burning my cathedrals
cause i dont pray anymore
When it comes to violence, Fever is typically insatiable. She lives for the fight: the gut-punch and blows from strangers engaging in this primal war-dance of bodies and sweat, the folding and snapping of bones under the pressure of the other's weight, and the tang of your own blood in your mouth. It was primitive, engraved into her genotype, an instinct as natural as seeking water in the middle of the desert. The desire to inflict pain was equally as great as the yearn for her own bodily harm - she wished for pain, she lusted after the adrenaline that follows after a wound, begged for the clarity the comes after dissipating in the rage.
Surely, this sick breed of masochism would eventually be her end.
Until then she would continue to sharpen herself into a weapon on the whetstone of other horses' bodies.
Fever was unaware of the scratches she would inflict on the young stud's chest, and it was too late when Aeon's words registered in her mismatched ears. She was already in the motion of the attack. Her long tines cut into the underbelly of the draft as he failed to evade her - like a hot knife into butter. Warm, sticky blood speckles her face; Fever closes her eyes, as if rain in a drought and she had been religiously praying to the Gods to quench her thirst, a soft sigh of contentment briefly escaping her. As Aeon stumbles into his landing behind her, he speaks again, asking if her God was satisfied.
He is not a child of the sun.
In that moment, she is statue-still, her lashes gradually opening to let the light of morning sting her molten gold eyes.
This fight wouldn't bring her the glory she sought.
Her anger boils in her stomach, a wretched bile of emotion, though not a hint of her brewing resentment is shown on her face - in fact, from the outside, she appears melancholy. Her black lips are curled into a small frown, the sparkle of war once in her fiery gaze now dampened, snuffed out by an unseen hand. The mare's jaw shifts side to side, grinding her molars in solemn contemplation as she stares at the invisible face of her patron deity in the sky.
Solis - what must I do in order to please you?
Am I not eager enough for war? Am I not willing to trample your enemies and cut down your foes?
When will I feel like a worthy child?
Fever blinks slowly - Aeon's blood like sap on her lashes, a splatter of sanguine war-paint as she turns her delicate head over her shoulder to scrutinize him with a menacing stare. Her line of sight tracing the wounds on his pectoral muscles, watching his skin weep and run down those duo-toned legs and puddle at the floor.
"I asked for no mercy," she announces, deadpan and impassive. Aeon, though absolutely gargantuan in size and easily able to dwarf her with his sheer strength, is coming off as too young, perhaps too inexperienced, to know how to effectively neutralize her. She pities him: if he was a part of her Kingdom he would have already been crafted into a fine instrument of destruction. But alas, he would go crawling back to the soft and meek arms of Vespera.
A soft breeze gets caught inside the colosseum, it tangles Fever's hair and whispers in her ear - reminds her of her mother telling her that enough is enough, a ghost-like attempt to pacify the spite running rampant through her veins.
Her eyes narrow. "I am satisfied." It was a lie, and she knew not if Solis would be thrilled with this outcome despite how much she wished for it.
Fever pivots to face Aeon, the limp in her right foreleg evident now that the adrenaline had begun to taper - an eggplant of a bruise on her shoulder, which would surely transfigure into a kaleidoscope of ghastly colors over the next couple weeks. The scrape on her other shoulder was raw, her own blood matting her fur, though not leaking like the other's wound. It hurt to walk, each stride a reminder of her stubbornness to stand and endure it.
Though he towers over her, she lifts her chin to him, brash and unafraid. "You may leave my kingdom now."
@Aeon after your next post, i can close up this thread : )
Surely, this sick breed of masochism would eventually be her end.
Until then she would continue to sharpen herself into a weapon on the whetstone of other horses' bodies.
Fever was unaware of the scratches she would inflict on the young stud's chest, and it was too late when Aeon's words registered in her mismatched ears. She was already in the motion of the attack. Her long tines cut into the underbelly of the draft as he failed to evade her - like a hot knife into butter. Warm, sticky blood speckles her face; Fever closes her eyes, as if rain in a drought and she had been religiously praying to the Gods to quench her thirst, a soft sigh of contentment briefly escaping her. As Aeon stumbles into his landing behind her, he speaks again, asking if her God was satisfied.
He is not a child of the sun.
In that moment, she is statue-still, her lashes gradually opening to let the light of morning sting her molten gold eyes.
This fight wouldn't bring her the glory she sought.
Her anger boils in her stomach, a wretched bile of emotion, though not a hint of her brewing resentment is shown on her face - in fact, from the outside, she appears melancholy. Her black lips are curled into a small frown, the sparkle of war once in her fiery gaze now dampened, snuffed out by an unseen hand. The mare's jaw shifts side to side, grinding her molars in solemn contemplation as she stares at the invisible face of her patron deity in the sky.
Solis - what must I do in order to please you?
Am I not eager enough for war? Am I not willing to trample your enemies and cut down your foes?
When will I feel like a worthy child?
Fever blinks slowly - Aeon's blood like sap on her lashes, a splatter of sanguine war-paint as she turns her delicate head over her shoulder to scrutinize him with a menacing stare. Her line of sight tracing the wounds on his pectoral muscles, watching his skin weep and run down those duo-toned legs and puddle at the floor.
"I asked for no mercy," she announces, deadpan and impassive. Aeon, though absolutely gargantuan in size and easily able to dwarf her with his sheer strength, is coming off as too young, perhaps too inexperienced, to know how to effectively neutralize her. She pities him: if he was a part of her Kingdom he would have already been crafted into a fine instrument of destruction. But alas, he would go crawling back to the soft and meek arms of Vespera.
A soft breeze gets caught inside the colosseum, it tangles Fever's hair and whispers in her ear - reminds her of her mother telling her that enough is enough, a ghost-like attempt to pacify the spite running rampant through her veins.
Her eyes narrow. "I am satisfied." It was a lie, and she knew not if Solis would be thrilled with this outcome despite how much she wished for it.
Fever pivots to face Aeon, the limp in her right foreleg evident now that the adrenaline had begun to taper - an eggplant of a bruise on her shoulder, which would surely transfigure into a kaleidoscope of ghastly colors over the next couple weeks. The scrape on her other shoulder was raw, her own blood matting her fur, though not leaking like the other's wound. It hurt to walk, each stride a reminder of her stubbornness to stand and endure it.
Though he towers over her, she lifts her chin to him, brash and unafraid. "You may leave my kingdom now."
@Aeon after your next post, i can close up this thread : )
![[Image: 45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png)
i am a forest fire; i am the fire and i am the forest
and i am a witness watching it
