It won’t do any of them any good to panic.
Think, Weaver. Think. Her mother’s voice chimes in her head. The girl takes a deep breath, sending a new wave of pain through her head. But her mother’s voice and the pain in her head serve to dull the panic, if nothing else. And then another mare joins them, black and white like Weaver. They are a ragtag group, but they are a group, and Weaver feels some semblance of safety in this number. She doesn’t know if she should trust them, but she does. Why? Because she has no other choice.
The world starts flickering now, and Weaver almost wants to cry. It’s not a flash of yellow light this time, but bright green. What monster does the green light herald? Another flicker, and then Cinza is gone. It’s easy to notice her absence, since Weaver had been standing right beside her. She looks around again, Lagertha and one of the other mares nowhere in sight.
Where did they go? Weaver doesn’t even know the mare’s name, but it doesn’t matter. The mare had tried to help, had wanted to stop it all. And now she was gone. Maybe she’s safe now, Weaver hopes, having no idea if that’s true or not. But she clings to the ridiculous hope that the mare is back in Beqanna, safe and sound.
Even if that’s true, none of them are safe and sound. What if they fail here? What if Conquest escapes?
She shakes her head to clear away the thoughts. A low growl pulls her out of her daze. She turns to the see the wolf, one eye gleaming, spines protruding from its back. He’s found the group, and he knows that one of them will be easy prey. They’ve become a herd, after all.
She’s just about to yell when she catches sight of the lamb again. Curiosity no longer takes over at the sight of it though. Hatred, raw and poignant, courses through her instead. It is his fault. His fault they are here. His fault Conquest is loose. And now, it is too late for them to stop another.
The seal shatters, the resulting explosion so loud that even the wolf stops in his tracks. Weaver ducks her head, though hoping the pieces will fly at her, land on her skin and just absorb like the others. She’ll take whatever flesh wounds come with that. But the shards don’t come near her. She can’t even hear where they hit the ground, and her heart sinks even lower as she pops her head back up.
The sound of hooves is the first sign, like the drumbeat of war. Her eyes dart to Conquest as his minions return to him, taking up formation around their master. Conquest looks pleased again, the fury of only moments before fading away.
She doesn’t want to know what’s coming next.
His breath is the next thing that precedes him, like a well oiled machine. It is the sound of her own breath, except hers comes sharp and fast in puffs and his...it is like he will never tire. Just keep chugging on, until the world has not only just come to its knees, but until they are all steeped in blood.
She doesn’t need to see the red eyes or the sharp teeth or the fire on his skin to know. She doesn’t need the name in her head. War, it says. Enough! Enough of the voices. She’s beginning to think she’s just completely mad. That none of this is happening, and that her head is just playing out some insane, impossible story.
But the blood drying on her legs feels real enough. The sweat making her skin sticky is real enough. Warship’s pain. Cinza’s disappearance. All these things are real enough.
War doesn’t hesitate, and neither does she. They are all sitting ducks in this group - the wolf already figured it out. It was too easy to pick them off one by one if they stayed together. Warship seems to be thinking the same thing, yelling “Run!” at the lot of them, but she’s already taken off. She doesn’t know where the pieces of the seals are, doesn’t care at the moment. All she cares about is getting away from War, from the demon animals, from Conquest.
This time, it’s not a growl that alerts her to one of the beasts. It’s the pumping of air above her. A tiny little thing, but so noticeable in this still world. There’s no breeze here. There’s only the sounds of pain and war and disease. And the shifting of air above her. She cranes her head to the sky, and there it is. The one thing she’d been looking for all along.
But it’s not her raven, not any of her mother’s raven’s. No, this one is far too demonic even for Mother. Its eyes dance with fire, its feathers tipped in sharpened obsidian and dripping blood. A drop splashes on her neck, trailing down her skin like the fingers of a lover. Soft, tickling almost. Who’s blood is it?
The question doesn’t matter though, because next it will be her blood. The bird dives, the tips of its wings raking out against her neck. She spins around, snapping at the black bird with blunt teeth. If she can just get a foot or its damn head.
It flaps, lifting up just above her reach, wing raking across her face this time. Instinctively she closes her eyes and turns her head away. But she realizes her instinct is stupid, and she opens her eyes in time to see the bird coming for her face now, dead on. She rears, lashing out with her front legs as hard as she can. A satisfying snap echoes in the air around her as she connects with the birds delicate body. It caws, and she can only hope its last dying sound doesn’t draw other beasts to her.
She doesn’t wait to see it hit the ground, doesn’t make sure the raven even dead. She takes off, away from the bird and the sound, hoping the other monsters won’t notice her. A stupid hope, but she clings to it anyway.
