And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion."
The shadows seem full of crimson teeth, and a hundred things as quickly snuffed out as a candle, when he opens his teeth and bitterness pours out. She wonders if he's choking on it in the way that drowning things choke on water like it's oil instead of life. How fragile this all seems to her, from blade to bitterness, blood to a mockery all the things leaking out in a place too dark for their shadows to exist.
She watches him thrash against the sand monsters like a pale moon flailing against an eclipse. “It will not help” A whisper. A threat when her horn catches in the darkness as cocks her head like a lion to listen closely to the sound of his hooves, sand, and stone. How easy, her form seems to say, to kill beasts made of sand and fury.
And when she smiles it says, I am neither sand nor fury.
Eligos lays his cheek against her shoulder and the flash of his teeth in the darkness is as loud as any thundering snarl. His eyes flash golden as the stallion's, molten and full of a hundred almost-sounds that might ring against the echoing laughter like a bell. The tip of his tail paints arcane arcs in the dust, each curling in a patterns older even than the bones rising around them like guardians of the darkness.
He waits.
He waits for--
Thana does not let her moon-bright smile fade when she grabs hold of the fallen blade and lifts it up like an olive branch between them. And she does not let her gaze follow the drops of blood still falling from the tip of it when her magic starts to ache for the sight of it (she knows the flavor of them, the iron, and the rot already). “Anywhere but wherever you were trying to go when you cut lines into your chest, pegasus.” Her smile blazes like a warning snare.
The amethyst of her gaze looks more black than lilac when she lightly holds the blade and spins it between them like a compass arrow. A drop of blood lands on her brow but there are no monsters left to rise from the sorrowful bitterness of his violence.
She would not call it poetry. Not yet.
@Zayir
