The king had pressed himself today, shredding the stark white clouds with dark wings and devouring the ripe, red cactus fruits that had been nothing but a wish to him for so long in his impermanent death. A sheen of perspiration slicked his black skin with exertion and white froths of sweat gathered across the joints of his shoulder and wings. Instead of spending his hours with Yael draped within his clutch, he had catered to his Deserts today. He visited his garden and had spent hours with a full belly enjoying the shadows beneath the great oak, his oak, that rose imposing and extraordinary amid the miles of sand.
When the sun is at her highest peak he is on his way to one of the oasis’ when he drops to his knees for a roll in a tumble-weed strewn patch of sand. There are several unceremonious grunts and bellows of gratification as the giant flops from one side to the other, conjuring up quite a formidable shower of sand around his general vicinity as he does so. Finally, once he has sufficiently dusted himself he rises to his feet, wings stretching and preening as grains shower down from the height of his stature. A roll in the sand is so simple a pleasure it doesn’t even cross the mind until it missed, much like taste if your lover’s sweat or the smell of grass after a rain on a humid day.
But a snort (too much like his own) rattles through the air behind him and the dragon-king is wheeling on heavy haunches to face whomever has unwisely snuck upon him. At once his wings have flared around his wide breadth, ready to rush him into an immediate defense if necessary – but what stared back at him filled him only with curiosity and, rightly so, confusion.
“What are you looking at, can’t you recognize yourself, dumb shit?” The winged Percheron, made entirely of sand, asks him with a shake of his perfectly cloned, albeit granular head. But before Vanquish can gather himself enough to reply, his replication falls away into a pile no different than the rest of the sand around it.
Vanquish tilts his heavy head back, an accusatory eye squinting towards the sun with a questioning chuckle. Perhaps he had spent too much time in the sun too soon, hallucinations were common-place, after all. How many new members had the Nightwalker comforted amid a heat-brewed vision? Or perhaps Yael was having some fun, it wasn’t above either of them to summon up a way to prank the other. Either way, the Desert king is heading towards “their” spot, the sunset at his back as he moves across his kingdom. A bemused smirk twists his handsome features once he finds Yael, stallion’s teeth grinding across her silk skin, “you wouldn’t be messing with an old man’s mind would you?” He asks, the tip of his taloned wing tracing the curve of her shoulder.
When the sun is at her highest peak he is on his way to one of the oasis’ when he drops to his knees for a roll in a tumble-weed strewn patch of sand. There are several unceremonious grunts and bellows of gratification as the giant flops from one side to the other, conjuring up quite a formidable shower of sand around his general vicinity as he does so. Finally, once he has sufficiently dusted himself he rises to his feet, wings stretching and preening as grains shower down from the height of his stature. A roll in the sand is so simple a pleasure it doesn’t even cross the mind until it missed, much like taste if your lover’s sweat or the smell of grass after a rain on a humid day.
But a snort (too much like his own) rattles through the air behind him and the dragon-king is wheeling on heavy haunches to face whomever has unwisely snuck upon him. At once his wings have flared around his wide breadth, ready to rush him into an immediate defense if necessary – but what stared back at him filled him only with curiosity and, rightly so, confusion.
“What are you looking at, can’t you recognize yourself, dumb shit?” The winged Percheron, made entirely of sand, asks him with a shake of his perfectly cloned, albeit granular head. But before Vanquish can gather himself enough to reply, his replication falls away into a pile no different than the rest of the sand around it.
Vanquish tilts his heavy head back, an accusatory eye squinting towards the sun with a questioning chuckle. Perhaps he had spent too much time in the sun too soon, hallucinations were common-place, after all. How many new members had the Nightwalker comforted amid a heat-brewed vision? Or perhaps Yael was having some fun, it wasn’t above either of them to summon up a way to prank the other. Either way, the Desert king is heading towards “their” spot, the sunset at his back as he moves across his kingdom. A bemused smirk twists his handsome features once he finds Yael, stallion’s teeth grinding across her silk skin, “you wouldn’t be messing with an old man’s mind would you?” He asks, the tip of his taloned wing tracing the curve of her shoulder.
vanquish
black king of the deserts
