09-06-2016, 10:43 PM
There is fruit at their feet - ripe and rotting, like hearts spilled from cracked cages of ribs.
She sniffs at one such fruit that spills juice and seed on the earth in a tumble of brightness and blight; it is like both of them, him and her --
Her eyes come up, as her neck slants and the head rolls atop it to the side to regard him.
He is different, she thinks. Changed even, and not.
His differences are scant but enough to give her pause after she has asked him, what now?
She heard her name;
She stands bold beneath the horrid benediction of it that tumbles from his lips.
Felt the touch of primary feathers to the scarred places of her neck and ear; he did not ask how she came about them, and she did not offer to tell him. He asks instead what has been taken from her, and Sinew bristles at this -
“My immortality.”
It is all she had, it emboldened her more than she has been. She is naked now, mortal even and it sickens her.
Sinew clings to nothing; she is not moss on a rock.
Sinew is not afraid; has never feared a thing in her life.
Not Tarnished. Not Pollock. Not the mysterious, mad Mountain itself.
There is a black mare beside them, bitter and barking her unhappiness at him. She is taken aback, only by the fact that she is called a name she has never heard before - slut, she had no comprehension of this. It sounds vile though, and Sinew - mad, brave, foolish Sinew - is quick to become rankled herself. Her ears flatten against her head in pure distaste for this upstart of a mare who has invaded their time together, Pollock and hers’. Sinew does not share, not very much and she does not play well with others. She has kept to herself, until now, fattening up her pregnant mammoth-pet (it would pain her to learn the mare is ordinary now, and so are the foals in her belly) in hopes of two grotesqueries of horse and mammoth. She kept to herself until the goat-god walked among them again, and then - only then, did Sinew herself, reappear.
She festers;
Is on the brink of a reply but he stays this by his own displeasure made evident.
Sinew, still bristling, can only look between the two. He had come to her once; painted in the flecks of old dry blood, drunk on the very fear he could induce and she had been completely resistant, unafraid. She knows now, that the blood came from this one. Can only image how she would look split open again, run through, broken… Pollock and Sinew standing above her, as Sinew reads his fortune in her entrails, glistening and bloodied. Sinew could sing his praises from the psalms of cracked bones left open for her to read, and she nearly throws her head back, savage from the pleasure of her own sick dreams.
For all that this Hestia smells of meat and life, she still stinks of the grave.
Sinew wrinkles her nostrils; lends an ear to the things that Pollock has to say and can barely keep the sly smile off her lips - it is foxish and familiar, as is the scorpion’s barb in her voice; “Neither. Think of me as more of an accomplice, of sorts.” Her black eyes look askance to him, considering - she has never been the victim, even as she was made a feast of flesh for something akin to him, terrible and powerful. She had been willing then, as she is willing now, and Sinew longs to dance amongst the bones begging to be strewn at their feet - Hestia’s bones, to be exact.
She sniffs at one such fruit that spills juice and seed on the earth in a tumble of brightness and blight; it is like both of them, him and her --
Her eyes come up, as her neck slants and the head rolls atop it to the side to regard him.
He is different, she thinks. Changed even, and not.
His differences are scant but enough to give her pause after she has asked him, what now?
She heard her name;
She stands bold beneath the horrid benediction of it that tumbles from his lips.
Felt the touch of primary feathers to the scarred places of her neck and ear; he did not ask how she came about them, and she did not offer to tell him. He asks instead what has been taken from her, and Sinew bristles at this -
“My immortality.”
It is all she had, it emboldened her more than she has been. She is naked now, mortal even and it sickens her.
Sinew clings to nothing; she is not moss on a rock.
Sinew is not afraid; has never feared a thing in her life.
Not Tarnished. Not Pollock. Not the mysterious, mad Mountain itself.
There is a black mare beside them, bitter and barking her unhappiness at him. She is taken aback, only by the fact that she is called a name she has never heard before - slut, she had no comprehension of this. It sounds vile though, and Sinew - mad, brave, foolish Sinew - is quick to become rankled herself. Her ears flatten against her head in pure distaste for this upstart of a mare who has invaded their time together, Pollock and hers’. Sinew does not share, not very much and she does not play well with others. She has kept to herself, until now, fattening up her pregnant mammoth-pet (it would pain her to learn the mare is ordinary now, and so are the foals in her belly) in hopes of two grotesqueries of horse and mammoth. She kept to herself until the goat-god walked among them again, and then - only then, did Sinew herself, reappear.
She festers;
Is on the brink of a reply but he stays this by his own displeasure made evident.
Sinew, still bristling, can only look between the two. He had come to her once; painted in the flecks of old dry blood, drunk on the very fear he could induce and she had been completely resistant, unafraid. She knows now, that the blood came from this one. Can only image how she would look split open again, run through, broken… Pollock and Sinew standing above her, as Sinew reads his fortune in her entrails, glistening and bloodied. Sinew could sing his praises from the psalms of cracked bones left open for her to read, and she nearly throws her head back, savage from the pleasure of her own sick dreams.
For all that this Hestia smells of meat and life, she still stinks of the grave.
Sinew wrinkles her nostrils; lends an ear to the things that Pollock has to say and can barely keep the sly smile off her lips - it is foxish and familiar, as is the scorpion’s barb in her voice; “Neither. Think of me as more of an accomplice, of sorts.” Her black eyes look askance to him, considering - she has never been the victim, even as she was made a feast of flesh for something akin to him, terrible and powerful. She had been willing then, as she is willing now, and Sinew longs to dance amongst the bones begging to be strewn at their feet - Hestia’s bones, to be exact.