The Portal
07-25-2017, 12:23 AM
Zahra & Ilham
It was pride that turned angels into devils
He was the newest in this world of hideous hue and haunting eyes, just another dumped, sacrificial lamb on the heinous alter of an underbelly world; he too (like countless others before him), was robbed unmercifully, castrated and then discarded like old meat by those ravenous, rapacious shadows. Though morbid - in a sense - the golden-bellied girl was fascinated by the process. Perhaps that was the reason she was constantly drawn back; maybe for the obstinate belief within her, that anything would be prettier than life.
With hooves falling silently upon the soft, water-laden turf, she moved from him without any care to look back.
Until…
His strange, rasping voice was broken (more even than she!) as it begged pitifully through the stagnant, wet and stinking air; it reeked of vulnerability, fear. As her lean legs shuddered reluctantly to a stop, lungs sucked slowly a long, wistful breath. Why should she care about this one? What made him different?
They were all soulless vampires, in one way or another…
Tired, wretched thoughts fought bitterly against the heavy, hot onslaught of stirred-to-life compassion - the empath, she reminded herself, had long been dead inside - but her resolve was unravelling and the cold, callous shell she now always huddled beneath, was beginning to splinter.
Resenting wholly his undermining power (though she had left him sprawled upon filth like the pathetic corpse he was), smoky ears slid backwards, pressing angrily across the stuck, wet mane of her poll; similarly, that sodden, velvet nose pinched uglily, as the brazen fingers of sympathy plucked at the loose harp of heartstrings within.
Why...?
Each movement was deliberately slow, disinclined, as she swivelled back around to face him, and the expression that pasty, white face wore, failed to embrace anything warmer than stale irritation; the grim fatigue of a beaten soul.
Narrowed eyes fell with frigid ferocity upon the obsidian span of his well-chiselled features - sorry and sickly, they looked. Clearly a stallion (once…), he was propped up against the stiff pillar of one black and white leg, and though she perceived the golden hoof part buried below sludge, her sour mood defied any presumption that its consideration was worth while.
Without moving any closer, she observed him, scrutinised, waiting for this, his blaring logic that bid for her return.
