07-24-2020, 09:17 AM
Others had begun to drift in, and his black little heart thrummed.
Some calling for food. Others calling for blood. Others calling for slavery.
Silent stands above them all, praising him, praising his savage deeds. Worm grins, a horrid wide smile, yellowing teeth on display, his tail high--not wagging, he was not a dog, and he would not be one, but he was pleased.
And the worm turns. Facing his pet now, the stagbeast in chains, his paw beneath its chin. His claws meeting flesh. But he was no cat, no, his claws were not knives. He was not here to harm further, he could be kind, see? He was gentle, like a lovers' touch, sweetly, tenderly holding that beast's chin. His dead eyes meeting the stag's own.
"Remember this. Let the precipice you stand on give your miserable life purpose." He purrs, saliva dangling from his hellish maw. "What are you?"
He demands an answer. The slavering mouths below them both demand an answer. Would he feed himself to the gathering, starving crowd, or will he walk, tethered? Would he choose to live as a slave, or would he slake the aching, parched earth, the children that cried for blood?
The beast's lips draw back and he is brave enough to ask why, why him. Worm's eyes widen, and he cackles, pulling his paw away, to steady himself upon that large rock. He licks his chops, tilting his head.
"Why you indeed." He starts, letting his words weave around Sal, like spidersilk. Staring the other in the face, his smile cold, ruthless. "You are not special, my dear. You were not simply chosen. This was just your own, rotten luck."
"I will ask you again, before I let my lovely friends here decide for you. And I can promise that you will still live, as we feast. What are you?"
Make your choice. You will not have many more.
Some calling for food. Others calling for blood. Others calling for slavery.
Silent stands above them all, praising him, praising his savage deeds. Worm grins, a horrid wide smile, yellowing teeth on display, his tail high--not wagging, he was not a dog, and he would not be one, but he was pleased.
And the worm turns. Facing his pet now, the stagbeast in chains, his paw beneath its chin. His claws meeting flesh. But he was no cat, no, his claws were not knives. He was not here to harm further, he could be kind, see? He was gentle, like a lovers' touch, sweetly, tenderly holding that beast's chin. His dead eyes meeting the stag's own.
"Remember this. Let the precipice you stand on give your miserable life purpose." He purrs, saliva dangling from his hellish maw. "What are you?"
He demands an answer. The slavering mouths below them both demand an answer. Would he feed himself to the gathering, starving crowd, or will he walk, tethered? Would he choose to live as a slave, or would he slake the aching, parched earth, the children that cried for blood?
The beast's lips draw back and he is brave enough to ask why, why him. Worm's eyes widen, and he cackles, pulling his paw away, to steady himself upon that large rock. He licks his chops, tilting his head.
"Why you indeed." He starts, letting his words weave around Sal, like spidersilk. Staring the other in the face, his smile cold, ruthless. "You are not special, my dear. You were not simply chosen. This was just your own, rotten luck."
"I will ask you again, before I let my lovely friends here decide for you. And I can promise that you will still live, as we feast. What are you?"
Make your choice. You will not have many more.
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"the maddened illusion that hides the sick squirming reality of what i am. of what we all are, when you strip away the pretence that there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home. that love us in their way."
- MAG 032
[/td][/tr][/table]- MAG 032