Post by Starbird on Jun 9, 2007 7:11:43 GMT -5
Take me for your own
All I want is a home
One day I'll make you mine
Till then just bide my time
Mm-hm... Mm-hm...
Din-daan-don, won't be long
Don-daan-din, before these sins
Fall away behind me
Dan-don-dun, will be soon
Dum ma mh hm hm
In exile, I have roamed
Now I am coming home.
The song had a slow, mournful beat, borrowing from funeral bells. The scene was etched plainly on the back of his eyelids- a crowded, rainy street, the bustle parting before a hearse and its black-clad escort. Below the murmur of the street and the tolling bells, he could hear the muffled sobs of the bereaved...
What a hell of a way to leave this life. My god, when it's time for me to go I want everybody to have a party to celebrate getting rid of me.
Dante chuckled. Still, it was a pretty song.
Like this is a pretty place...
The piebald draft opened his eyes, taking in the burned city before him. Born for war, killed by war. The corpse of Sparta still smelled of smoke. It probably always would. His steps were muffled by a thin coat of grey ash that puffed and floated around his feet.
Born for war, died for war.
Now that is a hell of a way to leave this life.
He turned his head on his long thick neck to gaze at the wall of a building he was passing. A pretty much infinite pattern of ash drifted by, powdering Sparta's bones dead-white. Lead-white, like he'd heard the women of other cities used to make themselves more beautiful. Poison- like the Victorian's belladonna.
But not Sparta, oh no, not you my pretty, he smiled, appraising the slowly passing wall like a favorite lover.
He laughed, then. (It was a warm, perhaps mischeivous chuckle.) But you do look like Pompeii.
He could have sworn from somewhere in the dust he heard an indignant snort. Cackling, he burst into a run.
Old buildings flashed by, granaries and barracks and officers' offices and whatnot. His hooves clink-clank-clattered against the pavement, and he sent his gaze flicking over all parts of the city- other thoroughfares, a fountain in a square, alleys piled high with musty crates and pottery, barren streaks of dirt yard, and here, there, maybe, a flash of green.
Yeah, eating will prove a difficulty.
And water, unless he could find a Poseidon-sworn to fix that fountain.
He was too busy grinning recklessly to care.
A little familiar-sounding voice in the back of his head kept making lists. This is an Arean city, you should leave offerings to him. And pray to Apollo in thanks. Find out where's where and where you can survive for now. Then go out and look for members.
It rattled on and on, but he was ignoring it. Mini-Road would just remind him of it all later. The sky was high and blue and sponged with barely-there, transparent grey clouds. The morning sun hovered brilliant white above some hill outside the city. He doubted there would be rain, but it sure was pretty.
Sparta purred.
...?
Oh, that was just too good to pass up. Did he dare push his luck further?
...He did.
And furthermore, he piped up, shouting as his galloping gait shoved air in and out of his lungs, Sparta was notoriously homosexual!
All I want is a home
One day I'll make you mine
Till then just bide my time
Mm-hm... Mm-hm...
Din-daan-don, won't be long
Don-daan-din, before these sins
Fall away behind me
Dan-don-dun, will be soon
Dum ma mh hm hm
In exile, I have roamed
Now I am coming home.
The song had a slow, mournful beat, borrowing from funeral bells. The scene was etched plainly on the back of his eyelids- a crowded, rainy street, the bustle parting before a hearse and its black-clad escort. Below the murmur of the street and the tolling bells, he could hear the muffled sobs of the bereaved...
What a hell of a way to leave this life. My god, when it's time for me to go I want everybody to have a party to celebrate getting rid of me.
Dante chuckled. Still, it was a pretty song.
Like this is a pretty place...
The piebald draft opened his eyes, taking in the burned city before him. Born for war, killed by war. The corpse of Sparta still smelled of smoke. It probably always would. His steps were muffled by a thin coat of grey ash that puffed and floated around his feet.
Born for war, died for war.
Now that is a hell of a way to leave this life.
He turned his head on his long thick neck to gaze at the wall of a building he was passing. A pretty much infinite pattern of ash drifted by, powdering Sparta's bones dead-white. Lead-white, like he'd heard the women of other cities used to make themselves more beautiful. Poison- like the Victorian's belladonna.
But not Sparta, oh no, not you my pretty, he smiled, appraising the slowly passing wall like a favorite lover.
He laughed, then. (It was a warm, perhaps mischeivous chuckle.) But you do look like Pompeii.
He could have sworn from somewhere in the dust he heard an indignant snort. Cackling, he burst into a run.
Old buildings flashed by, granaries and barracks and officers' offices and whatnot. His hooves clink-clank-clattered against the pavement, and he sent his gaze flicking over all parts of the city- other thoroughfares, a fountain in a square, alleys piled high with musty crates and pottery, barren streaks of dirt yard, and here, there, maybe, a flash of green.
Yeah, eating will prove a difficulty.
And water, unless he could find a Poseidon-sworn to fix that fountain.
He was too busy grinning recklessly to care.
A little familiar-sounding voice in the back of his head kept making lists. This is an Arean city, you should leave offerings to him. And pray to Apollo in thanks. Find out where's where and where you can survive for now. Then go out and look for members.
It rattled on and on, but he was ignoring it. Mini-Road would just remind him of it all later. The sky was high and blue and sponged with barely-there, transparent grey clouds. The morning sun hovered brilliant white above some hill outside the city. He doubted there would be rain, but it sure was pretty.
Sparta purred.
...?
Oh, that was just too good to pass up. Did he dare push his luck further?
...He did.
And furthermore, he piped up, shouting as his galloping gait shoved air in and out of his lungs, Sparta was notoriously homosexual!
