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The prince was torn between allowing them to escape and practicing damnation, yielding to his armaments, his incantations, and his brutality. They played their fox wiles, their silly quips, their pony boy crafts and nothing Mr. Unicorn Sir regards, but he knew better – he’d been born from the feral, from the righteous, and delivered into blasts of bestial calamity by none other than the beast resting at his feet. Give them what they deserve, his mind whispered, his skull brandished, his body craved; and he coveted those twisting shades of nocturne duplicity like a demon, breathing in the air with feral splendor, with noxious, nefarious scintillation. He was wrath, he was ire, he was vengeance, carved, sculpted, and morphed from the deceit, the depravity, the molten, barbarity of the world around him. His eyes touched on the poor griffin still locked in the corner, resting on her peak, fighting off an onslaught of treacherous chords, rampant, pulsating, vicious behemoths who never thought beyond their own selfish interest. In those little fox tails, in those greedy, hungry gazes and stares, he could see the painted behemoth pressing his hoof into a golden girl’s crown, he could see the hollowed contortions of monsters relishing torment and anguish upon a mender, and all the other licentious, cretin wiles foiled and fostered upon innocent lives again and again and again. The boy wanted to do nothing but destroy them, give them a taste of maliciousness, of the gallows slipping around their souls, of the descent into oblivion. If he could do something, anything, for the poor creature suffering at the hands of another, then perhaps, for the day, for the moment, he wouldn’t be so damned and useless.
His stare was chilling, cold, damning, a serrated storm blessed, anointed, with tempestuous edges, like a titan rising from the sea, twisting his trident, ready for the onslaught upon his menacing awakening. He gave them one chance, one opportunity, before the promise of danger, of diabolical design, of pernicious, perilous motions. “Leave,” the command ensued from his lips, growled out from Orsino’s maw – and he didn’t think about how much it sounded like his sire, feral, demanding, swift and condemning.
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