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+---- Thread: UNTRUST - nights of solitude (/showthread.php?tid=12189)
UNTRUST - nights of solitude - j a c k . - 07-07-2020
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SELFISH / BLOODY / CRUEL / COOL —
[W]iskerSELFISH / BLOODY / CRUEL / COOL —
[div style="background-color:#BG COLOR;width:90%; overflow: stretch;text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt;"] The nights of solitude: it was a new and forging attempt, a tradition set but only enforced by a pair of the tens of hundreds of the pittians that called the jungle home. That called the desert around it a fortress and their temple a kingdom. Stained with blood and made of bone. Their king defanged, and claws sheathed: not pleading for mercy but bloodless. His people calling for it, yearning for it with their eyes and silently within their heads. Jack saw on the faces of others, hidden in the eyes as fights broke out, throughout the life in the desert many still claimed to be still ruled of land and power. A survival not of the fittest but the lowest. The one willing to sink fangs into their supposed allies, and call them bitch, call them bloodless.
This was the tension in his home, it made each night harder for the male to finally succumb to his exhaustion. The ice in his veins always the same frigid lattice work, on the cusp of bursting out, calling for the same violence, for the tension to break in war and blood and death . It showed in the quiet moments when he thought himself peerless, and without an audience: when no one was truly looking. Brushing his shoulder along a branch or settling into the shade and just leaning into it, for a moment of reprieve, the tom’s rictus fell apart like ice in the sands and just melted. Only appearing after another moment. Always quick to return, the same fragile mask that spoke of wisdom but broke too quick to be anything other than naivety, cowardice to lay bare: him.
So when the tom disappeared, no one really paid much note. There might’ve been a few comments about him being gone, the male simply not made for it. Not cut for the ruthlessness of the bloodless-blood lusting clan. It wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that someone left as quickly as they arrived- as silently. After the third day, it was almost declared that he had turned tail. The few moments he was there meant little, there were not missing someone so little knew. A clan-mate he were not, a proven he were scant- nothing without that cord, that noose elegantly placed between his shoulders and around his neck. Tied- bound to the place that welcomed him; that he so quickly ran from.
What did it matter where he went; as bloodless as he was?
…
When dusk rose on the second day; jack unfurled from his position. His form small- frail, and as the dust gathered in the winds to the west ament felt a full body convulse in a shiver. He watched, as the desert came alive, prey skittered to and fro, small game sustainable enough for the tom. He lived, he survived as he had before. And the ache of lonesome only made his bones numb with the cold, the desert provided little reprieve; day or dusk the cold he carried with him now was a torrential fury of winter in the heart of summer. It raged and rakes it’s claws along his ribs, it escaped each puff of air as the cold embraced him, blissfully numb with the cold. He survived the second night, without food, without water, on the cusp of winter in the midst of summer.
Jack shivered again, and bent his neck down, burrowed deeper, he better try hunting the next day or night; else he become the next shag of bones for carrion.
The thing was, jack knew the desert, has read up on it, don’t drink from a cactus, hunt better at night. he knew how to hunt, how to fend for himself, but the desert was a harsh and barren landscape,. Scoprions that stung their prey to death consumed their own toxins just to survive. Cacti that sucked up water from deep underground and held it- selfishly for almost years until the next rainfall. Throughout the days alone, jack had little to do but watch all of his studious nature go to waste; watch all he read and ever the watcher; watch still, starving, tentative to break into action less it cost him his life. It was brutal way to life, an unforgiving landscape, and yet he found the idea of peace truly foolish, looking into the sands as the air wavered before him with just the heat alone. Animals were brutal creatures, and the pitt was the closest to the truth; the law of beasts calls for blood, blood for blood, and the land craves it. Something he thought he heard another of his pittians say once; the land craves blood, death, and if it is not sought by it’s occupants, it week rake it from it’s very inhabitants.
But the truth was much simpler, animals craved the violence, to hunt and main, to feel the warm blood between their fangs as the crunched down on fresh squirming prey. Blood ruled out the weak, the sands were a test, and jack was failing it, starving and alone; knowledge meant nothing in comparison, power meant nothing, to the churning in his gut.
It was time to grow stronger; it was time to stop being weak
it was on the third day that jack broke his composure. For his composure to finally break under the onslaught of his home, his own self-imposed test, he wanted to return home but his stubborn pride saw fit better to die out here- alone and without worth than bother what he could try and claim his own; a place his own- and now he were alone around it, circling nothing but the pit he dug and slept into during the day. It broke him, his rictus falling only short enough for him to slash at the small den and running along… away, further further away until the sound of the buzz became an all too familiar rattle.
