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[atrb=background,http://oi56.tinypic.com/2cei4xg.jpg] Know this then Marque. And even though his mask was still impassive, his tone was satisfied, body moving toward me. His sapphire pools bore into my mind, my soul, penetrating deep within my protective layers. And I allowed this to happen. Loyalty to me is everything, even truer that the future. Loyalty, for me, does not change. It does not shift. While you are mine I shall safeguard your entirety. Do you understand? I had been called many things, but disloyal was never one of them, in this way I was sure we were much alike. Loyalty meant just as much to me, and so I wouldn’t wander out of his lands, and instead would occupy my time with petty things such as grazing among the tall blades of grass, if there were any. Society was a messed up world, really. It allowed stallion’s to go around accumulating mares, most of which would be nothing more than trophies sitting upon the shelf and gathering dust. Disgusting really, but perhaps Rex was different. Maybe his herd would be small, maybe he would choose a favorite and maybe that mare would be me. Would I be able to watch him flirt with other mares though, watch him bat his eyelashes and call them pretty names just for a quick lay, when in return a mare doing so was call for a death sentence. I didn’t want to picture him doing such things though, and so with a shake of my brain I sent the image shattering. I would go so far as to kill to keep you safe. A small smile pulled the corners of my lips upward, a soft glow of contempt settling upon my mask. He turned back to the direction of the forest once again, where both of us had come from, an inevitable fate. Craning his neck around to peer at me through tangled forelock, his voice was soft, caring. Shall I show you to your home? My smile grew this time, expanding from a tiny smirk upon my lips, to a full blown facial expression. My eyebrows raised, pools warming up to melt any ice, and lips falling into a widespread grin. I moved forward instantly, picking up a swift walk to once again cover the ground that he already had, slowing once I reached his side. I would love that. My voice was warm, the spring breeze that chased away the last of winters bitter cold, as I nestled my face into his thick mane for a moment, before pulling away. I knew when we were entering his land by the smell. The forest had smelled like pine, but now the wind had shifted and the aroma that it brought held his scent within its depths. I still walked beside the King, Wuuthrex, nose at his shoulder, but as we came upon a tunnel I fell back, the walls to narrow to accommodate us both. My heart began to race slightly, the echo of our hoof beats ringing loud in my ear canals and the damp odor filling my quivering nostrils. I was excited for what was to come, the land that was waiting on the other side. And as the light grew larger and we exited out on the other side my breath caught in my throat, my world on fire. We had stepped into a shimmering valley, blades of grass tickling my belly as a gurgling creek filled a small glistening pond, the water crystal clear and fish visible within. Beyond that though, was an ancient forest, trees stretching high into the sky. And on the mahogany limbs sat many species of aviary, all singing their own little tune before dusk, my personal lullaby. Crickets chirped along merrily as the sun disappeared behind foliage, and I turned to my man, waiting for him to say something because I was at a loss for words. A lot had happened today, and all of it had been for the better. When I awoke this morning I had been unaware of what my future held, but now I had found Rex, and he had offered me a home that I had gladly accepted. Now this is where I would live, where I would call home, and he would be here with me, him and all the other mares that he would collect. And with a sigh I closed my pools, drawing the shades upon my golden world as I listened closely to the peaceful melody, waiting for his words to come.

Change was a troublesome vision in black which haunted the backs of his eyelids, the profound and elaborate depths of his mind. Change was indisputable and always, always, came along with a double-edged sword in hand, came along with her sister, that coquettish Irony with pistol hips and ammunition eyes. Yes, it was quite troublesome, especially for one so apathetic as he. Wuuthrex was well aware of the changes he was making, the irony of his adaptions and how his criminal portrait was a more defined trace of falsehood with every step that drew him towards Rayo. Like a fish caught on a hook, Wuuthrex had become a man comfortable in his bed chamber, who could not resist the temptation of the perpetual existent within the obscured pinnacles and lush, rolling hillside. He was caught, snared by the bait, and it was so every single time. He could not bring himself to depart had he been truly inclined to say goodbye forever, disappear with only dust and a handful of fragmented memories in his wake. Enraptured, Rayo was his Babylon, his Shangri-La, and for the first time he felt indulgent, chose to share with someone foreign the delights and cataclysmic wonder of the only sanctuary known to him as home.

