09-03-2018, 06:25 PM
Vulgaris
His dreams only ever go one of two ways. In the first, he is always floating, a perfect feather gently drifting atop some endless expanse of some warm ocean that is content to cradle him. The breeze kisses his face and he is the son of some benevolent god who adores his every cell. The world bows before him and offers up only perfection in reply to his beck and call. These are the dreams that only come when life has been kind to him, when god is in his heaven and all is right with the world. These dreams often elude him but they are precious to him like some rare jewel dug deep from the earth’s molten core.
The other dream comes to him when his darkness is too thick to escape. He wakes, screaming and drenched in his own sweat with a blanket of horror coating him. These dreams are painted in bright red and pink, the colors of flesh torn apart without mercy or forgiveness. These dreams are forged in anger and hate so volatile that it bubbles up even in his waking hours sometimes. All of this comes seeping in like a fog to corrupt whatever dream Kagerus had planned before, the curse that follows his every step with relentless fervor. Vulgaris is allowed so little joy in his life and even this must be twisted into something he will fear.
The haze is rust-colored when it reaches them and the rain oozes down their sides like oil rather than water. He bristles at the change and turns his head to her. There is nothing of the creature she had seen before except appearances. Where before there had been some control to keep him muzzled and chained, now there is only wild terror and a ravenous appetite.
He bares his teeth and lowers his head, backing away from her with his ears pinned tight to his head. His tail swishes back and forth anxiously as he watches her with wide eyes. This may look like retreat and most would let their guard down in confusion at the new beast before them, but make no mistake. Every movement is bait and every second another opportunity to be snared. He coils himself in preparation of his strike, tucks all of his empathy and warmth and kindness into a little box for after their games.
And then he opens another, unlocking the cage full of all the fury and rage he’s kept bottled tight for so long.
His strides are long and fluid, the practiced gait of a hunter closing in on prey. The only thoughts that manage to find room in his head are two simple words that echo under and across one another like numerous broken records all playing at once: crush it. Crush it. CRUSH IT. CRUSHCRUSHCRUSHCRUSH. His jaws open wide and he doesn’t care if it’s Panthera or the queen herself that get caught in his teeth. Even if he runs face first into a tree from his reckless momentum, at least he’ll get to taste his own blood. And if he’s crucified across her antlers then he can thank god for finally delivering punishment unto his wicked head.
He just wants to feel something and know that it’s real.