Come, come, commala.

[RANDOM EVENT] Come, come, commala.

Roskuld the Sparklight Posts: 424

World's Edge General atk: 7.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6

Mare :: Tribrid :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 82 | Buff: ENDURE

Zchiraxicon :: Royal Rougarou :: Electric Smithers

02-25-2015, 05:19 PM (This post was last modified: 02-25-2015, 05:27 PM by Roskuld.)

*”Just to ... chat."*

Dance, dance, dance. But the dance was getting erratic; I tossed my head and I began to snort and my pacing became something high-stepped and pissed because there were ghosts here, in the wood and outside too, even more ghosts than the phantoms that already haunted this wood. I could feel them lingering on my neck (my neck and my back), bursts of velvet across my spine and between my wings that was sweet and awful and terrible. Secrets. Secrets all around me and we were standing belly to belly (I was dancing, and he-she-it laughed a nightmare in my breast) and the grass was getting high-o.

*"Tell me baby god-"*

--and just like that, I was a baby again.

“--why do you ruin everything you touch?"

I was a baby and I was zap!ing in and out of the spark-plane, and I whinnied loudly, grunting with the voice of a man baby, my body short and stubby and fat like I used to be, my wings nothing more than little sparkplugs attacked to my withers---but I couldn’t stop dancing, except now I was bouncing high, striking the air in clear agitation (excitement and fear; “come come commala” stuck in my head) and I guess it wasn’t much of a dance anymore, because instead it looked like I was being tortured.

I knew the question Roland was asking me (I knew the knives he-she-it was using).

“Because he fucked my Ma,” I said, knowing the words without thinking them (They slip 'a slide-o, under 'a sky-o), “and the wrong seed mixed with the wrong egg, and I was born instead of something great.” My baby’s voice was calm (and ancient) even though my body was all over the place, unsure and proud and hesitant and confident. Sense was gone—or shoved in the back of my head, where all things go when I don’t understand them, when I’ve sabotaged it. 

“What? You gonna make it right?” I spat (asked, purred, SHOUTED), a dare that made no sense, so it was perfect for now. (Gonna make me co--). Gross. The shock was brimming within me, impatient with his taunts, a truth I hated to hear— and I lunged for the wheat that stuck out of its mouth and pull the knife out of its grasp, reckless and heedless and headless with dying rice fields. (Gonna make it rai--) 

"Gonna make me a God?" Hard G, motherfucker.