What woe it was, so treacherous, so elite, then for his eyes to stumble through the dark chasm of the cave, which wound and wound and wound, until a thin beam of light pierced the shadows, drew his gaze up and through, through to the reprieve which lingered flawlessly in the sunlight. The shift this brought within Marqui, Wuuthrex sensed, but he did not turn to lay sight upon her expression; he, himself, was overwhelmed by the glory of the field as it stretched for miles, a sea of green swaying to the rhythm and flow of a boyish North wind. He picked apart the trees and the haze of purple ridges looming dauntlessly in the distance, a scenario of the ephemeral captured in Egyptian blue and revered by a man who had once never thought something so glorious could satisfy. Thought nothing could afflict him, but Rayo, oh Rayo, how she had rendered him in pieces. Treacherous, so treacherously rendered.

A sigh tore his eyes away and, slowly, Wuuthrex turned his attention to the flightless bird at his heel, her presence a waver of warmth and subtle dissonance that he studied with minuscule curiosity. Momentarily he hovered there, ever-watchful of the steady flow of breath through her body, the simple cascade of oxygen in and out of her lungs and, in turn, the atmosphere of which they shared. Another irony, he supposed, for Wuuthrex again had always been solitary in nature, a cryptic entity who worked, lived and breathed alone – yet there she stood: pristine, peaceful … the Scavenger King was making changes he had not known were within him. It was ominous. “So …” he drawled apathetically, a wariness reflected through his skeleton, the tense muscles bulging instinctively beneath his skin, “does Rayo suit you?”

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[atrb=background,http://oi56.tinypic.com/2cei4xg.jpg] So, does Rayo suit you? And there it was, his chrome etched voice filling my harks, a smile spreading across my lips. The land was gorgeous, filled with the perfect aspects. The solid rock, surrounding his homeland and protecting all from intruders with a single hidden entrance, the long blades of grass that would be a fancy emerald green this spring, enough to feed many more horses than resided here, and the forest, my forest. Perhaps that was the best thing of all, the tall oak trees, their branches now bare, stretching high into the sky, twigs below. Here, I felt as if I was home, as if I could enjoy living a full life here without ever leaving, and yet as my lips parted and voice tumbled out, they said something similar, and yet different all the same. You my dear Wuuthrex, suit me. And that he did, because if his homeland had been nothing but a barren mass of land, nothing to quiet the angry hunger growls that our stomachs produced, I would have still stayed with him, still gave him a chance to love me and me him. Standing here, pools still closed, a cocked a right hind foot. The sun was almost completely gone now, night drawing in, and I was slightly tired, but no where near exhausted. But even in the dark, my hide was golden, long hairs waving in the wind as they grabbed for any and all heat they could get. Winter had come to Illyria, and even though it was in it’s early stages the air was freezing. And so I stepped closer to Rex, pressing my smaller frame to his, and reveling in the warmth that he provided, pressing closer still until it was as if we were almost one. It would be nice not to spend the winter alone, it would be my first winter accompanied by another since the days of my father’s herd. My mother had never kept me warm, never held me close as the frigid winter nights drug on, but now perhaps I had found somebody that would. But he didn’t even need to do that, I was just happy to be with another, to have another to talk to and count on when things went wrong. And so, as almost if by habit, I began grooming his long stranded pelt, letting my tongue run over his muscles, massaging, relaxing, and cleaning all in one.

"You, my dear Wuuthrex," there was once a time when he had imagination, when he remembered women and their slender thighs that invoked chills, his eyes lost within the curling tangles of their untamed hair or smitten with the dangerous curve and suppleness of cherry red lips, "suit me." Once, there had been a time when tongues smoldered and razor sharp hips cut the planes of skin against skin, and lust was something drawn in a tangible shade of wanton despair because nothing was ever meant to last. Wuuthrex could taste that same imagination in the liquid swirl of her tongue as the words were shaped and, he supposed, with some sort of meaning behind them, but it was an elusive thing, meaning. She could bat an eyelash meaningfully, or press her leg right there, feel up his chest with nails and claws, rip his skin away from his skeleton and render him bare, so bare that she could make a cage out of his bones, out of that dark place that was called a heart pulsing, pulsing, pulsing in his chest - she could do whatever she wanted, and the meaning? It would always, always be the same: empty. "I will take that as a yes, then." His tone flashed with minuscule humor, a colorless swarm of pleasantry that he uttered placidly: for as long as she was content, he would roost in a serenity that was unmeasurable, even if she had to have her hands ever-touching of his muscles, his existence, as if she didn't believe he were real.

