07-31-2009, 01:42 PM
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The jaws of the pied brute parted in a terrible sneer. But he was silent and did not speak. Just as all the wretched things that cultivated here—cultivated like bacteria—this white thing could not understand. Their minds were weak, just as their bodies were, and this white thing was no different. At last, that hollow grating clawed upon the air. Those black, empty eyes watched and leered, and in the silence, the shadows grew loud. They laughed, sighing and screaming as if in pain as he bid them near. The black tendrils begged at his feet, but he was above them. He was above those shadows as he was above this wretched world, that pitiful thing before him. And so he burdened the thing’s mind only with the sharp thorns of the truth pressed down to tear the soft tissue, to spill meaningless blood upon the earth, to split the thing’s skull with but the tip of his unforgiving claws, his hungry jaws. The thing believed in destiny when there was no destiny to behold. Faith—it was but a myth. And he was beyond the myth. And the thing was not worthy. And so he would burden her with but the spilling of blood, so that the pitiful existence might continue, with the understanding of the futility of existence itself. And yet, beyond existence he was as well.
The thing fell easily against his mere touch black as the moonless, starless night. Pitiful. And his hungering claws were sated and yet not satisfied. The whelp beneath him screamed, and the shadows shuddered in their delight, those black tendrils digging into the wounds with merciless ease. And his claws parted her flesh, and his empty, emotionless façade watched. And the whelp beneath him begged to him, and those aurals that rose above his heads as do the horns of demons lifted forth to listen, and yet it was but an illusion. Choice, mercy. They did not belong to the thing beneath him who knew not how to control causality. Such things belonged to him, he who was above the gods of darkness and was merciful to give his presence to the living of this putrid place. This thing should have thanked him for his mercy. A black amusement flickered in the depths of those black orbs, the only movement upon his lithic features. "Let you go?" The dangerously suave tenor sounded in the night, quiet and yet rising with unnerving ease.
The brute leaned forward, pressing his knee into her lower back. His hand traced down the rivulets made by his claws. It was as if he could know what was within it, what was ripe for his taking. His claws scraped against spine, pausing at the base of it’s tail. But the thing was but a whelp and could give him nothing. Why should he give it life in return? "You can offer me nothing." It was a statement, and the suave tenor did not leave room for it to counter. He knew. There was nothing. But he was merciful for this female thing, and he could wait for its persuasion, its faulty reason. His beautiful and terrible visage grew close to it, his jaws hovering over its neck as his claws moved to the vulnerable place beneath its ribs. "And what can wretchedness offer the Dark?"
The jaws of the pied brute parted in a terrible sneer. But he was silent and did not speak. Just as all the wretched things that cultivated here—cultivated like bacteria—this white thing could not understand. Their minds were weak, just as their bodies were, and this white thing was no different. At last, that hollow grating clawed upon the air. Those black, empty eyes watched and leered, and in the silence, the shadows grew loud. They laughed, sighing and screaming as if in pain as he bid them near. The black tendrils begged at his feet, but he was above them. He was above those shadows as he was above this wretched world, that pitiful thing before him. And so he burdened the thing’s mind only with the sharp thorns of the truth pressed down to tear the soft tissue, to spill meaningless blood upon the earth, to split the thing’s skull with but the tip of his unforgiving claws, his hungry jaws. The thing believed in destiny when there was no destiny to behold. Faith—it was but a myth. And he was beyond the myth. And the thing was not worthy. And so he would burden her with but the spilling of blood, so that the pitiful existence might continue, with the understanding of the futility of existence itself. And yet, beyond existence he was as well.
The thing fell easily against his mere touch black as the moonless, starless night. Pitiful. And his hungering claws were sated and yet not satisfied. The whelp beneath him screamed, and the shadows shuddered in their delight, those black tendrils digging into the wounds with merciless ease. And his claws parted her flesh, and his empty, emotionless façade watched. And the whelp beneath him begged to him, and those aurals that rose above his heads as do the horns of demons lifted forth to listen, and yet it was but an illusion. Choice, mercy. They did not belong to the thing beneath him who knew not how to control causality. Such things belonged to him, he who was above the gods of darkness and was merciful to give his presence to the living of this putrid place. This thing should have thanked him for his mercy. A black amusement flickered in the depths of those black orbs, the only movement upon his lithic features. "Let you go?" The dangerously suave tenor sounded in the night, quiet and yet rising with unnerving ease.
The brute leaned forward, pressing his knee into her lower back. His hand traced down the rivulets made by his claws. It was as if he could know what was within it, what was ripe for his taking. His claws scraped against spine, pausing at the base of it’s tail. But the thing was but a whelp and could give him nothing. Why should he give it life in return? "You can offer me nothing." It was a statement, and the suave tenor did not leave room for it to counter. He knew. There was nothing. But he was merciful for this female thing, and he could wait for its persuasion, its faulty reason. His beautiful and terrible visage grew close to it, his jaws hovering over its neck as his claws moved to the vulnerable place beneath its ribs. "And what can wretchedness offer the Dark?"