jamie
03-22-2021, 10:28 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
The thing is silent as it moves, freakish yellow eyes unblinking. It flickers in and out of focus like a hallucination as it advances, head low like a predator. The shadow-elk watch it go, twitching. The thing works its ink-black mouth and flares its paper-thin nostrils as the pale gold figure tilts her head. The thing lets loose a rattling breath and continues its advance, if the tilt of her fine head had been a warning the thing does not heed it. He has loved death too fondly to fear anything at all, this thing that emerges from the darkness, crafted so lovingly from it. His mother had crafted him so tenderly from her shadows, his mother had made him a monster so a monster he became
The thing reaches for her. Not with his mouth or his nose or his teeth. But with fingers of fog that wrap themselves so sweetly around her ankles and then venture up to her shoulders. Lick so tenderly down the lengths of her sides.
“Child,” the fog whispers in her ear, (or, at least, it must seem like it does), “run along home now, child.”
The thing has stopped now and the shadow-elk watch still from a distance. Three pairs of freakish yellow eyes trained intently on her face.
“This darkness is no place for a child,” the fog says as it strokes her face.
The thing still seethes. His sides still heave with all of his sordid resentment. Someone will pay. It is not the fog that warns her, no. The warnings are his alone because the thing is a father now himself. But these are the only warnings he will offer.
The thing reaches for her. Not with his mouth or his nose or his teeth. But with fingers of fog that wrap themselves so sweetly around her ankles and then venture up to her shoulders. Lick so tenderly down the lengths of her sides.
“Child,” the fog whispers in her ear, (or, at least, it must seem like it does), “run along home now, child.”
The thing has stopped now and the shadow-elk watch still from a distance. Three pairs of freakish yellow eyes trained intently on her face.
“This darkness is no place for a child,” the fog says as it strokes her face.
The thing still seethes. His sides still heave with all of his sordid resentment. Someone will pay. It is not the fog that warns her, no. The warnings are his alone because the thing is a father now himself. But these are the only warnings he will offer.
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD
@[Aela]