Darkness was the herald of night, which swept across the sky with a bannister of glittering and gleaming stars in the wake of a collapsed afternoon. With the eve came the frigid winds, a tired and aching breeze that drifted from the North like a spiral of remorse from the far mountains whose hazy purple ridges loomed like nonchalant teeth - they were encumbered in that moment, a couple cocooned within their own body heat and Wuuthrex was at a loss for words as the moment set. He breathed idly, his every nerve aware and sensitive to a twitch or flicker, as the seconds tock-ticked further into a state of quiet tranquility in which he had not indulged in quite some time. It was a relief to find it again after so much wandering, knowing that, if he took the time, he could uncover sanctuary with eyes half-lidded, a good woman teetering at his side. A woman who leaned against his stomach and shoulder, whose soft golden skin reminded him of his own extremities when, at best, he sometimes hardly remembered being alive at all. It was her tongue, he thought, sliding over his flesh, that was the most surreal. For a time he focused only on the motion of her mouth as she worked across his frame, the way his muscles turned to spindle and silk beneath the agonizingly luscious attention of her teeth; it was a wonder that his imagination did not return then, that he pictured her slender thighs and cherry red lips, her curling tangles and mascaraed eyelashes, the coquettish sway of her hips. It truly was a wonder. Even as she rendered him tangible, though, Wuuthrex was ever the same.

Empty, an abyss.

"Marqui," came his pantherine baritone, an inquisitive tint mingling amidst the chords, "would you tell me now?" His head turned to meet her blue gaze: there was a caustic wonder which blazed in his stare, a mirthless fascination that had hungered for an answer since he first inquired upon it, and yet was turned down a reply. At least one that was satisfactory. However, he he had waited, had he not? He had answered her questions and given her what she had blatantly asked for without hesitation? So now he assumed it was time for her to do the same, though his real curiosity was if she would - if she could deny him the privilege once, would she do so again when exposed to another face, one she had not seen before? Or would she keep herself a secret? "About your past?"

( fini, sorry for your wait, dear )

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[atrb=background,http://oi56.tinypic.com/2cei4xg.jpg] I will take that as a yes, then. A flash of humor fell upon his mask, lighting up his sapphire pools and setting a kind of smirk upon his lips, tone matching. Yet there was still something missing, something that left me with an empty feeling inside. Perhaps it was the way he seemed to only tolerate my touch, yet never enjoy or return it. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me, barely curious, edging on bored. But I also knew that he didn’t love me, and probably never would, and that was what hurt most of all. I wanted to open up to him, to allow him into every crack and crevice that was my life until he possibly couldn’t fit anymore, but that was not what he wanted, and he had made that perfectly clear. Yet here I stood, practically down on my knees, begging. It was pitiful really, yet I still had a slight sliver of hope that he would change, that he would grow to love me. Marqui. I flinched as he said my name, my mind had been lost, wandering the cemetery of long forgotten memories and questions as I groomed his hide, and his words sent me back into reality, into the present. Would you tell me now? He craned his neck around to meet my gaze, my own mask sullen. Perhaps he was curious as to what such events had led up to the birth of such a creature, and yet was I ready to tell him? He had given me the very thing he was asking for, he had satisfied my taste, and now it was my turn to return the favor. I owed him. Standing here now, though, I wished I could go back in time, to take away the question that had slipped from between closed lips, take back my request, so as not to owe him anything anymore. When he had asked I had pushed it to the back of my mind, putting it off, telling myself that he would find out later, but what if we didn’t have a later, what if it was now or never? About your past? As he spoke these words ever so calmly, his voice curious, I pulled away, no longer wanting to touch his carcass. Perhaps after I told him he would view my differently, as a weak child who knew little, or maybe even as a brave little soul that had lost its way. But I owed him this, he had opened up ever so slightly to me, and now it was my turn to give him a tiny piece of who I was and allow him to do with it what he would. And so I began to mentally prepare myself for the spilling of my beans, my voice coming out heavy, carrying the hurt of what I had been through as I began to speak. I suppose everything started even before I was born, the background information. My pools began to gloss over, my mind fighting back the memories as my tongue flung them out. I was to be the last child born out of my parents, and of course my father wanted a colt. Obviously, I was not that colt. I took a single step forward, contemplating whether or not to set my muzzle against his warm hide for comfort, but deciding against it I locked my gaze upon his pools instead, judging his reaction. He treated me as if I were, though. I could never satisfy them. That, the few sentences that I had spoken, summed up my whole past, the way things were, how I had been treated, and I decided to leave it at that. Still, I restrained myself from touching him, anger bubbling up inside. If he cared, if there was any chance of love at all, then he would come to me, comfort me, press his muzzle against my delicate skin and say something sweet. I knew that was what I wanted, what I had come to expect, and yet a bigger side of me knew that he wouldn’t, that maybe he’d say a single apologetic word if anything and leave it at that. Still, I hoped that he would make the right move, that he would keep me afloat.

