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05-21-2013, 12:45 PM
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The words of the kudu-boy stir up life in the grasses above. In the pitch black, Crowley can cast no shadow; no, it appears his shadow has taken on a life of its own. Forming itself loosely and sloppily, like an uninstructed child left with clay, the shadows on the grassy sky merge together to create a figure of the stallion himself. Talbot's own image is reflected in wisps of darkness. Like creatures from parallel worlds, they mirror each other. The echo of Crowley's hello bounces back, sounding strange and garbled as is spoken in another language, yet filled with a lighthearted joy. Each movement Crowley takes is matched in turn by his enchanted shadow. There is, for a time, an uninterrupted peace that marks the strange encounter. But it seems not all is well in the world above. There is a wretched and accursed shriek, a dripping of black tar from the mouth of the shadow-beast above. Its dark skin stretches and bubbles, its image is torn apart in mere moments. A hissing akin to hot water on ice resonates in the evening meadow, until the meadow above begins to sink and disintegrate into blackness. The cursed tar that fell from the face of the shadow lands, spitting hot, before Crowley and his hellhound. It would be unwise to touch the stuff. It would be incredibly, dangerously stupid to immerse even a small portion of one's body in the burning, black liquid that tore peace apart and now creates holes in the earthbound night sky. But this does not mean that the spit of the night will be forgotten. Faint remnants of the shadows gather around the liquid, guarding it as its pool fills and grows, blocking out the stars and encroaching on Crowley. Faint reflections of anyone the stallion may have ever lost or loved call him closer and attempt to ease his nerves. In a trick of the evening, voices can be heard crying in a unison chorus to the black boy with the kudu horns: "Don't be afraid." |
