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Plague was everywhere. He found solace in exploration, as he had not found a fight in some time. He longed for it, to add another scar to his collection. His black coat was littered with hundreds (if not thousands) of scars, each one telling of a fight he had been in – battles won and lost. But this was not a night for fighting, it would seem. He had followed the crowd here, to this strange land, hearing whisperings of a festival about to begin. While he wasn’t necessarily in the festive mood, what better time to get to know your enemy than when they are unsuspecting and inviting you through their gates? And this is the life of Black Plague. He is always the thinker, the plotter. He is a warrior through and through; born and bred. He is many things, but he is not stupid. And so he comes here, to this new herd land, getting to know each smell, each new sound, each nook and cranny so that if it came down to it, it could be used later. But for now, the raging monster is peaceable. His head is held high as he walks in; all 18 hands of him standing proud in the mix of moonlight, flickering fires, and starlight. He is a handsome beast – tall and sturdy, yet refined. It is hard to tell what his lineage is. Some would say he is quarter horse with a touch of draft and Arabian; but not even the gods know for certain what mixture is in his blood. His eyes are dark and watchful, moving as often as they can, taking in everything – the other horses, their outlandish looks; wings, horns, colors. He wants to know who the enemies are, who the friends are, and which mares are open this season. He cares nothing for niceties. Once you’ve been hurt as deeply as he has, there is no room for feelings any longer. But before you judge him and cast him aside, perhaps you should get to know his story. All in good time, my friends. He saw the winged mare, and she smelled vaguely like his home. Perhaps she was a herd mate that he had yet to meet. He would keep an eye on her and find her later, when this commotion died down. Shortly after, another approached, boasting himself a warrior of this court. Plague would keep him in mind later. He always enjoyed a good fight, and if this smaller male was a warrior too, then perhaps they could meet soon. More and more horses seemed to gather around the black winged mare; a newcomer nearly falling over himself to see her. Plague was intrigued now, wondering who this mare was that so many flocked to her. This next male spoke in a breathy tone; as if he were afraid a normal voice would shatter her existence. Curious. Finally, a child approached, speaking to another youth. There was something familiar about the way he carried himself – so full of life, much like his own children; but no. Plague refused to think of them now. It wasn’t the time or place for such memories. He stepped out into the moonlight, letting it cascade off his black coat; black like velvet, or a moonless sky; but it shone with such vitality that one would almost think he was glowing. His dark eyes touched each horse in turn, though he did not speak. He was uncertain if to join the group, or remain slightly outside. Was he welcome here? He doubted it; but then again, he never much cared for the opinions of others. He was here because he was summoned to be; and as a warrior, he felt it was his duty to be available at the whim of his commander. An almost undiscernible nod of his head was given; the only indication that he had a civil bone in his body. And remember, friends, know him before you judge him – you might just find the monster has a soft side. ”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 | |
@Pan @
I have Plague muse and needed to get it out. He's just chilling, watching what's going on for now. He doesn't mean any harm. :D