How tantalizing and noxious mind games could be, how self-destructive and humiliating. Had he known what she was thinking, had he been so blessed (and so cursed), perhaps he would have laughed for the first time – not ever, but in such an interval that he could not remember what it felt like for his chest to rumble with the fricatives of happiness, of mirth. Had he known what she was thinking, though, the likelihood might have been something more cryptic, something volatile would occur. To begin with, time was of the essence; and how much time exactly had she spent in his company? Did she think just because he had shared so easily with her something he could share with anybody that she was significant? That he could be blackmailed or pressured into her arms? If he had known what she was thinking, he would have told her no, she was deceiving herself, and it was a sick, treacherous game she was playing this time: they had known each other for less than a day – less than. Had he known she was feeling angry or miserable because he was not like her, because he did not throw his skin against her skin so recklessly, did not force her to do something he would not wish forced upon himself – had he known, yes, yes he probably would have laughed. For, again, had he known, it would change only one thing and one thing only: the respect and appreciation she had managed to derive would vanish; it would shrivel like air in lungs with Emphysema, it would fade into the oblivion in which he had been born, wilt and die in a cold and apathetic labyrinth. And over time, any chance there might have been, any hope he would have had to change, to let her hands shape him into the man she so desperately sought (after less than a day of being together) – all of that would be gone, too. Every last drop.

Fortunately for her, he was not so blessed (or cursed) as to have been born with omniscience. He was not aware of her bubbling anger, just like she could not know exact details about someone she barely knew. So he thought nothing of her sudden retraction or the curt manner in which she withdrew her embrace. It was, he assumed, a personal matter – perhaps she had worn herself of caring for his skin, and he would not complain. It had been a kind gift for her to impart upon him, and he would be content with that. His interests, after all, lied in learning more about her, in having patience (a rare, rare train of thought for someone with the timed tolerance of an hourglass, each grain of sand as precious as the heartbeat of the sun) and, slowly but surely, learning to understand how to have interest in someone who was as fickle as the flightless bird he had made her out to be in the forest. “I suppose everything started even before I was born, the background information.” Perhaps he was easily bored, perhaps it was challenging for him to be intrigued by someone who was as see-through as glass, who would make him an ant and burn him dry with the sun shining through her belly. “I was to be the last child born out of my parents, and of course my father wanted a colt. Obviously I was not that colt.”Perhaps there were only so many changes that could be eroded into his stone surface at once, and truly, if it suited her not as she had claimed, she could leave. She could leave and he would not care because where, where were her roots? Where was the proof that she was as convicted as she claimed to feel follied by his lack of … what's the word – love? Again, though, he had no way of knowing her thoughts, her hurt – he could not read minds, was not omniscient, did not know her after less than a day – she was a stranger with baby skin and baby hair, and a baby beak that gaped wiped, begging. Begging for nourishment he did not have the first idea of how to provide.

