Born of graves
And Left below
And Left below
He breathed his sigh, and caught wind upon his next inhale of the presence of another, one who had been lurking within this place unseen by the raven's distracted eyes. Alarm raised itself in faint tendrils within his heart, a prickling awareness that he was no longer alone, that his vulnerable back was to a hostile energy as tension rolled across the parapets. It would be so easy for the unseen foe to shove Ammon from the walls to crack open on the hard earth below, and that knowledge held a bitter taste on his tongue. It was the ageless paranoia instilled in him virtually from birth, that fear that all he came across bore treachery in some manner or another, and he prepared for the worst within the depths of his razor-sharp mind, the shift of his weight to his side, his ebony ears flicking back to hide behind his dark tresses.
Then comes the tell-tale sounds of the hooves of another, and with that malicious intent rife in the air the raven tossed his head, crown of antlers glinting wickedly in the moonlight as he looked over his shoulder, his expression impossible to determine when his dark features were lit only by the weak, puttering light of a distant torch. White eyes, white like that of a corpse, rolled to find a stallion as dark as himself standing with aggression in the corner of the battlements, lust for fight clear in every line of the dark equine's body, but Ammon merely regarded him with disinterest. He knew how to fight the hornless, the behemoths, those who thought victory was assured simply because they were larger. They always underestimated the smaller raven, and it always lead to their doom. So his eyes turned from the other stallion to the one whom he had heard approach, and this one caught his attention far more tightly than the bravado-filled stud.
She too was draped in night's colors, but she had been kissed by the moon, by blood and by the rich gold Ammon shared, and when she strode past the tense stallion with hardly more than a dismissive look... well, the black stag was amused, though his features remained carefully blank in the flickering torchlight. He watched as she approached him, and his baroque mass shifted to give her room, elegant head inclining in silent greeting before he swung his gaze once more out to the land beyond. Although he had taken his eyes from the mare and the other stallion, he had not dropped his guard for even a span of a second. If this was an ambush, a trap laid by these two night-clad equines... they would not find the raven easy prey, even if he was rusty and derelict of the magic that had made him a terror whispered by the nobility only in the hush-quiet of the night. He allowed the silence to stretch on unbroken, his posture at ease though his senses quivered at attention.
'Their dancing is odd.'
It was a statement quietly spoken, and Ammon allowed a snort of amusement to escape him, a genuine emotion. "Aye, they doth move with abandon, like faen creatures from yore." He himself never truly found any enjoyment in a dance. Oh, there was pleasure, satisfaction in finding a perfect partner to move in sync with, to leave each other breathless in silent challenges to move faster, closer, wilder... but it had always been feigned on his end. His eye rolled to regard his companion, the quiet once more stretching on before it was his turn to shatter the silence. "I take it thou art not a dancer, then?"
Then comes the tell-tale sounds of the hooves of another, and with that malicious intent rife in the air the raven tossed his head, crown of antlers glinting wickedly in the moonlight as he looked over his shoulder, his expression impossible to determine when his dark features were lit only by the weak, puttering light of a distant torch. White eyes, white like that of a corpse, rolled to find a stallion as dark as himself standing with aggression in the corner of the battlements, lust for fight clear in every line of the dark equine's body, but Ammon merely regarded him with disinterest. He knew how to fight the hornless, the behemoths, those who thought victory was assured simply because they were larger. They always underestimated the smaller raven, and it always lead to their doom. So his eyes turned from the other stallion to the one whom he had heard approach, and this one caught his attention far more tightly than the bravado-filled stud.
She too was draped in night's colors, but she had been kissed by the moon, by blood and by the rich gold Ammon shared, and when she strode past the tense stallion with hardly more than a dismissive look... well, the black stag was amused, though his features remained carefully blank in the flickering torchlight. He watched as she approached him, and his baroque mass shifted to give her room, elegant head inclining in silent greeting before he swung his gaze once more out to the land beyond. Although he had taken his eyes from the mare and the other stallion, he had not dropped his guard for even a span of a second. If this was an ambush, a trap laid by these two night-clad equines... they would not find the raven easy prey, even if he was rusty and derelict of the magic that had made him a terror whispered by the nobility only in the hush-quiet of the night. He allowed the silence to stretch on unbroken, his posture at ease though his senses quivered at attention.
'Their dancing is odd.'
It was a statement quietly spoken, and Ammon allowed a snort of amusement to escape him, a genuine emotion. "Aye, they doth move with abandon, like faen creatures from yore." He himself never truly found any enjoyment in a dance. Oh, there was pleasure, satisfaction in finding a perfect partner to move in sync with, to leave each other breathless in silent challenges to move faster, closer, wilder... but it had always been feigned on his end. His eye rolled to regard his companion, the quiet once more stretching on before it was his turn to shatter the silence. "I take it thou art not a dancer, then?"
SKELVOI
@BlackPlague @Ktulu
