[ React | L E V I A T H A N S E A ]
Posted by as on 5/2/2005, 10:14 am, in reply to "Re: ad" "The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable man persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man."
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"But even I dare not compare you to this soil - - this soil is Hallowed, Sacred! these horses before you... they descend from those Great Kings beneath this soil and you!" he laughed, spitting again in the face of Pinnochet, caring little for the trivilities of rank - - they would disappear before they two soon enough. "You, King, know nothing of this land; you, King, should have been welcomed with blazing fires and screaming mercenaries. You... King... should have been mutinited within a moment of your reign." And Elestirnė, laughing, struck - - his great head lifted, the force of the movement throwing him backward upon his powerful hind legs - - he extended a foreleg, twisting his upper body as he did so - - and there, as he fell, his head caught against his breast and his body curling to the left, he found proof against the carpus and ripped downward; he knew the path upon which he trod was a heavily muscled one, but he - - falling - - were as though a dull axe against flesh. He fell and did not feel the muscle rent from bone but rather, and here perhaps he erred, felt the bone give way and perhaps, though he could not feel it splinter, it slipped from joint and sinew - - but even this he doubted and did not wish, for it was not a death blow which he had dealt, but rather a reminder: rank, title! they were useless upon the field of War and he, grinning, was Master. This was dangerous ground upon which he stood, but moments following the outlandish and unwarranted attack - - and with a sickening sweet smile he turned to Pinnochet's left, allowing the High King a moment to collect himself, and was greeted by the full force of Sgorr's malicious gaze: he, chuckling, returned it in kind. "Sgorr..." he began sweetly, all traces of that dark stallion forgotten - - he appeared, then, as light split the clouds and coloured him his brightest white/grey, no more than a gentle and humble diplomat - - but it were not so, and even those whose appearance belies a different truth would not doubt that there was some troublesome thought plaguing his words - - "I should be right to assume that I have mere moments until you stride forward, as before and as now unbidden, to take up the yoke of Protection that your Lord and Master so obviously requires. Tell me, stallion..." and he grinned, vague and dark, "... do you make it your business to court Kings and Priests, to follow in their footsteps, to spew childhood memories both insipid and dull? Have you nothing of importance to do, Simpleton? If you were a mere brood mare, I could understand these actions - - rushing to the aid of the King unasked - - are you in love with your King, Sgorr? threatening a mare! a mare, what strength you must possess to do so! You stood, not a Raven, not a Hawk, landless, and bestowed upon another this warning:" and Elestirnė, in a mocking tone to rival Sgorr's own, recounted the words he had himself spoken not days earlier. "I will be watching you, and I won't hesitate to fulfill whatever the previous apache failed to do. Sheep's tongue! an empty promise from an empty stallion! what right had you to empty your mouth of those words?" Elestirnė stalked forward, fearless and dank, and came to rest as he had with Pinnochet, with his nose not inches from Sgorr's own; he breathed, heavily, and lifted a foreleg against his breast, slamming it into the soil with force enough to splinter wood, rock - - bone. "You... Sgorr... sicken me. Were I your King, I would have you gone from my sight. Were I your King, I would have none of your childhood memories colouring my distaste for you. Were I your King, your death would be swift... But I am not your King."
The grey stallon turned away; it was a deliberate move, calculated and precise, which delivered him from immediate audience and allowed the whole of Ravenglade to congregate before him - - he stood there, false and deceitful, and looked into each wide, white pair of eyes with a distain that coloured every breath of him. He, again, lifted his great head and broadened himself, grinning widely and wildly as he did so - - he, standing and staring into the eyes of the Kingdom, was filled with a bright hatred which came first from his gut to lave against his teeth - - and the words, unspoken, fell from him in a gasp and were coloured with guile and the strangeness of the Rogue: "I am not your King." It was a deliberate statement now, and it was clipped, short - - "Nor would I wish such a title upon myself; for Kings and Queens are strange things when bred so!" and here he lifted his voice so that the whole of the Glade could play audience, and he the actor upon stage; "... and yet, my FRIENDS... when Kings are no more than overgrown schoolboys, I fear for you - - I fear for Ravenglade." And he smiled then, for what he feared was nothing of their own doing; what he feared, then, was nothing of which they could avail themselves; what he feared for them was himself - - and this changed his smile to a cruel, calculated smirk, which tainted his words with malice and allowed a creeping giddiness to seep; "Oh Ravens; you know not what it is that your brave King has done - - you know not what your brave King has allowed to occur - - you know not the Hell which will rain upon you in these days to come, nor that from which you will have to protect yourselves... for I doubt it not that there will come a day, perhaps not distant nor unseen, when your King shall find himself the equal of that greatness forgotten and unused - - and I, Ravens, shall come at last to the glory which I am owed." He laughed, again, and it was a brave, cruel laugh; he looked out at them, looked into the eyes of those he had deemed unworthy, and found amongst them a single bright - - nay! a single darkness, a darkness unwrought and untapped, yet still remaining - - he looked out into them and found Galahad; and here he strode forth, caring nothing for the jeers, caring nothing for their attempts at criticism, their simpering silly remarks of hatred, and came to rest in the face of the stallion he supposed, correctly or no, would do little more in the Glade than rot and fester. Galahad - - he was no real beauty, but a strange creature not unlike himself, unfledged but worthy - - and Elestirnė, grinning, came to rest before the other; "You, Galahad, are wasted amongst these whimpering mongrels - - these poorly founded attempts at greatness - - you, Galahad, will come with me."
He spun then, back to the crowd, his eyes alight with mischief and the vague cunning he would come to be spoken for, and cried again the heady, heavy scream of the Order - - he named it then, thinking only of his first sojourn into the Dimension, thinking of the barren land and it's mighty treasons - - he named his Great Order, his Great Undertaking, that which would come to taint his name and his progeny and his heritage, and knew only that these were the last moments in which he would be called a Raven - - he was then, as he threw from himself the fatal trappings of Court and King, a Falcon! and Galahad a Falcon before him! and he saw, in the distance, the great makings of those birds of prey amongst the Eagles; amongst the Hawks; amongst the Gulls; yes! even amongst these crude makings of Ravens! and was filled with a gladness which swelled in his breast and made him gasp in unrefuted glee. "I will take my leave, then, Pinnochet..." he began, turning for a final time to look back at the Ravens' great King - - "And you would do well to guard against my return." He, laughing and fulfilled, turned to Galahad and spoke the first command he would make as the Founder and Creator of the Order - - he spoke with purpose, with intent, and with a final sweeping gaze over the whole of the Glade. "We move to the Crest." Then, with little warning, he lept away as though he were a hart and, Galahad following dutifully, disappeared in the thick brush beyond the Glade - - Elestirnė of the Ravens was no more.
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