between the shadows and the soul - birthing, any

[Rodrik]

Thump, thump. It calls out to him again and again. Thump, thump, thump… It screams for him to come closer, begging for him to return. The dark form crawls forward, slipping through the shadows and mist of the forest. It moves with frantic steps, muscles and bones working together as one, as the scent of decay trails behind the form. The devil peers through hooded eyes, dark and hollow. There is a glimpse of nutmeg in his eyes, but it mostly lost in the swirl of shadows and hunger. Its eyes search across the familiar pine forest quickly like a hellhound sent on a trail to hunt those that escaped hell. He waves through the ancient pine trees with ease as the mist blinds him from the path in front of him. It did not matter though; the dark form knew exactly where he was heading. Despite being up in the mountains for so long he did not forget he once had been a native dweller of the Chamber. He had been something special to this place, a king once, but always a servant he would be chained to her. THUMP, THUMP. The sound is closer now. It beckons him like a temptress in the hours of the wolf. Oh, how he answers her without disagreement. A familiar hunger for blood fills his eyes, it is so strong, an instinct he cannot deny for much longer. However, another scent enters through the red stallion’s nostrils. It smells of fresh life, a much pleasanter meal than anything ever. It could never resist such an offering, not even when the fresh life lurked just beyond the pine trees. As he approaches the duo, a repugnant smirk grows across his tattered lips. The scene before him is something much more than an offering, it is a blessing in a sick and twisted way. It is the birth of his granddaughter. The memories of his own foal’s birth are hidden far off in his mind, but a particular one, Straia’s own birth, flows forward freely. He recalls it all too well – the image he had for Straia’s future and killing the mare that carried and birthed her – but it is just a memory now. The memory was only a failed attempt at what he had planned, so he disregards it quickly. The devil does not dwell on such failures now. It was foolish to. The beast steps forward, from the shadows and the mist that concealed him, and moves towards Straia slowly. “How beautiful,” he coos softly with a deep, raspy voice as he hears the name of his granddaughter. Weaver, such a distasteful name but a name that would serve as any other being just as Frostweaver had served her purpose to give life to Straia. However, at this moment, he thinks of the family he had when growing up in the jungle. It has been many years since then but it is a favorable memory of the devil’s – truly unlike him – that he clings onto feverishly to remember he once was something that could be loveable and caring. It is what he clings onto to keep him from falling into absolute darkness, to answer completely to the call of the night and the beast that made him into what he is now. “Weaver,” he whispers so lightly as his eyes gaze at the young black and white girl. It seems so unnatural for the dying corpse to respond to a newborn. The beast naturally would be gnawing on the fresh life that blossomed deep within the core of the new filly. But he doesn’t, not this time. “I am Rodrik, your grandfather.” A name that perhaps means nothing now, but eventually, and with dim hope he has that someday it might. It is a strange feeling that fills his belly, a warm tingling sensation but Rodrik does not let it grow any further. It feels like poison, but it is a dangerous feeling that gives him relief. So, he harbors it closely, letting the small light within his core feel it against the darkness. It could possibly be happiness, but the devil would never admit to feeling such a thing.

Rodrik

angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils

character info: here | character reference: here | image © uribaani