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02-04-2015, 11:29 AM
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Oh, you're just a target in the sky
With all this fever in my mind
I could aim for your kerosene eyes
The spell of a new sister wears off; the curse of his deceased mother wanes. A moon hangs absent above a blackened sky, and shadows lay heavy over the sand dunes, the heatwaves of this place. It is scent that guides him across those borders; it is hatred that propels his feet.
He stops amongst the sand and the deadened grasses. He dips his head; his body grows still. Skin trembles.
He feels the bubble and boiling of it in his stomach; a roiling mass of something he has carried ever since his beloved mother threw him from her in a mess of fluid and placenta. It burned him even then, as he breathed new life--seared its mark into his skin and blood. It bubbled and curdled into jagged edges, poisoning him with its tip, even as he took a branch and lit it with the fire of the heavens, killing a babe in the inferno he invoked. It had pitched against his soul even as he had pitched an intruder into a wild, frothing river, aided by the brawn of his brother. It had seathed within at the taunts of a black spider whore; it had simmered as she bowed to him, bubbling and boiling as she continued to challenge, lipping the edge of the cauldron in his breast even as he fucked her in a mess of rushing hormones and rage. It had blackened into coal, a lodestone as he gazed upon the corpse of his mother, the Shadowmere; it had been caressed into something smooth just as one licks the hot glass, as he had gazed into the amber eyes of an angel with a ruined hoof and his mother’s face.
It unravels within him; an old friend and enemy, the blossom of something that unfurls its petals, with every petal laced with burning, blazing pain.
It crescendos, loudly in the silence of a moonless night.
He gasps--but, no, it is not a gasp. He hisses.
It is released, finally, after years of a threat of explosion. It courses through his neck, twisting it from its sockets, pulling a grunt and a cry of agony and ecstacy from the rough, stony lips. It wracks his spine; it crushes legs, hooves, feathers of a man, shedding his hide, sprouting obsidian scales as his lips peel back and expose poison-tipped daggers emergant from his skull. The shadows are thick, this night; there are none to see him writhe in his misery, in his exuberance; there are none to see the monster birthed in a mess of hatred and something sinister. He is unleashed.
He goes to hunt.
"This is how I talk"
He stops amongst the sand and the deadened grasses. He dips his head; his body grows still. Skin trembles.
He feels the bubble and boiling of it in his stomach; a roiling mass of something he has carried ever since his beloved mother threw him from her in a mess of fluid and placenta. It burned him even then, as he breathed new life--seared its mark into his skin and blood. It bubbled and curdled into jagged edges, poisoning him with its tip, even as he took a branch and lit it with the fire of the heavens, killing a babe in the inferno he invoked. It had pitched against his soul even as he had pitched an intruder into a wild, frothing river, aided by the brawn of his brother. It had seathed within at the taunts of a black spider whore; it had simmered as she bowed to him, bubbling and boiling as she continued to challenge, lipping the edge of the cauldron in his breast even as he fucked her in a mess of rushing hormones and rage. It had blackened into coal, a lodestone as he gazed upon the corpse of his mother, the Shadowmere; it had been caressed into something smooth just as one licks the hot glass, as he had gazed into the amber eyes of an angel with a ruined hoof and his mother’s face.
It unravels within him; an old friend and enemy, the blossom of something that unfurls its petals, with every petal laced with burning, blazing pain.
It crescendos, loudly in the silence of a moonless night.
He gasps--but, no, it is not a gasp. He hisses.
It is released, finally, after years of a threat of explosion. It courses through his neck, twisting it from its sockets, pulling a grunt and a cry of agony and ecstacy from the rough, stony lips. It wracks his spine; it crushes legs, hooves, feathers of a man, shedding his hide, sprouting obsidian scales as his lips peel back and expose poison-tipped daggers emergant from his skull. The shadows are thick, this night; there are none to see him writhe in his misery, in his exuberance; there are none to see the monster birthed in a mess of hatred and something sinister. He is unleashed.
He goes to hunt.
"This is how I talk"
Oh, you're just a target in the sky
--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!
--All force is allowed to be used against this character!
