09-30-2017, 01:36 AM
<center><link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Halant|Kristi" rel="stylesheet"><link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cormorant+SC|IM+Fell+Great+Primer+SC" rel="stylesheet"><div style="width: 550px; background: url('http://i.imgur.com/dA69zKb.png'); padding-top: 10px; background-position: top; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-color: #0b0b0d; border-radius: 300px 300px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000000;"><center><div style="font-family: 'Cormorant SC', serif; font-size: 40px; color: #2e2d29; line-height:30pt; padding-top: 40px; padding-right: 110px; align:center; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #e0dcce;">feast.</div><div style="font-family: Times; color: #acacac; font-size: 12px; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 2px; line-height: 10pt; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 220px; letter-spacing: .5px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #e0dcce;"><i>death inspires me,</i></div><div style="font-family: Times; color: #acacac; font-size: 12px; padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 10px; line-height: 10pt; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 90px; letter-spacing: .5px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #e0dcce;"><i>like a dog inspires a rabbit.</i></div><div style="width: 500px; margin-top: 280px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; padding: 10px; font-family: Times; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #777776; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 140%; text-align: justify; border-radius: 0px 0px;"><center><div style="width: 500px; border-bottom: 1px solid #0c0c0e; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 10px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #e0dcce;"></div></center>Feast is sore and tired, as so many of them are after their trials and tribulations in the wasteland.
He keeps back from the oasis and from them all, aloof and distant as one by one they come out from underneath trees and from inside the leafy green arms of bushes. The brand on his neck starts to smoke and burn; the dark god is near. First he is watery, as if imagined and not all there, but he gains substance, seeming to pull it from the very shadows around them and even their own shadows that stand away from their feet. The dark god becomes more flesh and breath for the time it takes him to whisk away the hellhound and turn the other mare into dust, scattered hitherto to the winds of the wasteland as if she had never been.
Feast is in awe of that single thing the dark god does then – making a mare into dust and nothingness.
Carnage blathers on about making a choice, a portal, and things too good to be true. His grin is the kind that can slice butter, deceptive and smooth and Feast cannot tear his eyes from him. He charms them all with this talk of offering up a piece of themselves to touch paradise shimmering just beneath the surface of the oasis. Feast is perhaps the only one to hesitate; the others dive right in and lose parts of them after their fantasies begin to play out but him? He looks to the dark god and says, “Take my wing. It’s no good to me anyhow.” Part of him knew this part would not be painless – sacrifice never is, and he braces himself for the severance of the useless appendage. It hurts, of course it hurts!
When Feast opens his eyes after gasping for breath, he is left with nothing but a nub of bone that is covered in a layer of soft eiderdown. This is the only reminder he is left with to show that he ever had a wing there. Now he looks like Igor with a hump on his back, if he knew what Igor looked like that is. He waits for no signal from the dark god and begins to submerge himself in the oasis, first up to his ankles then further until only his face remains above the water. The water pulls him in and down, embraces him and he thinks that he know soon enough what it is like to drown. Except he doesn’t drown - -
He spirals through the colors and the water until he ends up in a wasteland much like the one he’s just left. How in the hell is this paradise? But then he realizes it is – a grim facsimile of the Pangea that he knew. It is a ravaged spit of land wrested up from darkness and earth too stubborn to want to give it up. It was a land taken, snatched in an iron fist and only the dusty crumbling could give way to something new but just as ruined. Feast begins to smile, this is more like it! Then he realizes he is not alone, not entirely. No land is without its population and he finds in his horses that bow their heads to him – him!
Pollock is there, and there is something like pride in his eyes for the first time in Feast’s pathetic life. One of the things he’s ever wanted was that recognition a father has for his son, that feeling of proud that swells the chest and he finds it there in the older stallion’s hard gaze. Maybe, he even finds a kernel of fear and that titillates his heart! How could Pollock ever fear him? Unless… he has become more powerful than his father! No wonder they all bow their heads to him, chant his name under their breath and scrape their hooves against the dirt and rock of this land.
Feast ascends a naked knoll that affords him some manner of lordship over them all.
From his perch, he looks down upon each and every one of them including the bent head of his father and the smile that spreads across his lips is cruel. One or two come forward, telling him of their conquests – this mare they got with foal, that scared horse they took down and fed upon, the field of carrion fattening up the crows, and the bones that line their caverns. Some are rewarded with a just nod and others receive nothing more than a harsh look, because not all are successful – even in paradise, there are failures and these he punishes, unleashing their worst fears against them until their heads burst in a spray of blood and bone.