He was crazed, starved, and all he felt was coldcoldcold-numb
Numb, blissfully, silent and numb. Jack felt it all… hollow out, the rattle of the snake nearby breaking the silence- his silence and ruckus din making him s e e t h e . He kicked up sand, dusted under the closest bush, and – there it strike at nothing, hissing louder, blinded, rattle –cht-cht-cht-chting away.
Jack striked out, stomping on the thorny bush ans paws pushing the snake down. Jaws camp tight around the head he crunched down- blissfully, shaking it and the rattle cht- cht- cht- away in rapid bursts- until jack was dizzy with it, with the rattle and his dance of hunger and savagery.
He felt his own sense come back in moments, the ache of his jaw as his molars ground down on fragile bone. Tense stringy muscle locked in rigor mortis as he chewed down. The acrid taste of it’s venom as he ate through the bone and licked along the fangs- careful. He felt drunk, full, and so very foggy, distant. His first prey to befall him on his third day. He still felt the ache of hunger between his ribs, but instead of looking for more food, he looked onwards, towards a cluster of cactus…
He knew better not to drink from the greedy plant. It’s water now laced with some sort of toxin that was… not wise. But it didn’t stop the kodkod from approaching, a steady gleam of calm malovence in his eye enough to stop anyone dead in their tracks.
But jack was alone.
So blissfully a l o n e .
He was vaguely aware of it, the passage of time. It made been two days, and his small- but ever growing pond was becoming larger. The ache in his skin as spines of cacti stung with each movement. But he could taste it now, the ice. The refreshing ice that would soon alight his side- away away from the heat. He slaved over it. Further and further out he went, gathering, harvesting cactus, slicing until it with his fangs, claws, with the water reservoir he made thus far with his finds, slicing it all open and spilling such toxic poison into his pond of death. He listed off facts as he worked throughout the fourth and fifth day. Letting his hunger grow as he slaved over it. Stopping only when nightfall approached, in which the slimy kodkod slunk back into the murky waters of his pond, freezing a small ledge in the center.
The fifth night was akin to his second, and first night out in the wastes, but now the kodkod was brittle, shaking and teetering within his sludge. The pond sending small ripples as he watched small game scuttle by a snake slithered by and jack watched transfixed as it sank down into the “water” and drank before just as silently slipping away.
The sixth day he took to himself, pulling out all the spines and thorns that covered him. Until his form fell from numbness back to the frigid numbness that has been with him for days now. He knew, he was nearing his end; his self-imposed trial, and the fruit of his labors laid bare before him as he slipped out of that small pond. Just outside, there were droves of carrion, picking at the scraps of whatever befowl thing befell jack’s creation. The kodkod sweeping his tail under a dry underbrush a mile or so out, tails brushing against cold scales and warm, warm eggs. He grinned: pleased.
It was the on the way back, did he spot something particular.
Tracks, of a bigger animal: he couldn’t discern what, though.
He came across the bloodless little thing when he was full, stretched across a caste of ice in the middle of the pond. His pond, it was frail and brittle, and looked towards the small fragile thing the kodkod looked akin to: perched upon ice. Small and mighty; a king of winter in the midst of summer, a vision of tranquility amidst the harsh deserts around.
“may I have a drink?”
Jack chuckled aloud, giving a nod.
The two sat there quite a while, bloodless little thing discussion his news from the loner lands, a small clan wishing to align with the pitt: unused to the desert. Glad they found jack and his pond. Jack were plight, a mimicry to who he was before, and as the other walked away, jack let the smile drop, and turned towards the sky. Would it be wise to wait for the carrion to pick it clean, before he made it back?
No, the bloodless thing would give no honor if shown, he wanted merit, wanted some form of reminder for this pond; and so the tom took to patrol his self-made pond of melting ruin and toxin, and found the bones awash and picked clean day on ago and buffed by sand.
A small snake skull would suit him nicely.
Along the far reaches of the jungle; jack was a sight for sore eyes. Along his hip was a small hollowed out cactus, and in it was the same slimy paste that had gathered in his pond, that jack had used to kill his prey food> strung together by snake skin and corns of muscle in a crude knapsack. It sloshed to and fro with each jostle of movement, but the kodkod hummed along, within his freshly-blood stained jaws a sant polished snake skull, the top part fully intact.
He stumbled unto shade, only taking care to keep the rest of his concoction from spilling into the grass as he fumbled for the shade. He dropped the skull as soon as he stilled and muttered with feeling, like a sign. “fuck the desert.”
