10-23-2016, 09:53 PM
Breaths are helds;
The mists are ripped apart by great clawing hands that cleave them in two and pull up from the terrible mess of the earth’s hot fiery innards, a mess of land and ruin that the dark god gifts them with.
Sinew takes her first step across the desolation of the badland, and she smiles.
(Behind her, are two small shadows - one dark green fading to purple, the other bay with glowing points like a collection of stars that drown out the darkness of the night - that trudge diligently along.)
She comes, because he is here - goat-god, even though he has been dehorned and normal-footed. To her, he is still godlike in his mission and his look, glares and glowers that make the heart palpitate in beats faster and frightened, except Sinew has never feared him. No, she respects the fearmonger and she trails after him, hungry for the feast of those that fall at his feet, ashamed and afraid.
The dark god is ignored, she has no quarrel with him though he brought about the downfall of her first beloved. Now, she lusts after the lewd trailing wing that catches all manner of dirt and bramble, and longs for the touch of those flesh-fed lips that just might pick at her own flesh like a vulture in search of a free feast. Pollock, fearsome and fetching, has earned himself this wild ambition that trails dutifully after him, like the twin foals trail after her.
Build, bids the godking.
Build, she does in the festering sore that is her own womb.
(Burnt, in her rush to come forth, had burned that foal-home clean with her fiery wings. Time has healed it, but the scars remain, thick and fierce and Sinew agonizes over the life she carries - it hurts, but pain is its own reward and though she has yet to thicken through the girth, she knows they grow from the tiny but mighty seeds of her and Pollock’s fleshy pact.)
Iron on iron, she bends still to his will.
Sinew gravitates towards him, despite her inexplicable determination to be no one’s kept thing - no one’s pet.
(she has one of those, the mammoth-horse that hides now, all horse and no mammoth because the mountain is an angry mother of a thing to them and has stolen her pet’s best and hideous attributes)
Still, she trails him because he is a bastion of power and fright in her eyes. She respects those that command fear, that feed off of it, and she basks in their aftermath of destruction and terror. It feeds her, quiets the dark that clamors in her flesh and makes the blood churn that much faster. She hungers, and hunger calls to hunger much like blood does. He hungers too, she can feel it in the way he hunts her across the back of the savage wastes and she turns to him, red and white, a slyness hanging about the curve of her mouth as she breathes his name aloud - “Pollock.”
The mists are ripped apart by great clawing hands that cleave them in two and pull up from the terrible mess of the earth’s hot fiery innards, a mess of land and ruin that the dark god gifts them with.
Sinew takes her first step across the desolation of the badland, and she smiles.
(Behind her, are two small shadows - one dark green fading to purple, the other bay with glowing points like a collection of stars that drown out the darkness of the night - that trudge diligently along.)
She comes, because he is here - goat-god, even though he has been dehorned and normal-footed. To her, he is still godlike in his mission and his look, glares and glowers that make the heart palpitate in beats faster and frightened, except Sinew has never feared him. No, she respects the fearmonger and she trails after him, hungry for the feast of those that fall at his feet, ashamed and afraid.
The dark god is ignored, she has no quarrel with him though he brought about the downfall of her first beloved. Now, she lusts after the lewd trailing wing that catches all manner of dirt and bramble, and longs for the touch of those flesh-fed lips that just might pick at her own flesh like a vulture in search of a free feast. Pollock, fearsome and fetching, has earned himself this wild ambition that trails dutifully after him, like the twin foals trail after her.
Build, bids the godking.
Build, she does in the festering sore that is her own womb.
(Burnt, in her rush to come forth, had burned that foal-home clean with her fiery wings. Time has healed it, but the scars remain, thick and fierce and Sinew agonizes over the life she carries - it hurts, but pain is its own reward and though she has yet to thicken through the girth, she knows they grow from the tiny but mighty seeds of her and Pollock’s fleshy pact.)
Iron on iron, she bends still to his will.
Sinew gravitates towards him, despite her inexplicable determination to be no one’s kept thing - no one’s pet.
(she has one of those, the mammoth-horse that hides now, all horse and no mammoth because the mountain is an angry mother of a thing to them and has stolen her pet’s best and hideous attributes)
Still, she trails him because he is a bastion of power and fright in her eyes. She respects those that command fear, that feed off of it, and she basks in their aftermath of destruction and terror. It feeds her, quiets the dark that clamors in her flesh and makes the blood churn that much faster. She hungers, and hunger calls to hunger much like blood does. He hungers too, she can feel it in the way he hunts her across the back of the savage wastes and she turns to him, red and white, a slyness hanging about the curve of her mouth as she breathes his name aloud - “Pollock.”