Others receive no such end; theirs’ is drawn out as they stand there shivering and muttering to themselves in madness. These he has driven off towards a grassy plateau where the sun beats down hard on their skins, and he gives the signal to the rest to begin the hunt as they see fit. Many come to lay bits of fur and bone at his feet, a pegasus’ wing or a unicorn’s horn and his throne is built up further on the destruction of those too weak to be allowed to live. Even his father comes to him once, cautions him to show just a tad bit more mercy and the only mercy he shows is in allowing his father to leave or face death. Feast would kill him if given the chance but he lets the old stallion go because the fear has grown more and more in Pollock’s eyes – he knows his son will be the death of him one day.
So this is his paradise;
He grows old and fat on the pain and suffering of others; wallows on his throne of carnage that was one just a hill devoid of grass or flower and sometimes, rivers of blood run down it and his followers bend their knees to lap it up like hungry kittens with a bowl of milk. No one challenges him – no one would dare! They’ve seen what he’s down to the upstarts who think themselves more cunning than he is; their skulls line the path to his throne, gleaming beneath the hot sun. He has even ensured that his bloodline continues though some of them await the moment he’ll name a successor, a thing he won’t do until only one of them is left standing for only the strong survive here.
Nor is Feast tired of ruling this paradise of his own making.
Mares come to him of their own volition, and others do not. Followers find him, fawning over him until he tires of their adorations and strikes them down – leaves them to the hunt, always the hunt, his favorite thing. He chases them with their own fears; even eats their hearts, sometimes. That is, when he deigns to join them because they have become commoners to him – a plague upon the land that he allows to fester there because that is how it must be, a king must have his subjects after all. And best of all, he can pit them against one another as he does his own children. He lies, tells them that the victor will have a go against one of his own blood for a chance to take the crown from him.
But he finds a child of worth amongst them all who comes out victorious; a child who makes the long walk down the row of grinning skulls to kneel at the bottom of his throne. He sees his death in that child as surely as Pollock saw his own death in Feast’s empty black eyes. His death hunts him, circles on feet quicker than his – he’s old now, can feel it in his bones despite the power he’s fed on all these years. Feast has become something of a glutton and it slows him down, makes him fall to his knees beneath the hooves of the son rearing above him - -
Feast should be dead, but he wakes up back in the same cell he’d occupied some time ago. Days or years, he’s not sure which nor does he care. It is like he never escaped from it; the same stale grass waits for him and the same dirty water is all that can quench a thirst that seems like it will never end. But in his eyes, he’s seen his utopia and it was grander than this and more real than this pathetic cell feels. Except the brand on his neck burns and there’s an ache in head as if it had taken a hit or two from a pair of hooves. Then more pain comes rushing back and he whips his head around to nip at the feathery nub of bone that is all that remains of his wing.
Some part of him knows it had been real.
Some part of him knows it had not been real at all, but imagined.
All of him wants it back – the fear and the respect, and as the rest scream and batter themselves against their cells, Feast is quiet in his plotting.
He is quiet because he gloats - - his father had feared him for once and it was grand!
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So he gave up his broken wing and just has a feathery stump left to show where it had once been.
He keeps back from the oasis and from them all, aloof and distant as one by one they come out from underneath trees and from inside the leafy green arms of bushes. The brand on his neck starts to smoke and burn; the dark god is near. First he is watery, as if imagined and not all there, but he gains substance, seeming to pull it from the very shadows around them and even their own shadows that stand away from their feet. The dark god becomes more flesh and breath for the time it takes him to whisk away the hellhound and turn the other mare into dust, scattered hitherto to the winds of the wasteland as if she had never been.
Feast is in awe of that single thing the dark god does then – making a mare into dust and nothingness.
Carnage blathers on about making a choice, a portal, and things too good to be true. His grin is the kind that can slice butter, deceptive and smooth and Feast cannot tear his eyes from him. He charms them all with this talk of offering up a piece of themselves to touch paradise shimmering just beneath the surface of the oasis. Feast is perhaps the only one to hesitate; the others dive right in and lose parts of them after their fantasies begin to play out but him? He looks to the dark god and says, “Take my wing. It’s no good to me anyhow.” Part of him knew this part would not be painless – sacrifice never is, and he braces himself for the severance of the useless appendage. It hurts, of course it hurts!
When Feast opens his eyes after gasping for breath, he is left with nothing but a nub of bone that is covered in a layer of soft eiderdown. This is the only reminder he is left with to show that he ever had a wing there. Now he looks like Igor with a hump on his back, if he knew what Igor looked like that is. He waits for no signal from the dark god and begins to submerge himself in the oasis, first up to his ankles then further until only his face remains above the water. The water pulls him in and down, embraces him and he thinks that he know soon enough what it is like to drown. Except he doesn’t drown - -
He spirals through the colors and the water until he ends up in a wasteland much like the one he’s just left. How in the hell is this paradise? But then he realizes it is – a grim facsimile of the Pangea that he knew. It is a ravaged spit of land wrested up from darkness and earth too stubborn to want to give it up. It was a land taken, snatched in an iron fist and only the dusty crumbling could give way to something new but just as ruined. Feast begins to smile, this is more like it! Then he realizes he is not alone, not entirely. No land is without its population and he finds in his horses that bow their heads to him – him!