“He treated me as if I were, though. I could never satisfy them.”

Within the syllables an emptiness echoed that reflected in her white-blue eyes, a labyrinth of destroyed could-have-been's and other elements of the potential, which smoldering within a perpetual state of disrepair. He studied her face, processed the absence and the existence that lingered there, a broad spectrum of wild and frantic colors, tones that mismatched and were uncoordinated. It was her baby wings flapping, but there was nowhere to go, except to spiral in her own downward dance. He remained statuesque, his head tilted as breath slowly entered and departed his body while he pondered, and pondered, and pondered. Pondered still the sentences, the meanings riddled within the words, their denotations and how it all fit together. It was a mystery, her mystery, and the piece was still rendered with holes which he could not avoid or understand. He, after all, had never suffered a family component, had never known a soft embrace or the tenderness of a mother – those things were not even figments he sought to comprehend; he only knew that they existed, that they were feasible, and that some possessed them, others did not. It was a simple, simple equation, yet he observed her unwaveringly and was met with something he could not discern completely.

“It hurts you.”
But he could fathom it.

After so many tortures and slow, slow murders, how could he not recognize pain when it was right before his naked eye? His reaction was instinctive, a pale shade of animalistic. He swore to her, did he not? “I can find them.” Swore with his loyalty to hurt anyone who injured her, even if it was not in the present, if he did not see the wound with his own eyes: he would kill them. He left as much up in the air, an unvoiced representation of his crude, sadistic intentions, as he prowled forward, a fragmented glimmer of his old self peering through the ruptured waves of the Egyptian ocean in his gaze. “Ask it of me; I can undo them.” Regret was something he made with his own bare hands, a wicked, poisonous thing that he could craft within the shadow of a heartbeat. It was his gift, a terribly beautiful thing, and if she would but ask, she could have all her hurts erased, torn asunder, as if they had been nothing more than summer turned to dust. However, one last glance, a blink, and her body heat mere inches from his skin, and he knew tonight was not the night to leave her alone. Tonight, or any night, perhaps, until those hurts were healed. Wuuthred wandered down the knoll into the bottom of the bowl of hills, where the grass was tall and lush, and soft. He looked over his shoulder to her, a blankness filming the Egyptian ocean, his drawl as apathetic as ever, but tolerant, edged with the first hint of sincere kindness.

“Come lie with me.”

