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We build cathedrals to our pain
Establish monuments to attain Weeks ago the striped stallion had receded into the depths of the forest, hiding away from the mongrels, the impure atrocities that littered the land and plagued it. They were foul creatures that deserved less than death; pain, torture, loss, desecration, then perhaps a slow death could follow... But as of late, they had massed together, whispering plans to destroy and end him, and that was when the brindled devil had taken refuge in the cover of the oppressive forest. ... Or, at least, that was what Crowley's mind had falsely concocted. Talbot knew it was only the curse of the Moon that drove his master to near insanity, and though it was quite tiresome to watch over the stallion like a mother would a child, the hound knew he had little choice. It was his duty, after all, as if not for Crowley's selfless choice to take the curse upon himself, it was Talbot who would be carrying the weight of it instead, hiding and trembling like a terrified child in the middle of a forest, whispering conspiracies that were far from real just as Crowley was doing now. "I'll just--... Cut their throats open," the brindle murmured as he stood between two trees and several thick ferns, one on either side of him as though they were his security and cover from the eyes of anything and everything else, "It would be easy. It would be so easy. So easy to make them bleed..." He tittered in ill-suppressed amusement. "I dare them to come..." Here, his voice grew in octave, almost maniacal as he shouted upwards to the canopy that kept the forest enshrouded in darkness. "I fucking dare them!!" "Talk talk talk" [For Crowley's curse, 'distorted reality: others will take his words/actions in the worst possible sense, he will see everyone as out to get him] Freedom from all of the scars and the sins
Lest we drown in the darkness within |
The Weaver's Workshop
HP: 45
