06-28-2016, 09:25 PM
THE EARTH IS ALIVE, AND MAN IS A PARASITE.
AND HEAVENLY BODIES MAKE US FIGHT.
Time.
It was something he had taken for granted for much of his lifetime. Having been cursed with an infinite meter and a too-still clock that had long since ceased to tick, he had little reason to cherish his own time on Earth. There had been many times over the years that his heart and mind had been stolen away by heartbreak, loneliness and sorrow. It left a lingering ache, one that filled up the proverbial gaping wound within his chest any and every time he took a moment to wallow in it. Even now, with the adoration and affection of his sons, daughters and beloved Isle, it remained - a constant reminder of what would persist long after all of their bodies had perished and their souls had moved on. It is only a matter of time until what he clung so tightly to his pounding, yearning heart faded away, as it all had before and eventually would again.
He breathes heavily, the icy chill of evening penetrating his lungs as he inhales sharply once more. He has parted from his beloved's side, sated by the knowledge that she has fallen into a lulling sleep. Their children, full of youth and vigor beneath the warmth of day all lay near one another now, solemn and quiet, cradled by the light of the moon. He puts a hefty distance between his own massive, towering body and their own petite figures; it takes careful precision and bated breath to leave without disturbing them but he has mastered the craft after many nights of doing so. Tonight is no exception.
His deeply set crimson eyes hide behind thick eyelashes as he allows the frigid breeze to wash over his heavily muscled, scarred physique - his sinewy muscles tense as he flexes them, and his various puckered, pink scars shimmer in the bright moonlight. He inhales slowly and deliberately, willing his anxiety away from him - he is a serious, stoic King - a stallion of many burdens and looming troubles, though he rarely allows prying eyes to see the way that it ages his soul and the way that it weighs so heavily on his mind. His heart still aches from the bitter, terse words shared by he and his lover, and he knows that hers does as well. Their wounds had been mended on the very surface, settled with hot, urgent touches and midnight trysts (she was swollen again - rounded with the curve of his unborn child, but still their seeping wounds of distrust remain).
An unusual shift in the wind causes him to rouse from his deep thoughts, and his tangled tresses fall in the way of his searing red eyes as he gazes towards the sky - when he is abruptly struck by the nauseating, overwhelming aroma of molasses. It suffocates him, drowns him, and within mere moments, the ice King is rendered useless - helpless. His tight muscles go lax and his bones refuse to co-operate with the fierce demands of his mind, and suddenly .. everything fades to black.
--
He awakes, his mind and cranium both heavy with a drowsiness he had not experienced in many years. It causes him to lapse not once, but twice into unconsciousness, probed only by the shrill, pained shrieks of another. He is unsure how long he has been unconscious, but he is certain it has been far too long. Hours? Days? His heart begins to pound and rattle against his rib cage, and his blood begins to surge within his veins, but still he struggles to lift anything but his own eyes from the ground.
His massive physique lingers on the hard, stone floor (which, though it is covered in a thin layer of prickling hay, only causes him more discomfort) for several minutes before he finally regains control over his muscles, which spasm sporadically. Wearily, he raises his massive skull up, peering around him. His burning red eyes struggle to focus for a long moment, but when he can finally see the scope of his imprisonment, his heart leaps and swells within his throat.
Tiredly, Offspring rises, though his legs are uneven for a time until he manages to shake the remnants of his somnolence away. Wary now, he examines the thick, metallic bars that surround him on each side, anchored into heavy planks of wood that box him into a prison cell far too small for his height and bulking weight. Furiously, he moves forward, pressing the crest of his forehead with force against the bars in rapid succession, testing each of their strength - biting with his blunt teeth, only to find that they are fortified beyond what his brute force can take on.
A surge of terror and rage alike fill his heart, which now threatens to pound out of his chest - he can hear the way it echoes in his ears, drowning out the pained shrieks of someone else, someone who has no name, trapped beyond a door in the distance. He turns away from the stall door, lashing out with staunch, powerful kicks, to no avail. He paces now, thick, muscled legs pounding against the hard pavement as he circles closely within his confinement. He pauses for a moment to take in the scent of dirt and sweat that lingers on the hay offered and the too-tempting water offered, and he scoffs irritably at both. But then, a thought occurs to him - water. Ice!
With a sharp glimmer looming in his burning eyes, he focuses and attempts to draw out the depths of his power - willing himself to surge with thick shards of ice from every pore, urging frost to encase every square inch of his body - but nothing comes of it. Nothing. He is left a shell of his former self, warm to the core, flesh hot and burning to the touch from the mere intensity of his movements. The ice. It .. it's gone? he laments within his own mind, the energy behind his surge of adrenaline beginning to fade away. He searches around him, to the barred walls that surrounds him, to the panicked creatures lingering behind caged walls of their own. My immortality .. is it gone too? Am I destined to die here?
