eat a sandwich. (appetentia) wrote in mythopoeics, @ 2012-05-30 03:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | !event #020, !mini-log, death, famine |
s i x t e e n.
Dead was not a word Horsemen were supposed to use among each other. Dead was a term meant to use for the humans who would eventually kill themselves into extinction at the end of days. But now War was dead, or at least gone until or if they returned, and Famine decided he didn't care about the meaning of dead. He'd experienced it himself for a day, and never again would he go through that. Never again would he want to suffer those nightmares and the pain the way he had.
His remaining sibling was all he could lean on, and Death had vocalized her need to get War's body back, just as he'd hoped she would. In the meantime, however, they would wreak some havoc. Turn the place upside down, let it go up in flames -- anything for a release. Both of them were angry, that much he knew. Horsemen weren't meant to die. It was against their nature to.
Outside of the arena, Famine brushed his fingers along the inside of his sister's wrist to get her attention.
If War's body was still underground somewhere, they would get it. She would be with the ones she should have always been with. Many times, Death had scoffed over how people around her got attached and didn't accept the way things should be.
But a feeling that she refused to acknowledge as desperate sat in her belly and selfishness on top of that. It was a body, made of flesh and blood. It didn't have War residing in it anymore but Death wanted something. It made her feel a form of disgust toward herself, had rationalized it and set aside those logical thoughts while still in favour of getting War.
The feeling of those fingers jarred her from those thoughts and she pressed her cheek to his arm briefly. "There must be oil at least down there to light their way underground. We can use that," she murmured. "If necessary, we can make the whole damn thing a funeral pyre for her."
Famine was possessive with few people, and War made up at least one of them. He wasn't going to leave this place without her. His black, black heart cared little for the people inside the ludus. Whether they did or lived, it didn't matter. War -- his brother, too -- was dead. He didn't need to see reason or spare others' lives.
Horsemen stuck together, even in death.
"We'll burn it to the ground," he promised in a whisper, stepping away from her to lead the way.
Promise accepted and expected to be fulfilled, Death followed as she always did (always would). Getting in wouldn't be impossible. There were bribes that could be offered and there was also death that could be delivered. One way or another, they would enter and then carry out their plan. The fire itself could be a distraction as they worked to where War had to be.
Poor War. When she could come back, she would be less than pleased about destruction having occurred without her. Or maybe she would be pleased it had happened because of her?