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Plague had not been in the night court long enough to see the dancing; the rhythmic movements and abandon that came with knowing you were safe; that you were worshipping your gods in your own way. He had never been one of those horses, no matter where he had lived – had never felt that pure joy of becoming something you are not, no matter how short a time. No. He had been born, bred, and trained a warrior. Everyone to him was an adversary. He had even tried to attack Dare; the mare that quickly became his beloved. She had been the only one who had been able to tame him; to guide him and unleash him in the right direction. When he believed in something, he was unstoppable. But never had he felt that unadulterated joy of dancing. Perhaps if his life had been different, he would not be as aggressive and misguided as he is; but he has not a single regret in his life. Except losing Dare. But he dared not think about it now, lest the anger and frustration boil over and he attack the horned mare that appeared out of the darkness. He had anticipated a fight; aggression to match his own. But the mare ignored him, and it vexed him. Worse, the wretched mare walked past him to speak with another. One he had missed in his desire to study the battlements; to know all the secrets of war this strange structure held. He saw her enter the room, and move to another, and without hesitation, (though he was wary), followed. His nearly black eyes fell upon another male and he could not help the wave of testosterone that flowed through him. He was competition. Plague had no true interest in this mare, but he knew that any other male was a threat to him. He arched his neck, but made no move to attack. He knew (and fought several times) smaller males who had advantage of speed and agility. Plague was not slow, mind you, but when you have less body to move, you are naturally faster. He eyed the horns the other male had, and if you looked closely you might see the emotion of jealousy in his eyes; but it was fleeting. He couldn’t show emotions with strangers. He heard the interaction between the two, about dancers. Plague could mentally see them; but had no idea why they did what they did. He studied the mare closely in the flickering light; an attempt to keep his mind from the stallion who was a threat. She reminded him of someone. His memories flipped through a mental photobook of everyone he knew, and finally settled on her. Oblivion. A rush of familiarity and longing filled him now, replacing the need to fight with the urge to touch her. He couldn’t say they had been close; but he remembered her. In the momentary stillness, he whispered a breathy word. ”Oblivion?” He hesitantly reached his muzzle forward toward her before pulling it back. He knew the magic changed others; gave them abilities and strange colorations. Perhaps they had given her the white and horn that she now bore. But her scent was different. This was not the same mare he knew all those years ago. Moments later, the horned male spoke, destroying the momentary reverie where Plague was home and all was right with the world. His speech was odd, but not unpleasant. Plague had imagined he would be loud, boisterous, and laying claim to the mare immediately. This was a strange world, indeed. He made no move, nor did he offer to speak, simply trying to understand what dancers they spoke of, as he had not seen them in his determination to find war. Now he listened, dark eyes moving between Not-Oblivion and the horned demon. ”Speech” |
| I find it kind of funny…I find it kind of sad…the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had | |
@Ammon @Ktulu