Pollock is there, and there is something like pride in his eyes for the first time in Feast’s pathetic life. One of the things he’s ever wanted was that recognition a father has for his son, that feeling of proud that swells the chest and he finds it there in the older stallion’s hard gaze. Maybe, he even finds a kernel of fear and that titillates his heart! How could Pollock ever fear him? Unless… he has become more powerful than his father! No wonder they all bow their heads to him, chant his name under their breath and scrape their hooves against the dirt and rock of this land.
Feast ascends a naked knoll that affords him some manner of lordship over them all.
From his perch, he looks down upon each and every one of them including the bent head of his father and the smile that spreads across his lips is cruel. One or two come forward, telling him of their conquests – this mare they got with foal, that scared horse they took down and fed upon, the field of carrion fattening up the crows, and the bones that line their caverns. Some are rewarded with a just nod and others receive nothing more than a harsh look, because not all are successful – even in paradise, there are failures and these he punishes, unleashing their worst fears against them until their heads burst in a spray of blood and bone.
Others receive no such end; theirs’ is drawn out as they stand there shivering and muttering to themselves in madness. These he has driven off towards a grassy plateau where the sun beats down hard on their skins, and he gives the signal to the rest to begin the hunt as they see fit. Many come to lay bits of fur and bone at his feet, a pegasus’ wing or a unicorn’s horn and his throne is built up further on the destruction of those too weak to be allowed to live. Even his father comes to him once, cautions him to show just a tad bit more mercy and the only mercy he shows is in allowing his father to leave or face death. Feast would kill him if given the chance but he lets the old stallion go because the fear has grown more and more in Pollock’s eyes – he knows his son will be the death of him one day.
So this is his paradise;
He grows old and fat on the pain and suffering of others; wallows on his throne of carnage that was one just a hill devoid of grass or flower and sometimes, rivers of blood run down it and his followers bend their knees to lap it up like hungry kittens with a bowl of milk. No one challenges him – no one would dare! They’ve seen what he’s down to the upstarts who think themselves more cunning than he is; their skulls line the path to his throne, gleaming beneath the hot sun. He has even ensured that his bloodline continues though some of them await the moment he’ll name a successor, a thing he won’t do until only one of them is left standing for only the strong survive here.
Nor is Feast tired of ruling this paradise of his own making.
Mares come to him of their own volition, and others do not. Followers find him, fawning over him until he tires of their adorations and strikes them down – leaves them to the hunt, always the hunt, his favorite thing. He chases them with their own fears; even eats their hearts, sometimes. That is, when he deigns to join them because they have become commoners to him – a plague upon the land that he allows to fester there because that is how it must be, a king must have his subjects after all. And best of all, he can pit them against one another as he does his own children. He lies, tells them that the victor will have a go against one of his own blood for a chance to take the crown from him.
But he finds a child of worth amongst them all who comes out victorious; a child who makes the long walk down the row of grinning skulls to kneel at the bottom of his throne. He sees his death in that child as surely as Pollock saw his own death in Feast’s empty black eyes. His death hunts him, circles on feet quicker than his – he’s old now, can feel it in his bones despite the power he’s fed on all these years. Feast has become something of a glutton and it slows him down, makes him fall to his knees beneath the hooves of the son rearing above him - -
Feast should be dead, but he wakes up back in the same cell he’d occupied some time ago. Days or years, he’s not sure which nor does he care. It is like he never escaped from it; the same stale grass waits for him and the same dirty water is all that can quench a thirst that seems like it will never end. But in his eyes, he’s seen his utopia and it was grander than this and more real than this pathetic cell feels. Except the brand on his neck burns and there’s an ache in head as if it had taken a hit or two from a pair of hooves. Then more pain comes rushing back and he whips his head around to nip at the feathery nub of bone that is all that remains of his wing.
Some part of him knows it had been real.
Some part of him knows it had not been real at all, but imagined.
All of him wants it back – the fear and the respect, and as the rest scream and batter themselves against their cells, Feast is quiet in his plotting.
He is quiet because he gloats - - his father had feared him for once and it was grand!
<center><div style="width: 500px; border-bottom: 1px solid #0c0c0e; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #e0dcce;"></div></div></div></center>
So he gave up his broken wing and just has a feathery stump left to show where it had once been.