Finally, she starts scanning the ground for a seal. Find a seal. Weaken War. She’s sure it will work the same way. Her eyes find Conquest, lingering on the edge of the battlefield. She turns course, staying well away. Maybe there are shards by him, but she wasn’t taking any risk going near the disease ridden creature.
WEAVER!
The sound is almost indistinguishable above the din, but still, she catches the sound of her name. She stops, eyes wild as she tries to find the source, wondering what anyone could need from her. She can’t help, can’t fight, can’t do anything but run.
Then she spots Warship, the horns on his head an easy beacon in the melee. Rhonen is there as well, and she is glad to see her allies. She slips through the crowd, racing past what looks like a coyote that’s limping and unable catch up to her. Though from the corner of her eye she sees it lurch forward, trying. She finds Warship, looking up at him first before the seal, half buried in the dirt, catches her eye. “Thank you,” she says, reaching her hoof out to touch the seal.
Like before, the seal absorbs into her skin. Like before, there’s a tiny surge of pleasure, of power. Like before, she feels the weight of the world resting on her. Unlike before, War does not scream. But he turns away from the bay and orange mare, the one that "danced" with Conquest. War comes for her instead.
War seems to know that part of the seal lives in her now. It’s her turn. He’ll kill her where she stands. She looks to Warship and Rhonen, both battered and bleeding, and she cannot ask either of them to do this for her. So she runs, at least turning War’s course away from her allies. She cannot outrun the red-eyed stallion, but she can direct his course. A few strides, and he closes the distance, throwing her to the ground as he slams into her.
She hears a crack, her breath rushing out of her in a whoof. Maybe a rib. Maybe some other bone. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care. Her side howls with the pain of that crack. That is all she knows, all she cares about. And War is still looming above her, those red eyes ready for the kill. He hasn’t killed anyone yet (not that she’s seen, anyway), and she’s an easy first kill.
“Why?” she breathes, still trying to catch her breath, still trying to figure out what to do. The word comes out like a little child, scared and uncertain and looking for Mommy. And right now, that’s exactly what she is.
Think, Weaver.
Her mother wouldn’t be proud. Her mother would expect more. And Straia never asked for more than Weaver could give. The black and white girl could do better.
“You aren’t trapped. You are waiting,” she says. Maybe War hasn’t come around in her life, but her life has been short so far. There were so many stories of War though. So much blood that had soaked the plains and kingdoms of Beqanna. And it would happen again. “You will have your chance. I can make sure of it.”
Weaver can make sure her Mother marches on the Gates. Weaver can make sure that War has his chance. That War would devastate all Beqanna. But it wouldn’t be the end of the world. She didn’t know if one puny war would be enough, didn’t know if he’d spare her from death over that promise. Maybe he didn’t want just any war, maybe he wanted only the apocalypse. But it was the only bargaining chip she had.
War raises his left leg, but for a brief moment hesitates, seems to be thinking. She scrambles to her feet in that moment, pain lancing through her side. With his leg still in the air, she rears, kicking out at his right front leg, still planted on the ground. Even untrained Weaver knows it's hard to dodge with one leg in the air. She connects, and his leg buckles. His free leg kicks out, flailing for balance but still, aiming for her. He connects as well, sending a fresh shock of pain down her neck and above her shoulder.
Despite his kick, he's off balance, giving her time to get away. She tries to run, every other step more limp than run. He doesn’t follow. Either because her promise worked, or because he’d moved on to someone else. She doesn’t stop to find out, doesn’t turn to look if he'd found new prey. Instead, she heads back to Rhonen and Warship, remembering Rhonen's comment.
Maybe there’s nothing they can do. The lamb pops in and out of existence in a blink. They couldn’t stop it, but maybe they could slow it down. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was a plan. “We can try to protect the seals.” she says when she’s close enough to be heard over the din. She doesn't stop with the group. She keeps going, finding one of the seals that’s still intact. Standing here makes her a sitting duck, but she’s dead anyway. At least she’ll have died trying.
Is she that much more of a target now?
Power does not infuse her, as perhaps it should (though there is a tiny hint of satisfaction). She is a living piece holding back the apocalypse. She is more powerful than she ever could have dreamed. But despite these things, she does not feel powerful. The weight of her decisions sit heavy in her chest, one more thing trying to drag her to the ground. She is just a tiny little girl. She is nothing. And somehow a piece of the fate of Beqanna lives within her.
She doesn’t have time to dwell though. It is only a moment before the blue tinted mare, tears streaming down her face, comes. The woman scoops up Warship’s seal. Weaver’s about to pummel the already injured mare until then she hears, For Warship!. The mare is trying to help. She’s trying to join their little ragtag team.
The more the merrier. They stand a better chance. Weaver nods at the mare, sending another wave of pounding through her skull. Her coat is completely soaked in sweat, and she knows she’s burning up. Stay up, stay up, stay up, she keeps chatting to herself, willing her legs not to buckle. She can’t afford to lay down.
