Reclusive, isolated, by sinister designs and infernal schemes, he had no intention of ever going into a massive throng, especially one represented by his own herd. The very nature of his arcane statue and viperous plumes of necromantic prowess, dictated, imposed, decreed, the shards of his dark, decayed heart and his deadly, puissant composition not stray into a flock of brethren. Yet, here was the severe test of loyalty, the grating examination of adherence, allegiance, and ultimately, control; he would have to restrain and damper the poisonous slides of his blood, the vicious, hostile webbing of his vile puissance, or the consequences could be dire. He had no longing to attend the charade of faces, names and characters he wouldn’t try to remember, connect to, political trappings he would either escape or somehow malign in the course of his sanctimonious plunging and blackguard machinations. Creatures would stare, twist and snarl as they always did in his nefarious presence, in the wake of his diabolical, fiendish sculpture, alarmed, threatened, disgusted by his sullied sword and slinking, serpentine incantations. Even in his hushed throng, the weight of his impervious silence, the chill of his demonic art, they would murmur, panic, fly into hysteria and apprehension, spring into barbs of terror, scream, and in his rancorous recherché, he would do nothing.
He marched over stumps, roots, fallen logs where clogging ash no longer cloistered, seeking an alternate route from the tireless fervor of his herd-mates. The consuming threads of his venom soaked and seethed, he allowed it to stroke the wounds of the forest before truly threading it together, into a mass that soaked his immoral coils with the frenetic, arduous piercing of its scathing defiance. It fed from the shrinking leaves, curling on the glade floor, swallowed from the broken limbs and fractured boughs, until the heinous, feral strings of viperous allure had its horrible fill – his limbs grew taut, predacious, grinding and scrupulous against the might of his dominion, constrained and restricted. Only when he believed the discord of his callous, simmering figure had contained the beguiling, ensnaring enchantment did he slink from the shadows, fierce eyes locked upon a corner no one in the idle crowd had taken. Slipping from the arms of reticence, and immediately wishing he could return, his iron sinew pulsed intimidating, primordial domination, rigid, possessive friction, and the stone fixture of indiscernible countenance. He looked at no one, talked to no one, cranium raised, proud, aloft, and became the isolated carving in the corridor, the eldritch portrait, the carnivore splendor locked hallowed, hollow chords.
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Change of Seasons [Mandatory Herd Meeting]
