~Beware: Now leaving the land of the sane~

[:.Mera.:]

now that she's back in the atmosphere
with drops of jupiter in her hair
she acts like summer and walks like rain
reminds me that there's time to change
since the return from her stay on the moon
she listens like spring and she talks like june;

There was no need for better eyes, no need for better sight, for her to envision the endless canyon well – the testimony of cold, the wind in her cheeks, brushing past the locks of hair, thinning now – a doll, neglected and wasting away; what else could she be? Ah, but it did not matter now, it never mattered, and Twist could feel the wind brush, and freeze through her bones, deliciously painful, deliciously prohibited – it would take a lesser soul than hers to shrink from this feeling, or follow it blindly, but Mera is, after all, her mother's daughter, and externally unaffected, though her soul, that shard of a chimera, burned hot against the cold of the canyon's – and there she found her old lover, the river that dented this stillness, this empty land with that indefinable breath of testosterone, and were she anyone else, she might have wallowed in pits of shrill emotion – but she would not; it was no such occasion, and she strangled emotion with the same ease she had strangled Self, and Love.

Well, it had been long, hadn't it? How many years still, since those fallacious times, when there was some pride left in the world? Certainly, it could be no different now – but one look was enough, to reassure those facetious eyes, that such was the case. Had they not huffed and puffed in holy fervor, not that long ago, bustled and stirred and whined and ranted and vented their miseries? Yet, they had been spared – they had been idiots, no doubt, but at least the blinkers were still firmly upon their eyes, steadfastly glued to their place.

One look. That was all that mattered to untie the shackles and unfasten the laces that had for so long strangled her – one look from Mera's black, derisive eyes, to find their match, down to the clear disgust, in another set – these green and cool as emeralds kept in the bottom of chests, sunk in the sea; and had she not stared with indifference then, with such slitted eyes, and such upturn of chin – to send a white mane tumbling, upon her ivory neck? She could not speak, not Twist, who slipped black and unseen through her jungle, for no reason other than haunt these old paths, and feast off the wild beehives, which hide poison; and a shadow not so much younger, but seeming so pure and innocent in her silky, baby cloth, trailing her wake with cautious attention to everything, that it disguised her true age and masked her true self.

Mera had swum as the boat had sunk. What else was there to do? Mares and colts clung to her as she churned the water blindly, wanting nothing more than to feel the soft, grained sand between her hooves. Eventually, she had emerged from the foam like some spectral huntress, surviving. And now what was it? Nothing was left of what she had once known. And that was a good thing. She looked up at the sky, and felt the wind on her face. Vultures circled overhead, and as her torn mother would have said, long delighting in the endless agony of her death.

[Alex]

Ooc: Er, one question. Are Twist and Mera the same?

[:.Mera.:]

OOC: yes, they are

[Alex]

Storm

The deep ravines of Calignosity Canyon had echoed the sound of only one set of sharp hooves through its winding walls for far too long now. What little healthy grass there was grew long from only one set of enamels munching it away, and the trails were growing overgrown from only one body to push the weeds away. Storm was sick and tired of being alone. At times, loneliness was an asset, a time to just think and collect yourself. Storm used a shroud of loneliness to protect himself from the simpering light emotions that bounced around him, trying to strike him and knock him off of his feet, trying to make him feel the forbidden feelings of guild and regret after he had murdered his parents.

Ah, his parents. They deserved their death. Stupid little lights. They were the king and queen, and Storm was their little prince. He would be the heir to their lands, their herds, their honor; or so they thought. And so he had thought, too, although he had been dreading the day, although he had no idea why. Then, finally, the day came when the real Storm had been born. A small dark herd, skinny but starving for blood rather than food. They had audaciously come to conquer Storm's parents' herd. They had been repelled by the sheer size of the herd, although they were by far better fighters. Storm had found himself. That night, he sneaked to his sleeping mother and killed her. His father was arisen and tried to fight, but Storm killed him easily, too.

Finally, his day had come, when he had a land of his own to rule as he liked. And with that land had come his title. No, not the meaningless title his parents had saved for him, but his true title- the Dark King. And so he was. Now, the only thing his kingdom needed were mares, preferably black-heartened femmes, like himself, but he'd likely have a few lights to be his slaves. The lights had ruled the first few years of his life, and he wouldn't die without unleashing his vengeance on him. Images of supreme rule danced through his head, but he quieted them. He hadn't the resources or the allies to do that quite yet.

