It's not the fire that brings her hunting across the plains, not at first.
The rabbit screams summoned her. The sound is a common one, perhaps of some owl seeking to fill a hunger that could not compare to Calliope's. But here in Novus, in a world of politics and walls and strange horses that drink from cups, the way the scream goes on and on is enough to turn her head towards the sound.
It sounds like pain, like torment and the sound is familiar enough to bring a cold, frozen smile twisting across her black lips. No hunter kills so cruelly.
And once she has turned and made her way into the tall grasses, moving slow and low enough to be more wildcat than unicorn, the fire is what brings her closer. Once she's seen it, once she's spotted that poor twitching rabbit upon the flames the rumble of coming thunder is nothing more than a after thought. No storm could turn her away, no snap of lightning could instill fear in blood that remembers the sting of that electric violence so well.
Calliope moves from the grasses, watching the old stallion writhe upon the dirt like a snake. Instantly she is reminded on the sick things of the Riftlands. He looks like one of them, the tainted ones, laid low by his disease and foolish enough to think that he will rise up greater in the aftermath of his decay. Perhaps they could have risen as monsters to claim the leftover wasteland of that world.
But Calliope had trapped them in an electric river and collapsed all their passages to salvation and food. She left them to die, to wither away to nothing but bones and give their plague back to the earth. There is no regret in her for that choice, the one that others couldn't bring themselves to make.
Sometimes creatures cannot be saved and blood is the only peace left to claim.
She is near silent as she moves closer, her steps muffled by the storm, the cracking of the flames and the mindless groans of his madness. To her he is not so sacred and the bones and blood upon him are not holy or worthy of praise.
The stallion is nothing more than other mad horse, lost to all the things he thinks might ring true. This is not the first religious zealot she has found, nor the first sacrifice she has witnessed.
Calliope only stops when she is close enough to watch the blood fleck from his face and feel the force of his laughter like pin-pricks on her skin. Her horn is swift as she lowers it to the ground and flicks dirt and grass into his flames. The dead grasses snaps in the fire and the her horn as she lifts it up into smoke of her offering hangs in the air like a nose, silent and coarse and waiting to meet that tender curve of his throat.
He will find only silence in her face, a still sort of blackness that consumes far more than any mortal should. She stands over him poised like a lion, waiting for him to offer another innocent woodland creature to the flames so that she might toss him onto his own pyre instead.
And in her eyes he will see judgment, brighter and sharper than the lighting that lashes above their heads.
Compared to her, the way she oozes brutality and needs no words to make her promises, the last summer storm seems tame.
BUT THE BEAUTY OF HER FORM BRINGS VIOLENCE
A LONG AND LOVELY FALL NO WILL OR FIRE CAN OPPOSE
The rabbit screams summoned her. The sound is a common one, perhaps of some owl seeking to fill a hunger that could not compare to Calliope's. But here in Novus, in a world of politics and walls and strange horses that drink from cups, the way the scream goes on and on is enough to turn her head towards the sound.
It sounds like pain, like torment and the sound is familiar enough to bring a cold, frozen smile twisting across her black lips. No hunter kills so cruelly.
And once she has turned and made her way into the tall grasses, moving slow and low enough to be more wildcat than unicorn, the fire is what brings her closer. Once she's seen it, once she's spotted that poor twitching rabbit upon the flames the rumble of coming thunder is nothing more than a after thought. No storm could turn her away, no snap of lightning could instill fear in blood that remembers the sting of that electric violence so well.
Calliope moves from the grasses, watching the old stallion writhe upon the dirt like a snake. Instantly she is reminded on the sick things of the Riftlands. He looks like one of them, the tainted ones, laid low by his disease and foolish enough to think that he will rise up greater in the aftermath of his decay. Perhaps they could have risen as monsters to claim the leftover wasteland of that world.
But Calliope had trapped them in an electric river and collapsed all their passages to salvation and food. She left them to die, to wither away to nothing but bones and give their plague back to the earth. There is no regret in her for that choice, the one that others couldn't bring themselves to make.
Sometimes creatures cannot be saved and blood is the only peace left to claim.
She is near silent as she moves closer, her steps muffled by the storm, the cracking of the flames and the mindless groans of his madness. To her he is not so sacred and the bones and blood upon him are not holy or worthy of praise.
The stallion is nothing more than other mad horse, lost to all the things he thinks might ring true. This is not the first religious zealot she has found, nor the first sacrifice she has witnessed.
Calliope only stops when she is close enough to watch the blood fleck from his face and feel the force of his laughter like pin-pricks on her skin. Her horn is swift as she lowers it to the ground and flicks dirt and grass into his flames. The dead grasses snaps in the fire and the her horn as she lifts it up into smoke of her offering hangs in the air like a nose, silent and coarse and waiting to meet that tender curve of his throat.
He will find only silence in her face, a still sort of blackness that consumes far more than any mortal should. She stands over him poised like a lion, waiting for him to offer another innocent woodland creature to the flames so that she might toss him onto his own pyre instead.
And in her eyes he will see judgment, brighter and sharper than the lighting that lashes above their heads.
Compared to her, the way she oozes brutality and needs no words to make her promises, the last summer storm seems tame.
BUT THE BEAUTY OF HER FORM BRINGS VIOLENCE
A LONG AND LOVELY FALL NO WILL OR FIRE CAN OPPOSE
@Turhan