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[atrb=background,http://oi56.tinypic.com/2cei4xg.jpg] Night had settled upon the land, the sky crystal clear as shimmering stars watched down upon the world below. It would appear as if all god’s glorious creatures had gone off to bed, preparing to be the early bird that would catch the worm, and yet an ear drum shattering shriek could be heard coming from within the tall blades of grass below. Zooming in upon the scene now, an ivory mare could be seen, belly swollen with foal as a raven colored stag towered over her, his sapphire pools scanning the area every so often to check for intruders. Perhaps this was a complicated birth, in the way things go, but for this aging mare it was a relief. No longer would she have to earn her keep by pushing out baby after baby, but this would be the son her mate had always been looking for, she could feel it within her gut. And so as the little body slid completely out, frame shivering in the cool of the night, she hesitantly turned around, looking at the being, checking for a gender. A filly, she had failed at providing a male heir, and her disappointment was clear, along with the stag’s. His azure orbs were clouded with disappointment, voice husky as he spoke. “Prepare her for training. We start as soon as the sun rises.” When he finished speaking he turned, walking away and leaving the experienced mother to tend to foal, her pools now large with terror. She had not wanted this, a filly, and just looking at the body made her sick. She rested her head upon the ground, closing her eyes for only a moment, but perhaps a moment too long. Her mind was racing, contemplating whether or not she would keep her last child, whether or not the life of this newborn filly was worth it. And when she did decide to finally get up to tend to the needs of her child, the little girls lungs were barely inflating, heart having trouble pumping. Perhaps hypothermia was setting in, her lips a terrible blue color, yet as the mother began to clean her off, her tongue warming while at the same time stimulating her organs, the filly would open her eyes to the cruel world for the first time. It hurts you. His voice was soft this time, comforting, a voice that one could concentrate on and get lost in. It was a sea of words, his sentence repeating over and over again, and I was the silent ship afloat on top. The way the single sentence calmed my frayed nerves, rocked me back and forth ever so slightly while singing the sweet lullaby. It would be okay if my little wooden ship stayed out on this vast ocean landscape, no land in sight. I would be able to relax, to let his watery depths rock my worries into oblivion. I can find them. Ask it of me, I can undo them. His whole demeanor had changed now, gone from the lulling waters to one with a bit more of a wave, splashing over the sides of the little boat and onto the deck. Perhaps if I knew where they were, if I knew that they were even alive, then I’d request such a thing from him, but I wasn’t a killer, whether it be second handedly or not. I blamed them for my past, but was such a thing worth death? Perhaps one of their earlier children had lived a better life, been pampered as a child, but I had not. I could have been worse off though, so one should be grateful, right? I watched him closely as he began to walk away, tall frame easily slicing through long blades of grass. I waited, wondering if he would beckon me, or if even the tiny sliver of my past I had given him had made him uncertain of my very being, as if I were a shady character, ready to pounce out of a dark corner from an empty alley. But that wasn’t so as his voice called out to me, beckoning. Come lie with me. A small smile pulled up at the corners of my lips, my legs instantly began to move my delicate frame toward his. As I walked, the long blades rubbed against my barrel, tickling, yet I managed to keep my azure orbs locked upon his. Do you ever dream? My voice was soft, inquiring. Or perhaps have nightmares? Every night since I could remember a single memory had always reappeared in my slumber, haunting me. So now as night drew closer I was pleasantly surprised to be spending it with another being, one who perhaps had the same scenario as me, his past a puzzle of things he’d just as soon forget. I lightly set my muzzle up against his shoulder, allowing my nostrils to inhale a scent that was now becoming ever more familiar to me. Compared to your posts mine seem like amateur. ;D

What a delicate little ship she was, this supposedly hardy little girl: if the sea was tranquil she would find a way to sink and if the sea was hungered she would be swallowed. Her buoyancy was constantly in a state of disrepair because of how she flailed, how she flung those tiny, ineffectual little fists this way and then that way; how she struggled, so terribly struggled, to stay afloat and breathe, and breathe, and breathe. What hope had she, though, this supposedly hardy little girl, what hope indeed? Her voice was a scream that went unheard. Her wishes like sentence fragments, and left unanswered. Her pleas the desperate, despaired, devoid wails of a child who was starved, thunderously starved, of affection. Her ship would sink within any ocean, a lake, a pond — it would sink and she would be lost forever, this supposedly hardy little girl. She could not be trusted with her own safety. She could not be trusted with any thing. She was a vessel made of cellophane and styrofoam, as malleable as the indefatigable breeze — and he, he of course was the lighthouse, no? Her pinnacle of light through the darkness, the mist and the rocky shore. He was what she clung to now with those ineffectual fists, this supposedly hardy little girl. He was what she looked to with white-water eyes: an ocean of apathy that did not care to sink her, that did not care to save her. An ocean that would simply let her be. Except, starved of everything, she looked to him for more than she should ask for, and painted him as a portrait of what she imagined could one day (yet never) come to be seen.

“Do you ever dream?” He was then a portrait sketched in invisible ink, his mouth a curl of vapors and his eyes like the steam of rain on hot pavement. Did he ever dream? The ocean was a facet of thousands upon thousands of dreams, those which were unrealized and lost to the darkest depths of the world, and those that were unborn, pearlescent within oyster shells and endless coral reefs. Did he ever dream, though? “Or perhaps have nightmares?” Once, perhaps, when the world he knew was young and unspoiled – once, when the nights had been untouched by red and he had slept easily in his otherworldly cradle. Once. He slept as easily now as he had then, but dreams, dreams, dreams, they were absent abstracts that, no matter how deeply he thought he could not contrive, could not summon forward from whatever abyss in which they might have lurked. “No,” dreams no longer came to he who had destroyed so many, he who had, in essence, become a dream-eater, a walking nightmare. What would he have to revere, anyway? The mind was a haven of meditation and nothing more, a sepulcher of everything forgotten and lost — he did not even dream of her, the seraphim laced in lilac and gold, eyes of lapis lazuli and the white-ivory hands of an Elizabethan queen. The miracle whose voice was an Italian canticle, her eyelashes eternally long, her voice a spiderweb of music and ripples. He did not even dream of her, though she was omnipresent, a memory that harped through his blood. He did not even dream of her. “The ability has gone beyond me.”