He saw the mare up ahead. His black heart skipped a beat, as his brain processed the thought that his instincts told him nanoseconds ago: This mare could be the one. She had the aura that only a dark had, one that hinted at pure and untainted evil, but not quite revealing it. She'd be perfect to begin Storm's empire. He sauntered closer, concentrating on pleasing her by radiating his own blackness. Hello, mare he said, vocals coated with contempt.

[:.Mera.:]

I am a Lost Child.

Although I must admit, five winters scarcely leave me a child. These past years have scarred me terribly, and in more way than one. Physically, many, many signs of the traditional abuse are visible when one gazes upon my ebony coat. Two pallid scars line my slender, petite rump, upon the right side of my body. Various bite marks and scratches litter the rest of me, more on my right than left, for it was upon my left side that I fell when attacked, in hopes of protecting the terrible wound upon my neck. Long, matted locks fall upon the left side of my nape, hiding from the world my dread scar and deepest wound. Shaped like a jagged piece of lightning, the injury I received as a filly of but one summer never fully healed, as you shall see presently. For the moment, however, you must be content with the knowledge of its presence.

My history is ugly and painful, and I would rather not go into it here. Allow me to say, however, that I have passed in possession thrice in my short years, and been heavily abused. It was after my third trade that I ran away, sneaking out in the dead of night and making a frantic, rather hopeless dash for liberty. I encountered a lone, mangy wolf with other plans, however, and only escaped by luck when an unfortunate partridge diverted the beast’s attention from my own haggard frame. For nearly a full cycle of the moon since, I have been drifting and hiding, staying in forests and paths that my kind would never dream of entering. I travel by night and hide in carefully selected glades and caves during the day, afraid of being discovered and taken back.

Every night, the moon greets me. I cannot stand her face, for she seems to embody the purity I lack, while at the same time she watches grotesque acts and crimes with a cool, unflinching gaze. Oh, I do so hate night! Curse the moon for being everything I am not, but long to be! Curse her indifference and unrelenting chill, and fie upon her milky pallor. I can never find my footing in her dim glow, and often I am slowed in my mission because she forces me to backtrack and start my path again. Blessed be my breed, for in my blood flows endurance, but a pox upon my temper and hotheaded ways. When I am hungry, my anger often gets the best of me – and it seems I am always hungry. Alas, my once beautiful body is reduced to a set of bones with a thin layer of black skin pulled over it, and a sad ribcage poking through the flesh (or lack there of). My once flowing mane and tail are reduced to pathetic dreadlocks, and none of my former glory is visible.

Oh, how I wish I were still with Him!

Daylight is fading, and the time has come for me to continue my weary trudge. With a sigh, I force my body into an upright position, shaking as the muscles under my black skin struggle to work. Tonight the moon is absent from the skies, and all of night is thrown into obscurity. As I creep out from the cave I took as a den the day before, wind assails me, bringing the news of these lands. Three distinct scents catch my interest: dust, damp air, and strange horses. At the last, my heart performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers, including a summersault, happy leap into my throat, and dive down into the abyss of my empty stomach. Others meant warmth, food, safety, peace... scorn, abuse, and the chance of recapture. Returning to the company of others would also spark my hopes of safety and love, before dashing them against jagged rocks. Still, the scent was alluring, and surely better than that of a thunderstorm.

The dark night grew even darker as I forced myself forward, blindly struggling to reach a haven. At times, the aroma of others came from the north, while at intervals it seemed to shift east. Occasionally I was sure I had made it, but then the wind would shift and leave me alone, with only myself for company. Franticly I went on, driven now by the soft fall of rain upon my hide. Alas, the storm reached me before I found shelter. Drenched, shivering, and dripping from head to toe, I staggered along through the night. My senses are waterlogged, and I can scarcely see, but still I trudge forward, blessing my endurance and cursing the rain. Perhaps I am not the model Light, but you must excuse that. My teachers were not very strict upon that point. They were more intent on keeping me alive than keeping me aligned, thanks just the same.

