|
Mordant, trenchent, vitrolic and acrimonious; that was Confutatis, and they were she. Nefarious, cruel, judgmental, vindictive, wicked, disparaging and poignant, splenetic and wrathful, the she-devil's thoughts running a thousand times more berserk and malevolent than what must surely be nearing the whole world's population. Murderous and blind- in both a literal and metaphorical sense- she ran light-footed along the perilous edge of madness, her sinister desires and poisonous conspiracies the only things holding her back from the edge. Minded with a head of frozen steel, unbending to even the dragon's flame, the hellion kept a certain degree of both twisted logic, even during the middle of the storm roaring around her, constant in her diabolical life.
This was the mare who had skinned her own child with her mouth of acid, her tongue sloughing the very pelt of her newborn from sinew and weak muscle, and watched him scream; merciless, heartless, relentless, all with a deadened look in her eye.
Unflinching, unmoving, stoic as the tree flowering up while the earth crumbled and faded around its roots. The bitch had no desire to leave with this little mare, who declared herself a true warrior. She was no follower; she was ambitiously satanic, barbarous and feral in her methods, and her lust was not the beastly stallion but power, aptitude for a trait in its greatest state. To follow the child was to follow another, another both younger and lesser, and henceforth of uselessness to her. In any case, Confutatis, the maddest and most wicked of all, hungered for strength of her own, not reliant on a leader of some band or other. With that, her mind made in finality, the words that were volleyed at her tried to cling hopelessly, before slithering and falling off, much the way soldiers lobbed themselves at a castle wall before realizing only a traitor on the inside would bring them to their goal. But for these men, there was no traitor.
Indifferent, careless, aloof; the she-wolf flicked her tail and twitched her ears, bringing the flow of blood rushing back to her audits. The galvanizing, continuous fall of snow obscured all and any warning to danger, but when one eye is broken and blinded, unseeing of danger, Contutatis' other skills had developed to make up for the death of it. Predatory scents were hardly unknown, and immediately the savage stiffened, not caring for the tedium of this one-sided conversation, searching to pinpoint the source.
The foolish beast exposed his hiding spot, and with the rumbling, hoarse growl of horse-speech, the damned laughed coldly, colder than the ice that frozen over the ponds. She had a respect for the solitude of predators, their lonely ways and quick teeth and faster paws, their silence and glorified beauty; but allying oneself to such a group, to be tied down to a band like a collared unicorn, was both unnatural and pathetic, unheard of to her scarred ears. Fickle is the beast, so the monster is, and at last the dark, unerring, uncaring mare speaks, bland and indifferent to suffering and pain. "No I said, and cajoling and flattery will not change that fact; leave me be, child and beast." And with that, an insolent swagger to her long step, she disappeared into the dark night, the monster that roams.
CONFUTATIS
and when you meet me, you at long last acquaintance yourself with death in all its magnificent glory.
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
[o] in the dark of night monsters roam
