01-31-2021, 11:21 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.
The confusion in her stomach chills into horror when Ivar’s mouth unhinges (and she is reminded of witnessing a snake bite an animal much too large for its jaws) and his gold eyes roll to reveal white disrupted by bright red blood vessels. Wishbone doesn’t have time to warn the pale-colored mare, but her mind instinctively shifts the mammoth tusk to point it at the thing when it sinks its teeth into Mazikeen’s neck.
It is definitely not Ivar.
“Holy fucking shit.” Wishbone is grateful the thing lets go of Mazikeen, and she steps closer to Ivar-creature with one strong, purposeful movement. Her horror has melted into the familiar blaze of anger and bravery. These emotions and the presence of danger (she might deny fear, but she cannot ignore danger) coax adrenaline from its hiding place and let it flow into the marrow of her bones. “I don’t know who Barrow is, but that is not your friend. Or anyone’s friend.” Her voice is firm, unwavering. Wishbone isn’t sure exactly what this creature is, but she does know it’s not Ivar or Barrow, and she knows it is dangerous.
Though she has not fought in this shape yet, Wishbone is tall, and she uses this to make herself look larger than the creature. Her ears pin even further into the tangle of her mane, and her eyes flash with a danger that seems to ignite flames within her amber eyes. “Touch her again, and I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarls at the creature. Wishbone pushes closer, feeling her skin grow hot under the strangely-familiar gold eyes, and presses the tusk directly into its chest.
Perhaps she will never figure out how to avoid the temptations of Death and Danger. Perhaps it will always be a fault of hers — to walk the line between living and not-living, to dance herself into the hands of the Grim Reaper, to snarl and fight with such recklessness the world schemes on ways to remove her from it.
Fed up with the game, the Ivar-Barrow-creature shatters into an oily-black shadow. It levitates into the air above their heads and, with a wide-gaping mouth full of rows of shark-like teeth, wraps its mouth across the slope of Wishbone’s obsidian back.
It is definitely not Ivar.
“Holy fucking shit.” Wishbone is grateful the thing lets go of Mazikeen, and she steps closer to Ivar-creature with one strong, purposeful movement. Her horror has melted into the familiar blaze of anger and bravery. These emotions and the presence of danger (she might deny fear, but she cannot ignore danger) coax adrenaline from its hiding place and let it flow into the marrow of her bones. “I don’t know who Barrow is, but that is not your friend. Or anyone’s friend.” Her voice is firm, unwavering. Wishbone isn’t sure exactly what this creature is, but she does know it’s not Ivar or Barrow, and she knows it is dangerous.
Though she has not fought in this shape yet, Wishbone is tall, and she uses this to make herself look larger than the creature. Her ears pin even further into the tangle of her mane, and her eyes flash with a danger that seems to ignite flames within her amber eyes. “Touch her again, and I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarls at the creature. Wishbone pushes closer, feeling her skin grow hot under the strangely-familiar gold eyes, and presses the tusk directly into its chest.
Perhaps she will never figure out how to avoid the temptations of Death and Danger. Perhaps it will always be a fault of hers — to walk the line between living and not-living, to dance herself into the hands of the Grim Reaper, to snarl and fight with such recklessness the world schemes on ways to remove her from it.
Fed up with the game, the Ivar-Barrow-creature shatters into an oily-black shadow. It levitates into the air above their heads and, with a wide-gaping mouth full of rows of shark-like teeth, wraps its mouth across the slope of Wishbone’s obsidian back.
@[Mazikeen]