Her touch released a cascade of ice hot shivers and his skin rippled in response, her face a delicate fixture upon which his blue gaze was fastened. He wondered if a ship could dream, if her tiny golden vessel was capable of such a thing. Surely she could as starved for affection as she was. Dreams that painted landscapes he could not begin to fathom, that went beyond his sight to foresee or comprehend. Perhaps they were beautiful dreams, too, innocent dreams, but with ineffectual little fists, how could she shape something pure? Maybe she was as much of a dream-eater as he was, the trail of broken hearts a permanent reminder of everything wrong she had ever done. “And you, Marqui …” A hushed sound it was that prowled from the tip of his tongue and into the air, the notes a slurred notion of nonchalance as he continued to watch her, his flightless bird, his ship lost out at sea, “dreams or nightmares?”

( not so hot about that ending -,- )

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[atrb=background,http://oi56.tinypic.com/2cei4xg.jpg] The world around us was so peaceful, so tranquil. The blistery winter wind had died down as soon as we entered the tunnel, high rock walls protecting his little sanctuary from the cruel world that resided outside. How was it that everything could remain so green here, untouched by the deathly grasp of winter at its finest? The coniferous pines that gathered in a bunch upon his land, all still their deep emerald, sap hardened but still flowing. And the grass, the tall blades that stood up to my barrel, those too were very much alive, flavor sweet and blades abundant. Perhaps he had chosen a little piece of heaven here, where the outside world was but a memory and every worry could be forgotten. But often things were too good to be true, and right now that’s what I felt. No. Who created this word, the most powerful single thing a being could say, along with yes. It took hardly any breath at all, and yet that single little gasp could be life changing. Take, for example, if you said no to someone when they asked you if you loved them. Maybe all their cookies had been riding upon this one thing, years wasted and thrown down the drain only for them to leave, stamping off in an unpleasant manner. The ability had gone beyond me. How could one trick his own unconscious, make it so nothing flashed behind closed lid. If it was a trick, just something he wished to be so and it was, then it was something that I wanted to learn, to become a master at. And you, Marqui? Dreams or nightmares? I looked at him now, a serious gaze, mask solemn. He had to be able to understand, to have an inkling of what I had been through when his was so similar, so familiar to us both. And once again I pulled away ever so slightly, lips parting and a scenario pouring out. What if I told you, I stated matter of factly, no emotion present, that I had a crush once, a gentle sort of soul. I paused, letting the seemingly harmless sentence sink in. And then I killed him, without hesitation. Part truth, part lie, for even though I never faltered in my actions, my thoughts, memories, wants, all of them were frozen in time, refusing to think, to believe, that this was actually happening, that I was going to do what I was doing. What then? My words, spoken slightly as a taunt were soft, inquiring.

For a fortune of eternity and gold, he would never know the heart that beat so plaintively between her sharp white ribs. There were moments when she could lean into the wind and seem weightless; it was a shade of gravity Crayola had yet to give name, but he could see it sometimes within the flicker of her dark lashes, or the cold case of blue glittering solemnly within those almondine sockets. She pulled and pushed against him constantly, a wave that sought to swallow the moon; a ship that thought to conquer the sea. He made no move to draw close to her as she pulled away, though, or to recollect the kind warmth that was lost as space filled in the void between their colliding body heat. Instead, he looked to the sky and the trees, the grass that swayed around their bodies - he looked anywhere except there, where she was, with that face that waited for the right answer out of the hundred and twenty-two thousand he had on the tip of his tongue, that face which looked for something he, of course, did not even know she was searching for.