Jack was a sight to behold, along the shade, streaks of red mared his pelt, thorns seemed to become one with his fur in certain parts where he couldn’t reach. Along his own jaws specifically, anchored deep into his ears and one just above his snout. Blood fresh and dry, and most of all, a thick coating of dust muddied his pelt, a plant like police stuck and dried, matted into his fur, reeking of cactus and desert sands.
//
i rewrote this too many times aksfbhkfb. ended with the wordcount somewhere around 2k
This was the tension in his home, it made each night harder for the male to finally succumb to his exhaustion. The ice in his veins always the same frigid lattice work, on the cusp of bursting out, calling for the same violence, for the tension to break in war and blood and death . It showed in the quiet moments when he thought himself peerless, and without an audience: when no one was truly looking. Brushing his shoulder along a branch or settling into the shade and just leaning into it, for a moment of reprieve, the tom’s rictus fell apart like ice in the sands and just melted. Only appearing after another moment. Always quick to return, the same fragile mask that spoke of wisdom but broke too quick to be anything other than naivety, cowardice to lay bare: him.
So when the tom disappeared, no one really paid much note. There might’ve been a few comments about him being gone, the male simply not made for it. Not cut for the ruthlessness of the bloodless-blood lusting clan. It wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that someone left as quickly as they arrived- as silently. After the third day, it was almost declared that he had turned tail. The few moments he was there meant little, there were not missing someone so little knew. A clan-mate he were not, a proven he were scant- nothing without that cord, that noose elegantly placed between his shoulders and around his neck. Tied- bound to the place that welcomed him; that he so quickly ran from.
What did it matter where he went; as bloodless as he was?
…
When dusk rose on the second day; jack unfurled from his position. His form small- frail, and as the dust gathered in the winds to the west ament felt a full body convulse in a shiver. He watched, as the desert came alive, prey skittered to and fro, small game sustainable enough for the tom. He lived, he survived as he had before. And the ache of lonesome only made his bones numb with the cold, the desert provided little reprieve; day or dusk the cold he carried with him now was a torrential fury of winter in the heart of summer. It raged and rakes it’s claws along his ribs, it escaped each puff of air as the cold embraced him, blissfully numb with the cold. He survived the second night, without food, without water, on the cusp of winter in the midst of summer.
Jack shivered again, and bent his neck down, burrowed deeper, he better try hunting the next day or night; else he become the next shag of bones for carrion.
The thing was, jack knew the desert, has read up on it, don’t drink from a cactus, hunt better at night. he knew how to hunt, how to fend for himself, but the desert was a harsh and barren landscape,. Scoprions that stung their prey to death consumed their own toxins just to survive. Cacti that sucked up water from deep underground and held it- selfishly for almost years until the next rainfall. Throughout the days alone, jack had little to do but watch all of his studious nature go to waste; watch all he read and ever the watcher; watch still, starving, tentative to break into action less it cost him his life. It was brutal way to life, an unforgiving landscape, and yet he found the idea of peace truly foolish, looking into the sands as the air wavered before him with just the heat alone. Animals were brutal creatures, and the pitt was the closest to the truth; the law of beasts calls for blood, blood for blood, and the land craves it. Something he thought he heard another of his pittians say once; the land craves blood, death, and if it is not sought by it’s occupants, it week rake it from it’s very inhabitants.
But the truth was much simpler, animals craved the violence, to hunt and main, to feel the warm blood between their fangs as the crunched down on fresh squirming prey. Blood ruled out the weak, the sands were a test, and jack was failing it, starving and alone; knowledge meant nothing in comparison, power meant nothing, to the churning in his gut.
It was time to grow stronger; it was time to stop being weak
it was on the third day that jack broke his composure. For his composure to finally break under the onslaught of his home, his own self-imposed test, he wanted to return home but his stubborn pride saw fit better to die out here- alone and without worth than bother what he could try and claim his own; a place his own- and now he were alone around it, circling nothing but the pit he dug and slept into during the day. It broke him, his rictus falling only short enough for him to slash at the small den and running along… away, further further away until the sound of the buzz became an all too familiar rattle.
He was crazed, starved, and all he felt was coldcoldcold-numb
Numb, blissfully, silent and numb. Jack felt it all… hollow out, the rattle of the snake nearby breaking the silence- his silence and ruckus din making him s e e t h e . He kicked up sand, dusted under the closest bush, and – there it strike at nothing, hissing louder, blinded, rattle –cht-cht-cht-chting away.