Another cry of tortured pain erupts from behind the walls again, echoing within his mind. Over and over. Louder and louder. He looks around, dizzy once more with the realization that something bigger, more powerful than himself is looming - and then, he sees her. Painted indigo and obsidian, a four-horned female remains too still in the stall beside his own. She exudes an uneasiness of her own, and yet she lacks the same urgency he has loitering in every fiber of his being. He cannot help but to focus his darkened eyes upon her, staring with an intensity he cannot explain, when she must feel his crimson stare searing into her. She turns her cheek, emerald eyes (banded by black, intensifying her gaze) peering into his own, and he cannot tear himself away.
She is too quiet, too wary.
She knows something.
At last, his eyes tear away from hers and his heart seizes within his chest - with a loud bang, a heavy wooden door clashes against cobblestone and heavy footsteps (two-step - was it two-legged?) settle against the floor in a rhythmic pattern. He lurches away from the door of his stall, muscles tensed again as he braces himself, but eventually the sound fades away and the cries begin once more.
The minutes fade into hours, and weariness once more begins to set into him. His resolve settles finally, and reluctantly, he tastes the sweetness of the hay and the icy chill of the water. With a full and aching belly, he struggles to rest but he cannot. He cannot ward away the shrill screams, or the pleading sobs that echo in his brain. When he peers into the stall beside him for any semblance of reassurance, he sees nothing. She's gone. But when - how? The indigo-painted female is gone, stolen away.
He begins to think of his beautiful Isle - of her sweet doe eyes, her gentle kisses and caresses. He lingers on Neverwas and Argo, his precious sons and their fragile innocence. Their wholesome hearts. He drifts to his precious daughters, Lieschel, Maribel and Australis, each a beautiful and precious piece of his heart and soul. His heart becomes heavy and jaded, burdened by sorrow and anger.
He laments again, pressing his obsidian pelt roughly against the scratching wood of his stall as he collapses into his own woe, when all at once, he is uncomfortably still. Every piece of him is frozen into place, seized by something so much more foreboding than his mind had feared. His life begins to flash before him as his crimson eyes peer into the darkness, unnerved by the slow, low rattling of an opening door. Fear, fury and dread fill him to the very brim, washing over him like the unforgiving tide.
Time.
His time was up.
It was something he had taken for granted for much of his lifetime. Having been cursed with an infinite meter and a too-still clock that had long since ceased to tick, he had little reason to cherish his own time on Earth. There had been many times over the years that his heart and mind had been stolen away by heartbreak, loneliness and sorrow. It left a lingering ache, one that filled up the proverbial gaping wound within his chest any and every time he took a moment to wallow in it. Even now, with the adoration and affection of his sons, daughters and beloved Isle, it remained - a constant reminder of what would persist long after all of their bodies had perished and their souls had moved on. It is only a matter of time until what he clung so tightly to his pounding, yearning heart faded away, as it all had before and eventually would again.
He breathes heavily, the icy chill of evening penetrating his lungs as he inhales sharply once more. He has parted from his beloved's side, sated by the knowledge that she has fallen into a lulling sleep. Their children, full of youth and vigor beneath the warmth of day all lay near one another now, solemn and quiet, cradled by the light of the moon. He puts a hefty distance between his own massive, towering body and their own petite figures; it takes careful precision and bated breath to leave without disturbing them but he has mastered the craft after many nights of doing so. Tonight is no exception.
His deeply set crimson eyes hide behind thick eyelashes as he allows the frigid breeze to wash over his heavily muscled, scarred physique - his sinewy muscles tense as he flexes them, and his various puckered, pink scars shimmer in the bright moonlight. He inhales slowly and deliberately, willing his anxiety away from him - he is a serious, stoic King - a stallion of many burdens and looming troubles, though he rarely allows prying eyes to see the way that it ages his soul and the way that it weighs so heavily on his mind. His heart still aches from the bitter, terse words shared by he and his lover, and he knows that hers does as well. Their wounds had been mended on the very surface, settled with hot, urgent touches and midnight trysts (she was swollen again - rounded with the curve of his unborn child, but still their seeping wounds of distrust remain).
An unusual shift in the wind causes him to rouse from his deep thoughts, and his tangled tresses fall in the way of his searing red eyes as he gazes towards the sky - when he is abruptly struck by the nauseating, overwhelming aroma of molasses. It suffocates him, drowns him, and within mere moments, the ice King is rendered useless - helpless. His tight muscles go lax and his bones refuse to co-operate with the fierce demands of his mind, and suddenly .. everything fades to black.