What if I told you ... he inhaled as her words slipped forward, into the night drawn navy and white, and slowly his gaze drifted to the fine contours of her face ... that I had a crush once, a gentle sort of soul. A face, he thought, that was saturated and colorless, but that he could not call ugly without a second glance because, for the first time, he really noticed her. There was something hazardous about the deadness of her expression that caught him by the ears, something that he could not tear his gaze away from even if he had wanted to. The mystery was peaking and he felt, somewhere deep inside his gut, that another small and chagrined piece was going to be handed to him freely. Freely! Because once again she did not have the patience to wait and let him come to her. Perhaps that's how it would always be -

And then I killed him.

Perhaps not.

What then? Wuuthrex watched her for a time, watched her with his ocean as cold and indifferent as titanium steel; death was always a subject which fascinated him, like a child he was easily entertained by the methodical nature in which death stole from the world and its inevitability. What was most mesmerizing though was the monochromatic lilt of her voice as she spoke, the deadness that made him wonder if killing had, perhaps, killed her more than the body now tied in with her long, long trail of broken hearts. "What then, you ask." His tongue slid over his lips and the back of his teeth, as if he were tasting something maliciously pleasant and divine. "Well," he purred, the black velour dagger-sharp and dissonant as it slipped out from between his wolf-white teeth and an intrigued glimmer manifested within the dark pit of his Egyptian blue eyes, "I suppose I would need to ask if you're lying first, and if you're not - did you enjoy it?"

( sorry for the wait,
finals and parties have been occupying most of my time. )

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[atrb=background,http://oi56.tinypic.com/2cei4xg.jpg] Before I spoke I watched him closely, his pools wandering over the landscape around us, and even when they were done they did not meet mine. Maybe he was disgusted with me, tired of my company, maybe he wished to be alone, to be rid of the bothersome mare that he couldn’t quite seem to shake. Yet no such words left his cave, and so I spoke, my words solemn. And finally he turned, ancient eye locking with ancient eye. We were one in the same, me and this stallion. Both of us had gone through gruesome things, killed and yet managed to survive ourselves, and still we persevered. We had experienced things well beyond our skill level, and gained experience that many never did before their death. And yet here we stood, kin, bodies next to one another. It was so rare, for two beings so alike in history, to come together, and yet here we were. The silence that followed hung thick in the air, nature’s noises seemingly magnified. I could hear the soft whisper of the blades of grass as they swayed in the wind, caressing one another oh so gently. And there was the harsh crow of the ravens, their words silencing all the others as they demanded to be listened to. What then, you ask. His words flowed out easily, rumbling against his vocal chords. Well, I suppose I would need to ask if you’re lying first. And if you’re not, did you enjoy it? A smirk fell across my lips now, body moving the few steps forward that I had so shortly taken back. I pondered upon whether or not he could picture it, if he could see my ebony daggers dripping crimson, golden bodice stained as pointed ivories tore at flesh. Perhaps he could even picture a crazed look in my pools, orbs rolling back into my head as the ground became drenched. Possibly this image was as easy for him as the simple act of breathing, possibly it came naturally. And as I approached him now I let my canines part, only to come together again around the fatty part of his spine. I could taste blood, the warm liquid running over my taste buds as I greedily lapped at the substance. Perhaps the wound hurt little, merely superficial, or perhaps he was in pain, yet it didn’t seem to matter to me. Why was I trying to drive this beast away? The simple question flowed through my thoughts, a voice recording stuck on replay. The answer was simple. I was afraid. I was opening up to him, allowing us to be, and yet he wasn’t willing. I was terrified that in the following months to come I would allow myself to love, and perhaps he wouldn’t feel the same, maybe he would continue to be dead on the inside, nothing but a hollow body empty of all emotion. Perhaps it’s not me, dearest Wuuthrex, that needs to be protected. My icy pools were on fire, daring him to move, taunting him. Maybe, just maybe, it’s you. My voice came out in a hiss, menacing. It was a change of situation from what had been early, and I couldn’t quite place a reason for it other than he wasn’t appeasing me. Perhaps it would pass, never show it’s face again, or possibly this was who I was and would remain to be. OOC- Finals AND partying? ;D Hehe. Those two hardly go together well. But no worries, I completely understand.