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Through the flickering firelight, and the embers that burned his already hot skin, Plague saw her. It was his Dare. The abandon, the reckless joy and muscled physique. It was her. He saw her ivory skin, her dark eyes; could smell her – intoxicating and alluring. He moved closer, closer, until the fire singed his own skin, but he hardly noticed. He was watching a ghost as it danced for him, and only for him. And before he could reach out to touch her, to feel her under his muzzle, she changed. She was no longer Dare, but this rose gray mare. He knew it was her – another time, another body; but it was still her. There was no other answer. Just like the strange horned mare who denied being Oblivion was certainly her. The wretch had come to haunt him, just as Dare had come to save him. She stopped then, though the music continued, and it allowed him to fully study her; more than before. She seemed sleeker; taller, perhaps, less muscled. The color, obviously, was wrong, but perhaps that’s what happens when you inhabit a new body – you get what you get. He wondered if, when he died, he could come back as another – another warrior with a better record, perhaps. He was notorious for his battle record in his first home; winning perhaps 2 out of well more than 10 battles. He fought with his heart and soul, but his body just wasn’t enough. Hence the scars that cover him. He didn’t feel they made him less attractive – they were a testament to his willingness to defend his home, his family, and his woman. Like Dare…whatever body she inhabited. Before long, the mare spoke, certain that she was not Dare. Plague wondered if she would remember her former life, or if this was another curse of inhabiting a new body. Would she simply not remember? Would it take time? Or was he wrong? Had he been so long asleep that his mind was too foggy to tell the difference? Was Dare alive and well somewhere, and he simply had to find her? He eyed this rosy mare for a time, listening as she spoke, stating she’d been here a while, and the denial of knowing him. He took a step forward – and through the flickering light, could be questioned if he moved at all. His muzzle reached forward toward her shoulder, an attempt to touch her, to know for sure. The heat of the fire increased (or was it just his blood?) and the embers continued to land on him at random intervals; fireflies that bit his skin. How could this not be her? ”I think in time, you will remember…” It had to be her. ”I came to you when I was young…a product of my father’s teachings. Certainly you remember him – The Black.” The Black was a notorious man-whore. He had more children than this land held horses. Plague had tried to be like him in every way – never falling in love, never putting himself out there. Until he met her. He had become a disgrace to his father then, but it didn’t matter – he was already in too deep. ”I loved you…” His sultry voice was whisper-soft again, almost begging her to remember. A voice in his head told him that perhaps he was wrong. This wasn’t the mare he had fallen in love with. He simply had her mistaken for someone else. He was wrong, imposing, bothering. Part of him didn’t care. His father’s voice told him to take her anyway; to make her his. But Plague remained still, desperately trying to determine if this was his Dare or not. ”You truly don’t remember?” ”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 | |
@Nimue
awwww.... Plague has a sad. :( lol