--
He awakes, his mind and cranium both heavy with a drowsiness he had not experienced in many years. It causes him to lapse not once, but twice into unconsciousness, probed only by the shrill, pained shrieks of another. He is unsure how long he has been unconscious, but he is certain it has been far too long. Hours? Days? His heart begins to pound and rattle against his rib cage, and his blood begins to surge within his veins, but still he struggles to lift anything but his own eyes from the ground.
His massive physique lingers on the hard, stone floor (which, though it is covered in a thin layer of prickling hay, only causes him more discomfort) for several minutes before he finally regains control over his muscles, which spasm sporadically. Wearily, he raises his massive skull up, peering around him. His burning red eyes struggle to focus for a long moment, but when he can finally see the scope of his imprisonment, his heart leaps and swells within his throat.
Tiredly, Offspring rises, though his legs are uneven for a time until he manages to shake the remnants of his somnolence away. Wary now, he examines the thick, metallic bars that surround him on each side, anchored into heavy planks of wood that box him into a prison cell far too small for his height and bulking weight. Furiously, he moves forward, pressing the crest of his forehead with force against the bars in rapid succession, testing each of their strength - biting with his blunt teeth, only to find that they are fortified beyond what his brute force can take on.
A surge of terror and rage alike fill his heart, which now threatens to pound out of his chest - he can hear the way it echoes in his ears, drowning out the pained shrieks of someone else, someone who has no name, trapped beyond a door in the distance. He turns away from the stall door, lashing out with staunch, powerful kicks, to no avail. He paces now, thick, muscled legs pounding against the hard pavement as he circles closely within his confinement. He pauses for a moment to take in the scent of dirt and sweat that lingers on the hay offered and the too-tempting water offered, and he scoffs irritably at both. But then, a thought occurs to him - water. Ice!
With a sharp glimmer looming in his burning eyes, he focuses and attempts to draw out the depths of his power - willing himself to surge with thick shards of ice from every pore, urging frost to encase every square inch of his body - but nothing comes of it. Nothing. He is left a shell of his former self, warm to the core, flesh hot and burning to the touch from the mere intensity of his movements. The ice. It .. it's gone? he laments within his own mind, the energy behind his surge of adrenaline beginning to fade away. He searches around him, to the barred walls that surrounds him, to the panicked creatures lingering behind caged walls of their own. My immortality .. is it gone too? Am I destined to die here?
Another cry of tortured pain erupts from behind the walls again, echoing within his mind. Over and over. Louder and louder. He looks around, dizzy once more with the realization that something bigger, more powerful than himself is looming - and then, he sees her. Painted indigo and obsidian, a four-horned female remains too still in the stall beside his own. She exudes an uneasiness of her own, and yet she lacks the same urgency he has loitering in every fiber of his being. He cannot help but to focus his darkened eyes upon her, staring with an intensity he cannot explain, when she must feel his crimson stare searing into her. She turns her cheek, emerald eyes (banded by black, intensifying her gaze) peering into his own, and he cannot tear himself away.
She is too quiet, too wary.
She knows something.
At last, his eyes tear away from hers and his heart seizes within his chest - with a loud bang, a heavy wooden door clashes against cobblestone and heavy footsteps (two-step - was it two-legged?) settle against the floor in a rhythmic pattern. He lurches away from the door of his stall, muscles tensed again as he braces himself, but eventually the sound fades away and the cries begin once more.
The minutes fade into hours, and weariness once more begins to set into him. His resolve settles finally, and reluctantly, he tastes the sweetness of the hay and the icy chill of the water. With a full and aching belly, he struggles to rest but he cannot. He cannot ward away the shrill screams, or the pleading sobs that echo in his brain. When he peers into the stall beside him for any semblance of reassurance, he sees nothing. She's gone. But when - how? The indigo-painted female is gone, stolen away.
He begins to think of his beautiful Isle - of her sweet doe eyes, her gentle kisses and caresses. He lingers on Neverwas and Argo, his precious sons and their fragile innocence. Their wholesome hearts. He drifts to his precious daughters, Lieschel, Maribel and Australis, each a beautiful and precious piece of his heart and soul. His heart becomes heavy and jaded, burdened by sorrow and anger.
He laments again, pressing his obsidian pelt roughly against the scratching wood of his stall as he collapses into his own woe, when all at once, he is uncomfortably still. Every piece of him is frozen into place, seized by something so much more foreboding than his mind had feared. His life begins to flash before him as his crimson eyes peer into the darkness, unnerved by the slow, low rattling of an opening door. Fear, fury and dread fill him to the very brim, washing over him like the unforgiving tide.
Time.
His time was up.
OFFSPRING
the ice king of the tundra