he buries them like he's collecting them; Posted on September 22, 2016 at 00:04:32 AM by Dreadstag
His dreams had often been more colorful and vibrant when he dozed; those were the moments he felt more alive than ever -- younger, too. There were no such things as vast, hellish deserts that he couldn't conquer there; there were no devils that lurked in the night; no cruel gods to damn his opportunities at greatness. For he was as grand and all-seeing and all-knowing as Odin himself! He couldn't say how many hellish beasts he'd vanquished, nor how many times he'd brought glory to his proud line.
In his dreams, he was neither broken, nor husk; he was the conqueror his father had always seen in him. What the fallen king had never come to realize (and likely never will), was it had been those very dreams of greatness that had kept him from slipping away from nothing. And then, a voice called to him. He needn't recognize the words to catch, and fully understand the mockery that lingered behind them. He woke with a brief jolt, but it was nothing that would be expected of a startled horse. His eyes shot open and he swung his head around, pointing his ears forward. Though as the freckled woman came into view, Dreadstag felt a pang of regret for returning to this sorry place.
He had known that Ragnarok and his family had always been wanderers and conquerors; complete domination was often a boring thing, and there were plenty of challenges to be had in the open world. So it came as a shock to him to find relics of his past here; even in the form of living, breathing..and likely soon to be bleeding relatives. The stallion snorted and relaxed his posture once more. His ears slipped back with annoyance, though they weren't quite pinned yet. " If it isn't the childless wonder herself, " he quipped back as ruthlessly as he could (the truth was though, he didn't know if she had successfully birthed a foal that lived longer than minutes after birth, if not already dead.), his voice low and rough, like ancient stone grinding against each other. He very much carried his fathers northerner accent, even to this day. " To what do I owe this honor? " the stallion spat, as though the word 'Honor' had tasted foul upon his tongue.