01-16-2021, 08:10 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
Are they being hunted?
Wishbone has felt like this before — the prickling feeling of eyes on her back and the way her skin feels paper-thin. It isn’t a feeling she will ever be comfortable with, but she can tolerate it now. She can tell herself it is a stranger in the darkness, hesitant to join them, even while her belly flip-flops and tells her something is wrong. Those instincts encourage her to arm herself, to pull the mammoth tusk off the ground and aim it into the shadows.
She does just that when there is rustling in the branches, but the ancient bone does little to force the shadows away from her and Mazikeen. The obsidian mare feels naked in the darkness like a newborn still struggling to climb onto its wet, clumsy legs. Her amber eyes dart into the shadows, attempting to trace the route of the something that lies just past her vision. Mazikeen’s fire warms her dark side, and it illuminates the world a few feet past their noses, but it does not provide Wishbone enough light to see what crackles through the woods.
As Mazikeen feels strengthened by Wishbone, so too does Wishbone feel strengthened by Mazikeen. “That’s right, asshole. Show yourself, or we’ll make sure no one sees you again.” Her dark ears pin into the tangled mess of her mane, and the voices of her ancestors collide with the passion of her heart. Has she ever fled from danger? Perhaps only with Wolfbane, when they scrambled through the underbrush to hide from Longclaw. But once she grew larger (maybe not large enough to successfully win against danger, but large enough to feel like she might stand a chance), Wishbone hadn’t run away from a threat.
The blue-white-gold face of a man she hoped she would never see again peels himself from the darkness. He seems to be borne from it, whisps of the shadows curling against his scaled body until he comes into full view. Wishbone hardly notices this fact, her eyes caught on the face she has seen in her nightmares for twelve years. Even sleeping in the Afterlife had been marred by his taunting gold eyes.
When she speaks, her voice is a snarl. “How dare you come here, you filthy piece of shit?” The mammoth tusk whistles through the air, stopping just shy of Ivar’s throat. Mazikeen’s fire seems to burn within the midnight-clad mare; the embers of her anger that have simmered for years now spark into a wildfire. The kelpie had taken from Wishbone — her twin daughters, her life — and her body quivers with a desire to rip everything away from him. She imagines peeling back the scales from his skin and pushing the mammoth tusk deep into his chest, right into the chambers of his heart. Wishbone almost wonders where this sick idea comes from, but she is too full of red-hot anger to question it.
Instead, she spits into his face and stares at him with eyes so cold and sharp they might just cut his skin all by themselves. “I ought to kill you right now, in a far worse way you killed me.”
Wishbone has felt like this before — the prickling feeling of eyes on her back and the way her skin feels paper-thin. It isn’t a feeling she will ever be comfortable with, but she can tolerate it now. She can tell herself it is a stranger in the darkness, hesitant to join them, even while her belly flip-flops and tells her something is wrong. Those instincts encourage her to arm herself, to pull the mammoth tusk off the ground and aim it into the shadows.
She does just that when there is rustling in the branches, but the ancient bone does little to force the shadows away from her and Mazikeen. The obsidian mare feels naked in the darkness like a newborn still struggling to climb onto its wet, clumsy legs. Her amber eyes dart into the shadows, attempting to trace the route of the something that lies just past her vision. Mazikeen’s fire warms her dark side, and it illuminates the world a few feet past their noses, but it does not provide Wishbone enough light to see what crackles through the woods.
As Mazikeen feels strengthened by Wishbone, so too does Wishbone feel strengthened by Mazikeen. “That’s right, asshole. Show yourself, or we’ll make sure no one sees you again.” Her dark ears pin into the tangled mess of her mane, and the voices of her ancestors collide with the passion of her heart. Has she ever fled from danger? Perhaps only with Wolfbane, when they scrambled through the underbrush to hide from Longclaw. But once she grew larger (maybe not large enough to successfully win against danger, but large enough to feel like she might stand a chance), Wishbone hadn’t run away from a threat.
The blue-white-gold face of a man she hoped she would never see again peels himself from the darkness. He seems to be borne from it, whisps of the shadows curling against his scaled body until he comes into full view. Wishbone hardly notices this fact, her eyes caught on the face she has seen in her nightmares for twelve years. Even sleeping in the Afterlife had been marred by his taunting gold eyes.
When she speaks, her voice is a snarl. “How dare you come here, you filthy piece of shit?” The mammoth tusk whistles through the air, stopping just shy of Ivar’s throat. Mazikeen’s fire seems to burn within the midnight-clad mare; the embers of her anger that have simmered for years now spark into a wildfire. The kelpie had taken from Wishbone — her twin daughters, her life — and her body quivers with a desire to rip everything away from him. She imagines peeling back the scales from his skin and pushing the mammoth tusk deep into his chest, right into the chambers of his heart. Wishbone almost wonders where this sick idea comes from, but she is too full of red-hot anger to question it.
Instead, she spits into his face and stares at him with eyes so cold and sharp they might just cut his skin all by themselves. “I ought to kill you right now, in a far worse way you killed me.”
@[Mazikeen]
@[Ivar] tagged for honorable mentions as a monster