Perhaps another would have been startled to see the grotesque beneath the bone. He's a thing of weathered flesh and bone that has long since lost any form of elegance. There is a world in his hair, bones woven into dreadlocks. Everything about him is a grim, patchwork altar to religion and a tombstone for all the animals unlucky enough to meet this monster.
Unicorns are less easy to startled and Calliope is harder than most. Others might see something to fear, to flee or to follow. She only sees the mortal curl of his crest beneath the tangles. She only sees flesh that would hold a grave dug out by the tip of her horn.
Had she known there were darts waiting beneath his tangles she would have carved all his hair out from the apex of his spine to this withers.
When he rises she only watches him as a storm might watch the sea swallow up the shore by the kiss of its winds. She only lifts her horn up high enough so that she doesn't touch his crown. Calliope isn't ready to give up her weapon so soon, not to a blind beast foolish enough to approach a unicorn (just a mare to him) that smells like ozone.
Only her silence greets his words. She nether denies or affirms his questions. It's death that lingers in the silence of her, only that deathly stillness that suggests she has come for him at all.
And when he touches her as another wild thing might she breathes once into his nose. Calliope wonders if he can smell the violence of her on her skin. Her flesh is heavy with a rage that would put every god to shame and shatter all their altars to diamond dust.
Perhaps he can only know by the way that she greets him as no other horse in Novus might that she is something more blooded and wild than he, with all this bones and decay, could hope to be.
All he gets is a single touch of her nose to his and then she replaces her lips with her horn. The tip rests gently against that wide, flat spot between his eyes. Now she is ready to reveal the wicked, brutality of her horn.
It's a gavel against his skin, justice made ready and it could almost feel like a tremble of a noose as she speaks loud enough to challenge both the fire and the thunder. “What is is that you sacrifice for, Turhan?” Calliope leans closer, no more than a single expansion of her vertebrae. The gesture is enough to let him feel the blade of her justice just a little more. Only retreat from her will save him from bleeding-- just a little, less than that rabbit had in his flames.
“Do you think the death of a mere, innocent rabbit will gain you any favor?” The rage is in her voice now, muted to no more than a low rumble of displeasure. It sounds like a lion might, a soft warning of the death that might follow if another trespass is made.
Calliope dips her tail in the fire, just long enough for embers to cling to her hair. When the tips start to smolder and burn she lifts it up and flicks the clinging embers toward him. The gesture and that smell of singed hair seems to suggest what that low growl in her voice doesn't put to words.
That should he say the wrong thing she might drive him back, back, back into the embers of his pyre. It suggests that he might burn, smolder and scream as the rabbit had.
Even religion is not beyond the reach of justice and karma.
BUT THE BEAUTY OF HER FORM BRINGS VIOLENCE
A LONG AND LOVELY FALL NO WILL OR FIRE CAN OPPOSE
Unicorns are less easy to startled and Calliope is harder than most. Others might see something to fear, to flee or to follow. She only sees the mortal curl of his crest beneath the tangles. She only sees flesh that would hold a grave dug out by the tip of her horn.
Had she known there were darts waiting beneath his tangles she would have carved all his hair out from the apex of his spine to this withers.
When he rises she only watches him as a storm might watch the sea swallow up the shore by the kiss of its winds. She only lifts her horn up high enough so that she doesn't touch his crown. Calliope isn't ready to give up her weapon so soon, not to a blind beast foolish enough to approach a unicorn (just a mare to him) that smells like ozone.
Only her silence greets his words. She nether denies or affirms his questions. It's death that lingers in the silence of her, only that deathly stillness that suggests she has come for him at all.
And when he touches her as another wild thing might she breathes once into his nose. Calliope wonders if he can smell the violence of her on her skin. Her flesh is heavy with a rage that would put every god to shame and shatter all their altars to diamond dust.
Perhaps he can only know by the way that she greets him as no other horse in Novus might that she is something more blooded and wild than he, with all this bones and decay, could hope to be.
All he gets is a single touch of her nose to his and then she replaces her lips with her horn. The tip rests gently against that wide, flat spot between his eyes. Now she is ready to reveal the wicked, brutality of her horn.
It's a gavel against his skin, justice made ready and it could almost feel like a tremble of a noose as she speaks loud enough to challenge both the fire and the thunder. “What is is that you sacrifice for, Turhan?” Calliope leans closer, no more than a single expansion of her vertebrae. The gesture is enough to let him feel the blade of her justice just a little more. Only retreat from her will save him from bleeding-- just a little, less than that rabbit had in his flames.
“Do you think the death of a mere, innocent rabbit will gain you any favor?” The rage is in her voice now, muted to no more than a low rumble of displeasure. It sounds like a lion might, a soft warning of the death that might follow if another trespass is made.
Calliope dips her tail in the fire, just long enough for embers to cling to her hair. When the tips start to smolder and burn she lifts it up and flicks the clinging embers toward him. The gesture and that smell of singed hair seems to suggest what that low growl in her voice doesn't put to words.
That should he say the wrong thing she might drive him back, back, back into the embers of his pyre. It suggests that he might burn, smolder and scream as the rabbit had.
Even religion is not beyond the reach of justice and karma.
BUT THE BEAUTY OF HER FORM BRINGS VIOLENCE
A LONG AND LOVELY FALL NO WILL OR FIRE CAN OPPOSE
@Turhan
