03-10-2020, 10:02 PM
He returns to Pangea almost unrecognizable, black and bloody with layers of skin cut away into an unnatural and corrupted tobiano pattern. The stars of his father are gone, hidden beneath the black stain much as they were when he was young, and the wide star of his mother's blood blooms across his brow once again, but now the white is the white of bone and blood trails down his beak, dripping thickly from its curved edge. The young stallion does not seem to notice the transformation, does not seem to notice that the muscle once hidden beneath grey skin bunches and stretches visibly.
He does not seem to notice. Pain ripples through him, constant and searing. The unblemished hide stinks of clotted blood and no amount of washing can remove the iron tang because the gashes do not heal, his body is not even trying to heal them. This is how he tumbled forth from the belly of the Beast, from the Thing that he had poured all the love and worship his ragged heart had to give, and he does not regret but rather revels in it, remembers that feeling of sacrifice and the peace that accompanied the grinding of his bones between a thousand teeth.
He had awoken on an empty plain that he did not recognize. Every step was - is - agony as he rose and traveled far from the lone Mountain. He followed a scent rather than a feeling, his connection to Hippogryph having snapped in the bowels of the Star's labyrinth. He tracked her as he had never tracked prey, followed the scent of fear and confusion and morning glories until he found the black mare wandering through the meadow and the sight of her reminded him of the false Mothers inside the Beast's web of lies. Anger had risen thick in his throat and he growled at the sight of her, loudly enough that she looked at him with eyes that were clear of his influence for the first time in four years and she feared him.
It was the fear that set him off. How much had he sacrificed to find her? How many fakes had he killed in the fever dream of his perfect destruction? She made to run but he was faster, entrapping her under his spell with as little care as he did that very first time, thrashing his magic into her until a thin line of blood trickled from her nostrils. The mare's eyes rolled but her attempt to get away became an approach instead, a nicker hoarse in her throat and her movement stilted and jerky like the Creature's first monster, unable to hold the likeness. In a fury, the bloody stallion struck her across the face, claws scratching grooves into her cheek and Hippogryph had squealed - confused, betrayed - and fallen to her knees before him. The mimic hissed softly, considered killing her, but he paused and let her rise instead. Dreamscar's influence twisted into her heart until the capillaries in her eyes burst and the white turned crimson, until she stumbled blindly in the snow-capped meadow-grass, and that is when he took her, talons holding her cruelly and unnecessarily in place, the point of his beak leaving welts.
The last he saw of her left her torn, dull, feverish under the overuse of his spells and he, he returns to Pangea, to the den of Monsters.
He does not seem to notice. Pain ripples through him, constant and searing. The unblemished hide stinks of clotted blood and no amount of washing can remove the iron tang because the gashes do not heal, his body is not even trying to heal them. This is how he tumbled forth from the belly of the Beast, from the Thing that he had poured all the love and worship his ragged heart had to give, and he does not regret but rather revels in it, remembers that feeling of sacrifice and the peace that accompanied the grinding of his bones between a thousand teeth.
He had awoken on an empty plain that he did not recognize. Every step was - is - agony as he rose and traveled far from the lone Mountain. He followed a scent rather than a feeling, his connection to Hippogryph having snapped in the bowels of the Star's labyrinth. He tracked her as he had never tracked prey, followed the scent of fear and confusion and morning glories until he found the black mare wandering through the meadow and the sight of her reminded him of the false Mothers inside the Beast's web of lies. Anger had risen thick in his throat and he growled at the sight of her, loudly enough that she looked at him with eyes that were clear of his influence for the first time in four years and she feared him.
It was the fear that set him off. How much had he sacrificed to find her? How many fakes had he killed in the fever dream of his perfect destruction? She made to run but he was faster, entrapping her under his spell with as little care as he did that very first time, thrashing his magic into her until a thin line of blood trickled from her nostrils. The mare's eyes rolled but her attempt to get away became an approach instead, a nicker hoarse in her throat and her movement stilted and jerky like the Creature's first monster, unable to hold the likeness. In a fury, the bloody stallion struck her across the face, claws scratching grooves into her cheek and Hippogryph had squealed - confused, betrayed - and fallen to her knees before him. The mimic hissed softly, considered killing her, but he paused and let her rise instead. Dreamscar's influence twisted into her heart until the capillaries in her eyes burst and the white turned crimson, until she stumbled blindly in the snow-capped meadow-grass, and that is when he took her, talons holding her cruelly and unnecessarily in place, the point of his beak leaving welts.
The last he saw of her left her torn, dull, feverish under the overuse of his spells and he, he returns to Pangea, to the den of Monsters.
Dreamscar
Carnage x Hippogryph