doesn't take a fool to start a fire; feast, any

[feast]

feast.

death inspires me,

like a dog inspires a rabbit.

It has been months - not many, but enough - since he set foot in Carnage’s lair.

He walked away from it, knowing how his own heart tasted in his mouth and now, the land dies at his step and the smile he wears is grim and eternal.

I ate my own heart, he thinks.

My own heart.

That, more than anything, is what stays with him.

Not even the fact that he fought his older half-brother and slaughtered him in the blood-red apocalyptic wasteland of the dark god’s making is spared further thought. He’d kill that stallion over and over again if given the chance. Hell, he thought he’d kill his own twin or his mother but no, Feast loved himself best as that time spent in Carnage’s keeping revealed to him. Loved himself and no other.

He’s not sickened by the fact that he battled himself and struck his own killing blow. Or that he ripped into his own stomach and chest, searching for his heart. No, it is the fact that he liked it! Can remember the savory mastication of meat between his blunt teeth and the way gobbets of blood and such slide down his gullet. He’d eat his heart over and over again if he could. Now he begins to wonder if another’s heart can taste just as sweet or if such a sweetness belongs only to him because it was his, and no other’s.

Thus, Feast has a hunger.

What better place to indulge than in a bacchanalia?

So Feast, the miniature hoofprint brand on his neck smarting as much as the feathery nubbin where his one useless wing used to be, comes to Sylva on a tide of darkening sky and fierce lightning. Blight spreads from his feet, he does not think to control it - let the land fester and rot, that is how he likes it. In time, it might come back but most likely not as long as Feast is around.

However, he thinks little of the land as his flat black eyes land upon a silver and black mare. Something other than the urge to taste her heart takes over him - she looks formidable and fierce in the flashes of lightning that split the sky. It occurs to him, that the air does not smell like a storm is brewing. At least not a natural storm anyway, he muses to himself as he brings his lean shape closer to her. “Are you doing that?” He asks, no hint of suspicion in his voice. Just a flat emotionless tone but perhaps with almost a trace of appreciation. Feast might have ate his own heart but there was little left in it afterwards, except an appreciation for the wilder and darker things in life - like this little thing of black and silver and sweet feminine curves.

Feast decides he might like a taste of her after all.

Just in a different way.

@[Tinsel] he lacks social skills majorly lmfao, especially after carnagequest.