And then there’s another. The sarcastic boy that she’d introduced herself to, before all hell broke loose. We’re screwed, he says, and Weaver opens her eyes just enough to glare at him. “Yea, we are, if you think like that,” she hisses through gritted teeth. Fear still clenches her heart, pain still rules her head, fatigue still tugs her body to the ground. But they cannot give up. Cannot give in. The only way to win is to think that they’re going to win.
The pain in her head is lessening now though, her fever finally breaking. She hasn't noticed though, distracted as Warship stumbles into the group now. He agrees with Rhonen, cursing Conquest as blood oozes from his boils and blood trails down his legs. Weaver opens her eyes, the pounding in her head more of a memory now than an actual feeling. Panic rises at the sight of Warship on the ground. She can’t heal him though, can’t stop the pain. So she fights the panic down. It won’t do any of them any good to panic.
Think, Weaver. Think. Her mother’s voice chimes in her head. The girl takes a deep breath, sending a new wave of pain through her head. But her mother’s voice and the pain in her head serve to dull the panic, if nothing else. And then another mare joins them, black and white like Weaver. They are a ragtag group, but they are a group, and Weaver feels some semblance of safety in this number. She doesn’t know if she should trust them, but she does. Why? Because she has no other choice.
The world starts flickering now, and Weaver almost wants to cry. It’s not a flash of yellow light this time, but bright green. What monster does the green light herald? Another flicker, and then Cinza is gone. It’s easy to notice her absence, since Weaver had been standing right beside her. She looks around again, Lagertha and one of the other mares nowhere in sight.
Where did they go? Weaver doesn’t even know the mare’s name, but it doesn’t matter. The mare had tried to help, had wanted to stop it all. And now she was gone. Maybe she’s safe now, Weaver hopes, having no idea if that’s true or not. But she clings to the ridiculous hope that the mare is back in Beqanna, safe and sound.
Even if that’s true, none of them are safe and sound. What if they fail here? What if Conquest escapes?
She shakes her head to clear away the thoughts. A low growl pulls her out of her daze. She turns to the see the wolf, one eye gleaming, spines protruding from its back. He’s found the group, and he knows that one of them will be easy prey. They’ve become a herd, after all.
She’s just about to yell when she catches sight of the lamb again. Curiosity no longer takes over at the sight of it though. Hatred, raw and poignant, courses through her instead. It is his fault. His fault they are here. His fault Conquest is loose. And now, it is too late for them to stop another.
The seal shatters, the resulting explosion so loud that even the wolf stops in his tracks. Weaver ducks her head, though hoping the pieces will fly at her, land on her skin and just absorb like the others. She’ll take whatever flesh wounds come with that. But the shards don’t come near her. She can’t even hear where they hit the ground, and her heart sinks even lower as she pops her head back up.
The sound of hooves is the first sign, like the drumbeat of war. Her eyes dart to Conquest as his minions return to him, taking up formation around their master. Conquest looks pleased again, the fury of only moments before fading away.
She doesn’t want to know what’s coming next.
His breath is the next thing that precedes him, like a well oiled machine. It is the sound of her own breath, except hers comes sharp and fast in puffs and his...it is like he will never tire. Just keep chugging on, until the world has not only just come to its knees, but until they are all steeped in blood.
She doesn’t need to see the red eyes or the sharp teeth or the fire on his skin to know. She doesn’t need the name in her head. War, it says. Enough! Enough of the voices. She’s beginning to think she’s just completely mad. That none of this is happening, and that her head is just playing out some insane, impossible story.
But the blood drying on her legs feels real enough. The sweat making her skin sticky is real enough. Warship’s pain. Cinza’s disappearance. All these things are real enough.
War doesn’t hesitate, and neither does she. They are all sitting ducks in this group - the wolf already figured it out. It was too easy to pick them off one by one if they stayed together. Warship seems to be thinking the same thing, yelling “Run!” at the lot of them, but she’s already taken off. She doesn’t know where the pieces of the seals are, doesn’t care at the moment. All she cares about is getting away from War, from the demon animals, from Conquest.
This time, it’s not a growl that alerts her to one of the beasts. It’s the pumping of air above her. A tiny little thing, but so noticeable in this still world. There’s no breeze here. There’s only the sounds of pain and war and disease. And the shifting of air above her. She cranes her head to the sky, and there it is. The one thing she’d been looking for all along.
But it’s not her raven, not any of her mother’s raven’s. No, this one is far too demonic even for Mother. Its eyes dance with fire, its feathers tipped in sharpened obsidian and dripping blood. A drop splashes on her neck, trailing down her skin like the fingers of a lover. Soft, tickling almost. Who’s blood is it?