At last the rain stopped- or so I believed. Actually, it was still raining, but I had wandered into a canyon and (praised be Equus!) shelter. Shaking violently, I collapsed into a black heap upon the floor of the gorge, barely more than a shadow. I would stay here until dawn, I decided, then take inventory of my surroundings and state. I knew not if this place was a safe haven, and I cared less. Breathing deeply, I struggled to raise my head, leg, anything, but was unable to move my blissfully numb body. I would sleep until sunrise, but only that long... I awoke the next morning with the sun staring into my face and probing me with his gentle fingers. Yawning widely, I tucked my legs under my barrel and shoved off into a standing position, stretching my small, skeletal form out. As I stepped into the open, I was forced to blink from the bright sunlight. I was in a tucked-off corner of the Canyon, full of shrubbery and a bit of mud. Run-offs from last night’s storm flitted lazily through, chattering happily amongst themselves. Oh yes, I had made it to a claiming ground, and the cries of mares filled the air.

Mine would not be joining them.

As I looked at the stallion, I gave a small snort.

“I am Twist” I said softly. "Not 'mare'. I would be grateful if you called me that" If you hadn't known- then you would certainly have mistaken me for a light. My voice seemed naive, quiet and pretty.

And I was none of those. For I am a lost child. But I never said who's child I was.

[Alex]

Storm

He watched, intrigued, as a small torrent of dirty rainwater rushed past his hooves, carrying leaves, pebbles, and other bits of debris. He lifted one snowy forefoot experimentally and slammed it down upon the little brook, blocking its path. The water shivered and halted for a moment, before finding its new path on the left side of the stallion's hoof. Storm studied the creek again. He pushed a diminutive twig across the stream, stopping its progress and preventing it from going sideways and creating the new path. Finally, the determined little torrent flowed right over the twig, happy as you please. Storm snorted, as if accepting the water's mettle.

He stared at the stream again, mesmerized. Surely there was a lesson that the water could teach him. There were lessons everywhere, but Storm's pride wouldn't let him learn from anything that had a voice of its own. The torrent was so determined, not letting itself be stopped by anything, even if it was only a small trickle of water versus a twelve-hundred pound stallion. The stream had one chance to succeed in whatever it was trying to do, he guessed perhaps carry its debris to the nearby river, and it was taking it. It didn't stop even when Storm was putting effort outwards to cease its downstream progress. Storm lowered his ebony muzzle to the torrent, relishing the light sprinkles of water that splashed around his nostrils.

Storm knew that he must do as the stream did if he wanted to succeed with his life mission. He couldn't let anything stop his forward progress- not rival stallions, not the annoying lights, and not even the lack of good darks mares slow him down. Heck, he could take on a light herd by himself if he really wanted to. But with a few mares at his side, he'd be unstoppable. The mare standing before him might just be his key to open the door of his ultimate success. If he wanted an empire, he would have to build it, maintain it, and defend it. If he wanted to be the ultimate ruler of these lands, he's have to work his way to the top. No one would give such a title to Storm, and even if one did, he wouldn't accept it. Such a victory would only lay sweetly on his tongue and his conscious if he had earned it. Such a triumph would be bitter and sour if he had conned into it, or worse, been given it. That reason was why he had to have run away. He didn't want some title his parents gave him, he wanted his own.

That might have been the reason he respected, and almost admired, this mare. The scars that marred her body told the story of struggle, while Storm's unruffled coat suggested a life lying in the lap of luxury. Well, no more. Storm wanted a challenge, something that would truly test his new abilities. The mare had had her fight, and now it was Storm's turn. He'd attack and rip the other stallions apart, or banish them to eternal exile. He knew that the other Kings and Lords of lands wouldn't just stand up and walk away as nicely as you please, but they'd fight for their terras, their mares, and their honors. Storm would take advantage of the lights' unwillingness to inflict damage upon another being, but he'd still fight, and in the end, he knew he would earn his victory. It was how it had to be. Every scar skittering across the mare's hide was a trophy that she should carry proudly.

Twist, he said, grinning wickedly. Her voice might be a light's, but her name was a dark's. My cursing is Storm. But you may call me whatever you wish, if you come with me. No, he wouldn't tell her he was Dark King, although he desired to brag about his title to somebody. He'd have to rein in his ambition if he wanted to win the mare over. He wanted her loyalty, and not only a common mare's power-hungry dreams.