07-03-2021, 07:25 PM
it was a blood-soaked feast
that never ceased
that never ceased
He scoffs. “Perhaps no purpose for you,” he seethes through grinding teeth, the breath of his voice escaping through a thin veil. The lack of defiance in her statement brings his rage forth, tightening his grip on her with a terrible force (and a terrible need). “But it certainly brings joy to me.” Maugrim refuses to investigate further, refuses to search the depths of her sad blue eyes and to try to reveal the sorrow that has worn scars on her heart. He is unfeeling, cold, and selfish - and as uneasy as ever, shifting his weight from one side to the other, chuffing hurriedly.
Her cool eyes meet his and there is something like a hiss that leaves his parted lips, deliberate to elicit fear from her and only receiving a muted sadness, and acceptance of her fate and all that he may decide to do. She is like a lamb coming to the slaughter, passive and almost contrite, despite no wrongs. She is perfect, he thinks, to have labored at his side for so long; to accompany him so far into these depths and to remain unphased and unafraid. He snorts, those abysmal eyes sparking as another thought preens its way through his mind. Or she is far more than he can tell - something worthy of death and his will, something that begs for the end rather than to fight for her life.
The thought renders the Poseidon confused, trapped in some kind of stalemate that he cannot perceive. Unlike anything that he had come in contact with (neither a terrified victim nor a strong adversary), there is hesitancy in the way he stands before her, despite the darkness and rage that burns like fire in his gaze.
She calls to him as he filters into nothingness, becoming the very water that holds her close. He never disappeared - not really - and was closer than ever, gripped tight around her throat and her delicate ankles, always closer than she ever dreamed he could be. But even still she calls for him, her voice nearly whispering in the stagnant air of Sylva, desperate as it flutters to him. She clarifies and though he is not solid, the stallion grimaces. She is learning too much, discovering more of him than he ever intended and he needed it to stop. It is why he forces himself to press further onto her windpipe, to stop the words flowing from her mouth. It seems to be working as she sputters for her forgiveness and then the damned armor around her pushes him away just enough so that his strength is useless.
Not trying to escape him.
His water writhes, angry and fervent. Then she gives him her name as if knowing it would soften the anger in his heart and the rage that burns there. “And that is why you will die here with me, Dark.”
Without a thought (for if he were to think, he might hesitate), he liquifies himself once again and drops into the water with a sudden splash. The wall of water around her falls as well, but the tight pillar that holds her legs and throat only strengthens, tightening despite her armor’s space between them, and attempts to pull her into the water with him.
Her cool eyes meet his and there is something like a hiss that leaves his parted lips, deliberate to elicit fear from her and only receiving a muted sadness, and acceptance of her fate and all that he may decide to do. She is like a lamb coming to the slaughter, passive and almost contrite, despite no wrongs. She is perfect, he thinks, to have labored at his side for so long; to accompany him so far into these depths and to remain unphased and unafraid. He snorts, those abysmal eyes sparking as another thought preens its way through his mind. Or she is far more than he can tell - something worthy of death and his will, something that begs for the end rather than to fight for her life.
The thought renders the Poseidon confused, trapped in some kind of stalemate that he cannot perceive. Unlike anything that he had come in contact with (neither a terrified victim nor a strong adversary), there is hesitancy in the way he stands before her, despite the darkness and rage that burns like fire in his gaze.
She calls to him as he filters into nothingness, becoming the very water that holds her close. He never disappeared - not really - and was closer than ever, gripped tight around her throat and her delicate ankles, always closer than she ever dreamed he could be. But even still she calls for him, her voice nearly whispering in the stagnant air of Sylva, desperate as it flutters to him. She clarifies and though he is not solid, the stallion grimaces. She is learning too much, discovering more of him than he ever intended and he needed it to stop. It is why he forces himself to press further onto her windpipe, to stop the words flowing from her mouth. It seems to be working as she sputters for her forgiveness and then the damned armor around her pushes him away just enough so that his strength is useless.
Not trying to escape him.
His water writhes, angry and fervent. Then she gives him her name as if knowing it would soften the anger in his heart and the rage that burns there. “And that is why you will die here with me, Dark.”
Without a thought (for if he were to think, he might hesitate), he liquifies himself once again and drops into the water with a sudden splash. The wall of water around her falls as well, but the tight pillar that holds her legs and throat only strengthens, tightening despite her armor’s space between them, and attempts to pull her into the water with him.
m a u g r i m.
@dark