YOU ARE SEARCHING FOR A GOD IN THESE HOLLOW HALLS, BITTER BLOOD BEHIND YOUR TEETH. HEAVEN HELP US, SAYS YOUR UNHOLY MOUTH, YOUR HANDS ON MY HANDS. I DON'T KNOW WHERE DARKNESS ENDS AND YOU BEGIN. PROPHETS SANG OF YOU, MOLDED IN YOUR FATHER'S IMAGE. I AM NOT SURE WHEN THEY STOPPED.
I suppose, though I think I have heard it from my brothers before. None of them quite cared for it.
Vercingtorix cannot say why her question has filled him with something like unease, but less refined. It is a grainy, dark emotion; belonging to predators, or soldier’s as they pillage.
She says many things but gives little away. He would like to ask more of her world, he thinks; but simultaneously he does not care. Their interaction begins to feel like a mistake as his own words begin to resonate within him. it is a place ruled by the sea and the Old Gods; and horses come from the ocean to reap the living.
My name is Mesnyi. Perhaps it is that admission that reminds her he is here, now; in this moment; and not across the sea in a land of cliffs and monsters. Mesnyi shares a strange story, then; it sounds fanciful to Torix, perhaps even a lie. But there is a gravity to the woman, an alien strangeness, that makes him want to believe it. “What a strange place,” Torix comments, nearly idly. But there is a brightness to his eyes that suggests deep intrigue. He watches her toss her head backward, arching her neck at an angle that is both vulnerable and pristine.
The dance she shows him is brutal; it reminds him a bit of death, of striking down a foe with sharp hooves. But her calm expectation ensures there is no argument from him; Torix understands, after all, that he has disturbed her. To the best of his ability, he mimics her previous pose: he throws back his head, bares his jugular to the world, and with eyes closed rises into a rear. He feels the painful kink in his hip that is all too common; he ignores it. And balances for a moment like that, stepping this way or that to keep from falling. Until, he feels as if it time.
Torix slams his hooves back onto the ground, eyes snapping open. He gives a deep exhalation. “Like that, Mesyni?” he asks.
It is not often that he is curious. But this woman intrigues him. He clears his throat; the abrasiveness he had expressed moments ago seems much more tempered, especially when he asks, boyishly curious, “Do your people go to many worlds?”
He wonders if there are monsters everywhere.
@Mesyni
HEAVEN HELP US, BUT NO ONE IS ANSWERING. YOU PROMISED ME AN EMPIRE ONCE, OR HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THAT TOO? BUILD ME ONE NOW, WITH YOUR HEART AS THE CITADEL, MINE AS THE CATHEDRAL. YOUR HANDS THE CITY WALLS, MINE THE CANNON. EVEN HEAVEN CANNOT HELP US NOW.
