There is a monster in this story.
When Vercingtorix finds the chestnut stallion dead in the desert, he is struck by morbid curiosity. It is a soldier’s old habit that ensures he catalogues the dead; he searches for identification and, when he does not find it, he reads instead for the story written in the soft sand. At first glance, there is nothing but chaos and the dark crimson stain of blood (nearly black, baked into the sand). Vultures, too, have found the corpse. The flurry of their activity has masked the signs of the chestnut’s death at first glance.
But, with patience, Vercingtorix’s eyes track the tale. Turning to follow the direction the tracks had come, Torix finds three pairs of hoof-prints. But when he turns around to follow the journey as it transpired—forward—he discovers there is a transition where one pair of prints seems to disappear. They are replaced by a large cat’s soft pads.
Yes, Vercingtorix thinks. There is a monster in this story.
He observes the corpse again. The second time Torix glances over the scene, he sees something he hadn’t before; a fine spray of silver liquid. It is dried now, down into the sand, but something about it strikes him as odd.
It is magic.
Damascus’s voice is unbidden in his mind. Torix, internally, does everything but snarl. He begins to turn away, but already the light of the sun is gone and the dragon, in a flurry of sand, has landed a small distance from him.
“Don’t you want to find it?” Damascus asks.
“Why would I?”
Even as Torix says it, tensely, he begins to realise all the reasons he would want to. Clearly, the scene is an unnatural one; a magic one. Everything seems more a hallucination than a reality; Damascus has stooped his massive head to appraise his Bonded. Torix refuses to look the great beast in the eyes.
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
The dragon sighs, heavily, and stares at the chestnut corpse.
“It doesn’t work like that.” The dragon nearly sounds hurt. “I can’t just hypnotise you. You’re… you’re… mine." It comes out broken, possessive, deep. The voice of the devil claiming sin.
Vercingtorix turns away, and begins to follow the trail of silver blood. Behind him, in a sound of horrendous crunching, Damascus devours the chestnut corpse.
Perhaps, Vercingtorix thinks, there is more than one monster in this story.
He hears the sound of Damascus’s wings beating the air; a sound like a hurricane. And then the dragon is above him, in the sky, higher and higher. They follow the trail of blood, together, through the Mors—with Damascus informing Torix of the canyon in the distance—and the sun beginning to rise on the distant horizon. Their journey is lit by the stars and moon, everything cool silver.
The trail leads them to the canyon; and deeper, deeper.
Vercingtorix is surprised with the prints (they are often wiped by sand, now, and if not for the blood he would have lost the trail entirely) transition from paws to hooves again.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Everything around them is walled. Everything around them holds the memory of vicious water, carving through the earth. The trail twists and turns and Vercingtorix smells water, now, in earnest. The desert spring is surrounded by foliage, although it is far too small to be considered an oasis.
This, he thinks, is where the trail ends.
This, he thinks, is where the chapter changes.
Damascus lands on the precipice of the canyon above. Beneath his weight, rocks and sand give way and cascade to the bottom. Vercingtorix turns his eyes upon the Pegasus sheltered there."You’re hurt.” Vercingtorix says. And then, in a voice distrustful and guilting, “You killed that man.”
There is a monster in this story.
Sometimes, though, he comes gilded in gold.
Sometimes, though, he comes with words.
"Speech." || @Warset
who knows what kind of havoc they might wreak?
