Welcome to Gaia! ::

Little fillies were fickle things, full grown mares moreso, and Desdemona could possibly take the top spot for it. The Red Pyramid snorted, and grinned. He thought of dying two leggers and newborns shrieking away. The grotesque sights and sounds meant nothing to him, they fueled him and proved that he was doing his job. That he was doing it damn well. He would surpass them all, those paltry hotheads that called themselves guardian angels of the Soquili. He would be their angel of death, their angel of proof. Proof that they were all a sham, fakes and cheap.


"Daily...how pleasantly often," the enigma murmured, taking a few steps towards the skinwalker. "There is nothing quite like clouds at a picnic, as they say." He began to circle around her, not attempting to be threatening, just to memorize her from the knees down. Unless she knelt, there was no way he would know her out of a crowd by view. If she spoke the beast was good, but his limited vision was a blessing and a curse.

If it did anything, however, it did not allow him to be weak. He was an icon with his armor, his chains. He had struggled in silence for years and the result was strength and endurance, and a lack of fear for anything reasonable. Still, to his frustration, he was not strong enough. Was not good enough. Those out there that remained his better reminded him in painful ways that he was just not good enough. Fearless enough.

Such was life. Fate had dealt him his cards, and no matter how he schemed he could not get a new hand, though he had fought tooth and nail to get as far as he did. Her voice was mellifluous as she ranted, crazed and driven all at once. Passionate. She was passionate about death, and pain, and her sadism.

"Balances tend to be that way," he replied. "I am here to shield the innocents from what they may feel in life. To spare those that survive of surviving any longer. I am here to gain my pleasure as I see it, taking it from those that I protect so willingly. I cause minor skirmishes and incite fear into the hearts of two leggers and soquili alike. I am bad dreams of the small and the truth for grown." His story was far less glamorous than Desdemona's, but he filled the cracks that she did not. She was unstoppable, a careening carriage carrying the plague. He was merely a vessel. He carried hate within him, it was his power, but it not WAS him. It was not innate.

"I look forward to that day," the pyramid head said, without irony.

Snagged from Tweekend. XD <3

Mother. Father. Two words that should have meant the world to him, but did not. 'Mother' meant weakness, pure and simple. If he behaved like 'Mother', he would feel the rush of hooves and teeth. Strong words would chastise him, and he would remember that 'Father' was the word that was most important to his survival. 'Father' meant many things, the most important of which was 'master', strength. Dimly, he knew that his words were not the words of others, that his views were different, strange. However, his understanding of them was vital. He must know the difference between them, and he must seek to follow his father.

His sire was difficult to impress. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure that it was possible to impress him. But he would certainly try, if it meant that he might garner a little bit of his father's approval. Suddenly a bubble of anger snapped up, roiling through him. It was his mother's fault that Plague thought he was weak, wasn't it? He must think that his own son was just like her. Weak like her. Stupid like her. Instantly, almost inexplicably, he hated her. He hated her because she had left them before he was even out of his basket, hated her because she defied Father, because she roamed free while he must remain here. If she had not been so wretched, such a coward, he would not have to put up with his sire's lessons the way he did. Surely Papa would find other ways to teach him.

But the lessons were of absolute importance, at the same time. This he knew. He idolized his father, the strange, almost skeletal stallion who had taken him in hand and begun to shape him. He held him up on high. He did not, however, love him. No... love was far too pure an emotion to be felt by one as tainted as he had become, even as a foal. His body was too soft, too small to be right. There were things he must do, ways he must change. He must, absolutely must achieve the greatness that only his father commanded. Manipulation was a tool, and a powerful one. He'd had it used on him long enough to know what it meant, what it was. What it might entail. Swiftly, his baby thoughts began to grow more complex. The change was a necessary one, one that he could nor afford to do without.

He pushed himself, forcing himself to improve. Even a hint of praise was worth whatever pain he might encounter in the interim. But it was not praise he was seeking. No, he had a far grander goal than that. He divorced himself from his gentler feelings, until they became nothing but a shadow, nothing but a memory. Even the desire to appeal to his father was forgotten in his obsession. Perfection took time, took effort. It took everything he had, and more than he had not yet discovered in himself. His failure to achieve that goal rankled, but he ignored the sting.

Personal pride was not as important as the end result. And slowly, the darkness was eating at his soul. His awareness of the passing of days was dim, distant. He did not, in fact, notice how long it had been since he had come to his decision until his father told him that he was bringing him to meet Diabetia. Mother. The mare who had not had any role in his upbringing until now, except as a tale, as a warning. Another foal would have been told to 'be good, or the Skinwalkers will get you', but he was told that he was to behave, or to expect the same treatment as his dam. He did. He listened, he obeyed. He allowed himself to be formed into a tool to his father's hooves. Why did Father want him to meet her? Silently resentful, the colt followed Plague, his young eyes filled with a deceitful wickedness that might perhaps have been perceived to be disturbing.

He almost tuned out the conversation that his father had with his mother, but then he noticed the madness in her eyes. Without any further warning, she lashed out. Well, well, well. She did have some spirit after all. Fool. She ought to know that disobedience came with an almost instantaneous reward. Her striking hooves connected with nothing, leaving her off balance, open to his father's attack. His father stepped in, coming between them, and backed her down.

“Sweetness, you know better than to defy me,” Plague mouthed, his tone harsh, and ... was there a hint of amusement, hidden at its depths? Disbelieving, the colt stared from his sire to his dam, trying to make sense of what he saw. Yes, his father was angry at her show of rebellion, of fire, but he was also amused by something. What could that be? It was then that he realized the true reason that Father had brought him out here to meet her.

She hated him. Hated the sight of him, her son. It seemed to trouble her some how, to torture her. Smirking to himself, the colt drew himself up, giving her a look that said plainer than words how pathetic he found her to be. The darkness roiled within him, giving him strength and shaping his thoughts in wild, twisted ways. So, that was how it was to be. He was truly a tool, truly something that could be used against the candy covered Kalona. The knowledge pleased him in ways that he could not describe. Just by being who he was, what he was, he had assisted his father in punishing his mother. Good.

I hate you too, Mother he thought at her, his eyes cruel and hard. I hate your weakness, and your stupid, foolish 'freedom'. It was entirely her fault that he did not learn the more important lessons from his father. Lessons that would teach him how to be something more than a puppet. How dare she interfere in his life in that way? Senseless mare. The manner in which his father had reined her in was masterful. He was impressed. So, that was the way to do things. Use force, and words. Weapons of the mind, and strength of the body. Watching him once more, he realized how very desperately he wanted to become like him.

Of course, Diabetia was a roadblock to that. However much he cut himself off from the thought of her, of her behavior, her blood ran in his veins. Damnable wench. She corrupted him just by existing. He gave her a hard, unforgiving look. Surely, her weakness was a trial for him, a trial which he must learn to overcome, to overshadow. He had already learned what her behavior meant in his life. Now he was learning what it meant to be her son. Well, he'd show her. He would become more than she could ever hope to be. He would become his name. He would become... Famine. And his father would be proud.

Edit: Just so that I have something to play with, should I chose to with Havoc. XD

What do you need for her plot wise? If anything. ^^ <3