01-17-2019, 12:04 PM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
There are things that you can sense - can feel in the thin air - can smell when you breathe in heavy - can taste when you open your mouth for more. Fear is one of these things, and you, my bay little basilisk, are rife with it. Your heartbeat pulses waves through the dimming night air - a hark and call to your rapidly writhing worries. The scent of trepidation seeps from your skin and mixes with the jarring pierce of winter cold. You may feign all you want, shedding a snake skin of worry to relieve scales of security - but He can tell, you know. Fear is palpable, cracking through your aura like alabaster bone, wiggling it’s way from the inside out - spoiling your (attempted) smooth demeanor. Fear is something you can sense - although it would not take much to pick apart this moment and see the fervent fear inside your mind.
There are things that you can sense - magic is one of these things. You say you are not small - you are a dangerous thing (to yourself, perhaps) - you are greater than they all surmise. But you do not know, do you? You feel that singe in the moment, the webbing of electric hum leaping from his skin into the darkdark night. You can sense it (you must be able to; as you draw closer and closer like the small ship in the mouth of the whirlpool) - you can feel it, smell it, taste it. But you do not know - you are barren to the knowledge that there is something greater than you. Something sharper than those fangs (felt tipped, in comparison), harder than those scales (sinewy and soft, in comparison), something more mellifluous than your voice (vulgar, in comparison). Magic; magic; magic.
He watches, unmoving, the sun slipping down, the moon rising up - a milk bath in the night, a watery reflection of your scales in starlight. You lay wait, an attempt to stalk prey like a creature of the night. But oh, my little serpent, it is far too difficult to feast on the prey that burrows into your mind. Your bared teeth and ears back, your sneer and grimace and rough and tumble act - looks at the side of the coin that you choose to show. But when there is magic, that web weaving through your mind and soul and thoughts and desires and daunts - what then? How can you hide behind the idea that you are one of the dangerous things.
You speak, bold and assured - a young pearl in the cracked world of an oyster. “Sabbath - while nearly grown, you do still seem quite small.” He looks down at you, the dark skin of his body a sinister mix next to your indigo hues, you are small in the face of it all. Perhaps you just do not know it yet. Silence envelops, and He withholds an amused smile as he picks the thoughts you fling so carelessly out into the universe. Hungry, you are hungry - but for what? You yearn to pierce His skin like the ice across the water, your mouth salivating at the thought of flesh to bone. Hungry, hungry - and yet, that is not what you ask for. Instead, your question is simple, fleeting and innocent - His wings. An afterthought to Him, really. Born with wings that He has no need to use. Born with a horn pierced deep into His skull, but an unnecessary accoutrement. Why does He bother with either? Why bother at all.
“What an interesting query. Why don’t you find out?” He shifts imperceptibly, a small change in His height - shrinking His bones just so, just minutely enough so that your small mouth could reach to ream the wings from his bones - for your fangs to sink deep into his feathers, chip away at the structure, and taste what magic feels like. He jerks his head upwards, a go ahead motion, daring her to follow her desires. “I don’t bite.”
There are things that you can sense - magic is one of these things. You say you are not small - you are a dangerous thing (to yourself, perhaps) - you are greater than they all surmise. But you do not know, do you? You feel that singe in the moment, the webbing of electric hum leaping from his skin into the darkdark night. You can sense it (you must be able to; as you draw closer and closer like the small ship in the mouth of the whirlpool) - you can feel it, smell it, taste it. But you do not know - you are barren to the knowledge that there is something greater than you. Something sharper than those fangs (felt tipped, in comparison), harder than those scales (sinewy and soft, in comparison), something more mellifluous than your voice (vulgar, in comparison). Magic; magic; magic.
He watches, unmoving, the sun slipping down, the moon rising up - a milk bath in the night, a watery reflection of your scales in starlight. You lay wait, an attempt to stalk prey like a creature of the night. But oh, my little serpent, it is far too difficult to feast on the prey that burrows into your mind. Your bared teeth and ears back, your sneer and grimace and rough and tumble act - looks at the side of the coin that you choose to show. But when there is magic, that web weaving through your mind and soul and thoughts and desires and daunts - what then? How can you hide behind the idea that you are one of the dangerous things.
You speak, bold and assured - a young pearl in the cracked world of an oyster. “Sabbath - while nearly grown, you do still seem quite small.” He looks down at you, the dark skin of his body a sinister mix next to your indigo hues, you are small in the face of it all. Perhaps you just do not know it yet. Silence envelops, and He withholds an amused smile as he picks the thoughts you fling so carelessly out into the universe. Hungry, you are hungry - but for what? You yearn to pierce His skin like the ice across the water, your mouth salivating at the thought of flesh to bone. Hungry, hungry - and yet, that is not what you ask for. Instead, your question is simple, fleeting and innocent - His wings. An afterthought to Him, really. Born with wings that He has no need to use. Born with a horn pierced deep into His skull, but an unnecessary accoutrement. Why does He bother with either? Why bother at all.
“What an interesting query. Why don’t you find out?” He shifts imperceptibly, a small change in His height - shrinking His bones just so, just minutely enough so that your small mouth could reach to ream the wings from his bones - for your fangs to sink deep into his feathers, chip away at the structure, and taste what magic feels like. He jerks his head upwards, a go ahead motion, daring her to follow her desires. “I don’t bite.”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
@[Sabbath]