12-03-2017, 10:03 AM
god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
He had lingered here.
At first, it was to find the one whom he had given to the raging sea, losing him beneath the tumultuous grey waves of Nerine before he could finish the job properly. It left him feeling on edge and angry, causing tremendous riptides and currents beneath the surface, hoping that he would find a salt and sea bloated corpse or even him alive, so that he can feel the satisfaction and move on.
But there was nothing.
So he remains, liquified and transparent beneath Nerine’s weary waters, floating ominously near the black outcroppings of unforgiving rocks and corals, or down into the depths where the water is colder and darker and silent - his tomb and his home. He had not killed in days, and the feeling leaves him restless, but he cannot move on from Nerine - he has found it to his liking, and though his craving of blood and death wishes him elsewhere, his equine instincts for a home keeps him there as the ocean’s ghost, bound to the brooding waters.
It is not loneliness that drives the beast from the depths, nor is it hunger (kelp and seaweed keeps him satiated, while hunting keeps him occupied). It is curiosity and boredom; it is the hope of finding an unsuspecting participant deeper within the land, and perhaps, changing his skillset from a predator that only attacks from beneath the cloak of frothing, angry water.
The stallion materializes as he broaches the surface, his crown breaking through the churning grey waters and then his head and neck, and as he moves forward towards the shore, then his shoulders and haunches. He is, at first, transparent and warbling, completely made of Nerine’s seawater. But he allows himself to become solid, the brilliant two-toned pattern of dark algae green and the iridescent color of pearl starkly contrasting against the briny, black water.
His pearlescent and seaweed colored mane and forelock are pressed tightly against his muscular neck and the emptiness of his face, near-black eyes taking in the tall cliffs that rise above him. He continues to move towards the bleary shoreline and away from the comfort of his ocean, ascending from its depths like a monster rising from the pit. Sea water spills off of the ripples of muscle of his chest and haunches, running in rivulets down his legs. From where he stands the water spits unnaturally and angrily, obviously caused by him.
Maugrim comes to a stand still where the water reaches his knees, scanning the empty shore with a mild curiosity.
At first, it was to find the one whom he had given to the raging sea, losing him beneath the tumultuous grey waves of Nerine before he could finish the job properly. It left him feeling on edge and angry, causing tremendous riptides and currents beneath the surface, hoping that he would find a salt and sea bloated corpse or even him alive, so that he can feel the satisfaction and move on.
But there was nothing.
So he remains, liquified and transparent beneath Nerine’s weary waters, floating ominously near the black outcroppings of unforgiving rocks and corals, or down into the depths where the water is colder and darker and silent - his tomb and his home. He had not killed in days, and the feeling leaves him restless, but he cannot move on from Nerine - he has found it to his liking, and though his craving of blood and death wishes him elsewhere, his equine instincts for a home keeps him there as the ocean’s ghost, bound to the brooding waters.
It is not loneliness that drives the beast from the depths, nor is it hunger (kelp and seaweed keeps him satiated, while hunting keeps him occupied). It is curiosity and boredom; it is the hope of finding an unsuspecting participant deeper within the land, and perhaps, changing his skillset from a predator that only attacks from beneath the cloak of frothing, angry water.
The stallion materializes as he broaches the surface, his crown breaking through the churning grey waters and then his head and neck, and as he moves forward towards the shore, then his shoulders and haunches. He is, at first, transparent and warbling, completely made of Nerine’s seawater. But he allows himself to become solid, the brilliant two-toned pattern of dark algae green and the iridescent color of pearl starkly contrasting against the briny, black water.
His pearlescent and seaweed colored mane and forelock are pressed tightly against his muscular neck and the emptiness of his face, near-black eyes taking in the tall cliffs that rise above him. He continues to move towards the bleary shoreline and away from the comfort of his ocean, ascending from its depths like a monster rising from the pit. Sea water spills off of the ripples of muscle of his chest and haunches, running in rivulets down his legs. From where he stands the water spits unnaturally and angrily, obviously caused by him.
Maugrim comes to a stand still where the water reaches his knees, scanning the empty shore with a mild curiosity.
m a u g r i m.