03-05-2023, 08:28 PM
He doesn't mean to be a monster, but sometimes, often, he is. Marten flinches when the first warrior lunges at him, the curved and golden claws tucked against his fetlocks dropping so their points can press into damp soil, can tear into feathered flesh as the Stratosian falls upon him, but the impact he braces for never comes. The fighter falls through him like a ghost. Quick eyes flick up to those who have appeared around him. They jump and startle similarly. The magic of the Sprites has deposited them upon an ancient battleground. His cool gaze turns down to the bleeding creature gasping at his feet. A ghost indeed. Marten sniffs scornfully at the writhing shape in the rust-colored mud, and, unmoved, steps through the dying man.
What use are the memories of these dead creatures to him? Of more interest are the real bodies that might lie strewn across the land, a feast for scavengers and adventurous eaters alike. Tongue tracing the points of his teeth, Marten strays closer to the group. They are already arguing, the Baltian woman spits venom, her voice like the crash of water on rocks. This is personal for her. The others follow; what was the first battle, and where? What is the meaning of the stones? Their questions bore him and his tail sways, languid. He does not care about these people, not the ones dying in front of him and not the ones that also stepped through the portals. The sea is blue and the sky is blue and they are both realms he will never travel - never wish to travel - so what does it matter if the people there shred themselves?
And, because he is his father's son, he must wonder why it matters if their fury destroys the world. Let it, he thinks, be destroyed.
The long-backed bay glides through the stones as though searching for something away from the others, tracing their rough and bloodied surfaces with his nose. His skin comes away clean but for the dust, as though the blood were not there at all. He suspects they are all hallucinating.
"Tell me," he says at last to the insistent sprite when the others are no longer near enough to hear his soft hiss. "What would you show me if I told you I am not interested in saving the world?"
Traitor.
What use are the memories of these dead creatures to him? Of more interest are the real bodies that might lie strewn across the land, a feast for scavengers and adventurous eaters alike. Tongue tracing the points of his teeth, Marten strays closer to the group. They are already arguing, the Baltian woman spits venom, her voice like the crash of water on rocks. This is personal for her. The others follow; what was the first battle, and where? What is the meaning of the stones? Their questions bore him and his tail sways, languid. He does not care about these people, not the ones dying in front of him and not the ones that also stepped through the portals. The sea is blue and the sky is blue and they are both realms he will never travel - never wish to travel - so what does it matter if the people there shred themselves?
And, because he is his father's son, he must wonder why it matters if their fury destroys the world. Let it, he thinks, be destroyed.
The long-backed bay glides through the stones as though searching for something away from the others, tracing their rough and bloodied surfaces with his nose. His skin comes away clean but for the dust, as though the blood were not there at all. He suspects they are all hallucinating.
"Tell me," he says at last to the insistent sprite when the others are no longer near enough to hear his soft hiss. "What would you show me if I told you I am not interested in saving the world?"
Traitor.