The question doesn’t matter though, because next it will be her blood. The bird dives, the tips of its wings raking out against her neck. She spins around, snapping at the black bird with blunt teeth. If she can just get a foot or its damn head.
It flaps, lifting up just above her reach, wing raking across her face this time. Instinctively she closes her eyes and turns her head away. But she realizes her instinct is stupid, and she opens her eyes in time to see the bird coming for her face now, dead on. She rears, lashing out with her front legs as hard as she can. A satisfying snap echoes in the air around her as she connects with the birds delicate body. It caws, and she can only hope its last dying sound doesn’t draw other beasts to her.
She doesn’t wait to see it hit the ground, doesn’t make sure the raven even dead. She takes off, away from the bird and the sound, hoping the other monsters won’t notice her. A stupid hope, but she clings to it anyway.
Finally, she starts scanning the ground for a seal. Find a seal. Weaken War. She’s sure it will work the same way. Her eyes find Conquest, lingering on the edge of the battlefield. She turns course, staying well away. Maybe there are shards by him, but she wasn’t taking any risk going near the disease ridden creature.
WEAVER!
The sound is almost indistinguishable above the din, but still, she catches the sound of her name. She stops, eyes wild as she tries to find the source, wondering what anyone could need from her. She can’t help, can’t fight, can’t do anything but run.
Then she spots Warship, the horns on his head an easy beacon in the melee. Rhonen is there as well, and she is glad to see her allies. She slips through the crowd, racing past what looks like a coyote that’s limping and unable catch up to her. Though from the corner of her eye she sees it lurch forward, trying. She finds Warship, looking up at him first before the seal, half buried in the dirt, catches her eye. “Thank you,” she says, reaching her hoof out to touch the seal.
Like before, the seal absorbs into her skin. Like before, there’s a tiny surge of pleasure, of power. Like before, she feels the weight of the world resting on her. Unlike before, War does not scream. But he turns away from the bay and orange mare, the one that "danced" with Conquest. War comes for her instead.
War seems to know that part of the seal lives in her now. It’s her turn. He’ll kill her where she stands. She looks to Warship and Rhonen, both battered and bleeding, and she cannot ask either of them to do this for her. So she runs, at least turning War’s course away from her allies. She cannot outrun the red-eyed stallion, but she can direct his course. A few strides, and he closes the distance, throwing her to the ground as he slams into her.
She hears a crack, her breath rushing out of her in a whoof. Maybe a rib. Maybe some other bone. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care. Her side howls with the pain of that crack. That is all she knows, all she cares about. And War is still looming above her, those red eyes ready for the kill. He hasn’t killed anyone yet (not that she’s seen, anyway), and she’s an easy first kill.
“Why?” she breathes, still trying to catch her breath, still trying to figure out what to do. The word comes out like a little child, scared and uncertain and looking for Mommy. And right now, that’s exactly what she is.
Think, Weaver.
Her mother wouldn’t be proud. Her mother would expect more. And Straia never asked for more than Weaver could give. The black and white girl could do better.
“You aren’t trapped. You are waiting,” she says. Maybe War hasn’t come around in her life, but her life has been short so far. There were so many stories of War though. So much blood that had soaked the plains and kingdoms of Beqanna. And it would happen again. “You will have your chance. I can make sure of it.”
Weaver can make sure her Mother marches on the Gates. Weaver can make sure that War has his chance. That War would devastate all Beqanna. But it wouldn’t be the end of the world. She didn’t know if one puny war would be enough, didn’t know if he’d spare her from death over that promise. Maybe he didn’t want just any war, maybe he wanted only the apocalypse. But it was the only bargaining chip she had.
War raises his left leg, but for a brief moment hesitates, seems to be thinking. She scrambles to her feet in that moment, pain lancing through her side. With his leg still in the air, she rears, kicking out at his right front leg, still planted on the ground. Even untrained Weaver knows it's hard to dodge with one leg in the air. She connects, and his leg buckles. His free leg kicks out, flailing for balance but still, aiming for her. He connects as well, sending a fresh shock of pain down her neck and above her shoulder.
Despite his kick, he's off balance, giving her time to get away. She tries to run, every other step more limp than run. He doesn’t follow. Either because her promise worked, or because he’d moved on to someone else. She doesn’t stop to find out, doesn’t turn to look if he'd found new prey. Instead, she heads back to Rhonen and Warship, remembering Rhonen's comment.
Maybe there’s nothing they can do. The lamb pops in and out of existence in a blink. They couldn’t stop it, but maybe they could slow it down. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was a plan. “We can try to protect the seals.” she says when she’s close enough to be heard over the din. She doesn't stop with the group. She keeps going, finding one of the seals that’s still intact. Standing here makes her a sitting duck, but she’s dead anyway. At least she’ll have died trying.
weaver
weed and straia's chamber princess