Post by Prism on Jan 21, 2007 20:40:30 GMT -5
It was as if someone had waved a magic wand over the land and silenced it. And while they were at it, they made the clouds a lonely gray, the trees skeletons of black and the grass a sickly brown. A crummy land if one entered from the south, the end of the terrain that no one really paid much attention to. A white brute, bulky and fat, wandered in this way, smelling the dry air, the rotting soil, the cold abyss. His perminent smirk twitched as he looked through the mist, the silver clouds that parted away as his body split the bonds. It was so...so...desolate. His crown shook, flapping his croppy mane about as he took a few steps forward.
Prism was an odd fellow. Creepy and obscene, his sarcasm was dry and cut throat, leaving one to be a bit dazzed when each sentance was spoken. He had grown up the flea of the herd, being scrapped with by the older and bigger stallions. He had won on many occassions, though I won't lie and say he won every battle that was presented to him. He was no champion, no winner. A loser, the flea, the garbage of any land he tred upon. Why? He was ugly. The result of too many beatings. The story is confusing, just like the Picasso of a face he has. Let me explain it.
So long ago, so very long ago, he had been born to a queen. The truest of darks, a living legend. Macon, the nastiest of all the darks, one could say. She had a mouth that was larger than the sky, snapping at whoever she directed her anger and annoyance to. She wasn't afraid to say whatever was on her mind and that was the result of growing up a spoilt brat of the darks. All the darkest mares - the ones who ran all the lands - doted on her and fought for her attention. She was the prodigy and everyone wanted her as their child...everyone dark, that is. She had given birth to her second child, a nasty thing named Crow. He was vicious, a prodigy in her own eyes. Son of Hawk and Macon, he was the very mixture of genetics that was a sea of darkness. Macon hadn't cared what really happened to her son, he was a thing that she had birthed because she had to get her lines out there in the world, ready to be saved for after her death. It was only a year later that she died at the hooves of a beast, a mare they called Cavalla Odiata. She was a wanderer and wanted no fame, unlike the other horses who wanted to kill Macon. Shamed, Crow had run off at a young age, entering adult hood in a herd who despised him, used him for practice. He was a brat and because of how Macon had taught him to grow up - much like how she had, a brat - they found all too many reasons to scold and beat him.
His name was no longer Crow. It was Prism, king of the demented and disturbed. He was twisted too far for anyone to save, and thus, he was banished from the herdlands. A sick mind follows him wherever he turns, a double mind, a friend, the only one. Crazed and demented, he wanders alone and that is the story of Prism.
Moving on, we return to the lands in which we find our main brute in the woods, licking the sap from a tree oozing it's sweet blood. His tongue was a dark red, almost black from the many odd things he had eaten, and the time when Rohn and Dak had forced him to stick his tongue in the snow for hours and hours, making it numb for the whole winter. He slurred his words after that, though he had become a tad talented with the almost dead tongue. He talks, is understandable, but one must listen to hear his messy language. Poor Prism, one might say, but one should know, he enjoys it. No, he doesn't need sympathy, empathy or any sort of feeling. He doesn't care what life he has or where he had ended up for he knows too many equines have either forgot about him, wonder where the naughty child of Macon went or if the legend of Prism the Maniac is true. And thus, we watch the child, now aged seven, lick the sap off a dead tree, shadowedy a patchy shade...and we wonder who dares to approach our luffly white brute, Prism....
Prism was an odd fellow. Creepy and obscene, his sarcasm was dry and cut throat, leaving one to be a bit dazzed when each sentance was spoken. He had grown up the flea of the herd, being scrapped with by the older and bigger stallions. He had won on many occassions, though I won't lie and say he won every battle that was presented to him. He was no champion, no winner. A loser, the flea, the garbage of any land he tred upon. Why? He was ugly. The result of too many beatings. The story is confusing, just like the Picasso of a face he has. Let me explain it.
So long ago, so very long ago, he had been born to a queen. The truest of darks, a living legend. Macon, the nastiest of all the darks, one could say. She had a mouth that was larger than the sky, snapping at whoever she directed her anger and annoyance to. She wasn't afraid to say whatever was on her mind and that was the result of growing up a spoilt brat of the darks. All the darkest mares - the ones who ran all the lands - doted on her and fought for her attention. She was the prodigy and everyone wanted her as their child...everyone dark, that is. She had given birth to her second child, a nasty thing named Crow. He was vicious, a prodigy in her own eyes. Son of Hawk and Macon, he was the very mixture of genetics that was a sea of darkness. Macon hadn't cared what really happened to her son, he was a thing that she had birthed because she had to get her lines out there in the world, ready to be saved for after her death. It was only a year later that she died at the hooves of a beast, a mare they called Cavalla Odiata. She was a wanderer and wanted no fame, unlike the other horses who wanted to kill Macon. Shamed, Crow had run off at a young age, entering adult hood in a herd who despised him, used him for practice. He was a brat and because of how Macon had taught him to grow up - much like how she had, a brat - they found all too many reasons to scold and beat him.
His name was no longer Crow. It was Prism, king of the demented and disturbed. He was twisted too far for anyone to save, and thus, he was banished from the herdlands. A sick mind follows him wherever he turns, a double mind, a friend, the only one. Crazed and demented, he wanders alone and that is the story of Prism.
Moving on, we return to the lands in which we find our main brute in the woods, licking the sap from a tree oozing it's sweet blood. His tongue was a dark red, almost black from the many odd things he had eaten, and the time when Rohn and Dak had forced him to stick his tongue in the snow for hours and hours, making it numb for the whole winter. He slurred his words after that, though he had become a tad talented with the almost dead tongue. He talks, is understandable, but one must listen to hear his messy language. Poor Prism, one might say, but one should know, he enjoys it. No, he doesn't need sympathy, empathy or any sort of feeling. He doesn't care what life he has or where he had ended up for he knows too many equines have either forgot about him, wonder where the naughty child of Macon went or if the legend of Prism the Maniac is true. And thus, we watch the child, now aged seven, lick the sap off a dead tree, shadowedy a patchy shade...and we wonder who dares to approach our luffly white brute, Prism....
