12-18-2018, 11:01 PM
[align=center][div style="max-width: 420px; line-height:120%; font-family: arial; font-size: 8.5pt; text-align: justify; margin-bottom:5px"]This was not his place.
It mattered little the span of time between the rough treatment of his rather strange inclusion amongst their small numbers – paw pressed where claws and teeth had dug, found beneath the fine veins, spilled across the dark expanse of his side for he had fought as best he could – and the moment before him. Touch of tongue upon the cracked surface of lips, uneasy the hum arising from the press of teeth into the thick muscle, muffling it some. Few were the memories held, time within a place touched with sand, yet finer had it been, the grain not as course as this, and the expanse of grass as it wavered within the breeze. Neither bore a name, or so he may have thought for some flickered in and out, touched upon the idle strands of his thought before it dipped beneath the surface again.
Faint the breath suspended upon points of teeth, arising in uneasy an exhale. He had grown accustomed to this, the awakening before the sun had found its place above the crest of the horizon, the treatment dealt if he dared to speak against such rough acts, performing menial tasks for it was all he was good for – he was a tool within her hands, meant for nothing more then this. So why did his heart ache with each beat, seek the one they spoke of with venom, spat as if it held such poison within that may burn the tongue if held too long.
Rustle of claws moving over the herbs before him, counting over the meagre few. Hard was it to find anything fresh, the savage heat and lack of water was not enough for any life to flourish – yet they did, almost revelled in it, enjoyed greatly the heat drawn about the sands – and he was not permitted far. He would make do with this, working through the knowledge he held though it seemed to bare no origin, lift of duel tones eyes slight as others passed, some sneering towards the bengal for sorry was his state others simply ignoring him.
Who are you?
No one
Proud had once he been, child of the man deemed Pincher, or may it best he be called by the name given then the one taken over all else, but broken child was he, danging from uncaring hands, enjoyment taken from the prying of his mind, the pull of his flesh as it parted beneath the pressure. He was nothing, no more was he of worth, creature meant to serve only her, and so he would.
It mattered little the span of time between the rough treatment of his rather strange inclusion amongst their small numbers – paw pressed where claws and teeth had dug, found beneath the fine veins, spilled across the dark expanse of his side for he had fought as best he could – and the moment before him. Touch of tongue upon the cracked surface of lips, uneasy the hum arising from the press of teeth into the thick muscle, muffling it some. Few were the memories held, time within a place touched with sand, yet finer had it been, the grain not as course as this, and the expanse of grass as it wavered within the breeze. Neither bore a name, or so he may have thought for some flickered in and out, touched upon the idle strands of his thought before it dipped beneath the surface again.
Faint the breath suspended upon points of teeth, arising in uneasy an exhale. He had grown accustomed to this, the awakening before the sun had found its place above the crest of the horizon, the treatment dealt if he dared to speak against such rough acts, performing menial tasks for it was all he was good for – he was a tool within her hands, meant for nothing more then this. So why did his heart ache with each beat, seek the one they spoke of with venom, spat as if it held such poison within that may burn the tongue if held too long.
Rustle of claws moving over the herbs before him, counting over the meagre few. Hard was it to find anything fresh, the savage heat and lack of water was not enough for any life to flourish – yet they did, almost revelled in it, enjoyed greatly the heat drawn about the sands – and he was not permitted far. He would make do with this, working through the knowledge he held though it seemed to bare no origin, lift of duel tones eyes slight as others passed, some sneering towards the bengal for sorry was his state others simply ignoring him.
Who are you?
No one
Proud had once he been, child of the man deemed Pincher, or may it best he be called by the name given then the one taken over all else, but broken child was he, danging from uncaring hands, enjoyment taken from the prying of his mind, the pull of his flesh as it parted beneath the pressure. He was nothing, no more was he of worth, creature meant to serve only her, and so he would.