“You have a strange definition of forests and mountains,” the unusual, heavy-footed stallion grumbled in return and Valkyrie couldn’t help the wry smile as it was lured slowly to life by the hint of his sarcasm, quirking quietly the crimson contours of her wrinkled mouth. There could have been no better place to deposit his good-for-nothing backside; a lake of putrid tar, the perverted flames of hell. She could only pray he’d find his demise down there within it.
“Why do you think moths throw themselves at the flame?” her voice was dry, bored…
Without offering him the space to answer—the question was a rhetorical one after all—the masculine looking Shieldmaiden continued, “…it’s because there’s no beauty without pain. It’s pretty to them, and your pretty forest is on the other side of the tar—”
As far away from Halyven as she could persuade him to be.
Valkyrie pondered idly, rain spewing relentlessly down upon her vain pinnacle, that perhaps if she could acquire for herself the ability to weave her own perspective through his mind, this whole mission to isolate those like him and forge a force to fell Hope’s herd, would be a darn sight simpler. Heavily, she sighed, a wreath of steam ascending above her shifting, pastel-featured face. Without magic, she was still too weak.
“Any questions?” the cursed Shieldmaiden asked him again—impatience both prevalent in the fidget of her printless hooves and the note of her demanding voice. The dense (perhaps in more ways than one), male was wasting her time. Glancing beyond his saturated form, she perceived the murky spires of filthy Havylen rising through the murky curtain of rain and cloud.
Tar Pits