Jack striked out, stomping on the thorny bush ans paws pushing the snake down. Jaws camp tight around the head he crunched down- blissfully, shaking it and the rattle cht- cht- cht- away in rapid bursts- until jack was dizzy with it, with the rattle and his dance of hunger and savagery.
He felt his own sense come back in moments, the ache of his jaw as his molars ground down on fragile bone. Tense stringy muscle locked in rigor mortis as he chewed down. The acrid taste of it’s venom as he ate through the bone and licked along the fangs- careful. He felt drunk, full, and so very foggy, distant. His first prey to befall him on his third day. He still felt the ache of hunger between his ribs, but instead of looking for more food, he looked onwards, towards a cluster of cactus…
He knew better not to drink from the greedy plant. It’s water now laced with some sort of toxin that was… not wise. But it didn’t stop the kodkod from approaching, a steady gleam of calm malovence in his eye enough to stop anyone dead in their tracks.
But jack was alone.
So blissfully a l o n e .
He was vaguely aware of it, the passage of time. It made been two days, and his small- but ever growing pond was becoming larger. The ache in his skin as spines of cacti stung with each movement. But he could taste it now, the ice. The refreshing ice that would soon alight his side- away away from the heat. He slaved over it. Further and further out he went, gathering, harvesting cactus, slicing until it with his fangs, claws, with the water reservoir he made thus far with his finds, slicing it all open and spilling such toxic poison into his pond of death. He listed off facts as he worked throughout the fourth and fifth day. Letting his hunger grow as he slaved over it. Stopping only when nightfall approached, in which the slimy kodkod slunk back into the murky waters of his pond, freezing a small ledge in the center.
The fifth night was akin to his second, and first night out in the wastes, but now the kodkod was brittle, shaking and teetering within his sludge. The pond sending small ripples as he watched small game scuttle by a snake slithered by and jack watched transfixed as it sank down into the “water” and drank before just as silently slipping away.
The sixth day he took to himself, pulling out all the spines and thorns that covered him. Until his form fell from numbness back to the frigid numbness that has been with him for days now. He knew, he was nearing his end; his self-imposed trial, and the fruit of his labors laid bare before him as he slipped out of that small pond. Just outside, there were droves of carrion, picking at the scraps of whatever befowl thing befell jack’s creation. The kodkod sweeping his tail under a dry underbrush a mile or so out, tails brushing against cold scales and warm, warm eggs. He grinned: pleased.
It was the on the way back, did he spot something particular.
Tracks, of a bigger animal: he couldn’t discern what, though.
He came across the bloodless little thing when he was full, stretched across a caste of ice in the middle of the pond. His pond, it was frail and brittle, and looked towards the small fragile thing the kodkod looked akin to: perched upon ice. Small and mighty; a king of winter in the midst of summer, a vision of tranquility amidst the harsh deserts around.
“may I have a drink?”
Jack chuckled aloud, giving a nod.
The two sat there quite a while, bloodless little thing discussion his news from the loner lands, a small clan wishing to align with the pitt: unused to the desert. Glad they found jack and his pond. Jack were plight, a mimicry to who he was before, and as the other walked away, jack let the smile drop, and turned towards the sky. Would it be wise to wait for the carrion to pick it clean, before he made it back?
No, the bloodless thing would give no honor if shown, he wanted merit, wanted some form of reminder for this pond; and so the tom took to patrol his self-made pond of melting ruin and toxin, and found the bones awash and picked clean day on ago and buffed by sand.
A small snake skull would suit him nicely.
Along the far reaches of the jungle; jack was a sight for sore eyes. Along his hip was a small hollowed out cactus, and in it was the same slimy paste that had gathered in his pond, that jack had used to kill his prey food> strung together by snake skin and corns of muscle in a crude knapsack. It sloshed to and fro with each jostle of movement, but the kodkod hummed along, within his freshly-blood stained jaws a sant polished snake skull, the top part fully intact.
He stumbled unto shade, only taking care to keep the rest of his concoction from spilling into the grass as he fumbled for the shade. He dropped the skull as soon as he stilled and muttered with feeling, like a sign. “fuck the desert.”
Jack was a sight to behold, along the shade, streaks of red mared his pelt, thorns seemed to become one with his fur in certain parts where he couldn’t reach. Along his own jaws specifically, anchored deep into his ears and one just above his snout. Blood fresh and dry, and most of all, a thick coating of dust muddied his pelt, a plant like police stuck and dried, matted into his fur, reeking of cactus and desert sands.
//
i rewrote this too many times aksfbhkfb. ended with the wordcount somewhere around 2k