01-03-2017, 01:36 AM
ooc: I forewarn you - I don't know exactly what this is, only that it is long and all over the place but tada! Feast and Famine now exist! And they should totally have another next breeding season. 
Sinew does not like the way he eyes her things;
These are pets, as their mother had been; mammoth-made and strange.
(They are just as strange and exotic; a flavor that Sinew is constantly drawn to - craves, even.)
Blasphemous, barbaric; but she tolerates his boiling stare, even if it is for the mere sake of their earthy exertions. He sowed dark seeds in the burnt soil of her uterus, and she felt those seeds take shape and begin to grow, even then, she knew.
Greatness.
Damnation.
She knew;
She knew.
He eyes her things and she can almost see the bloodlust rise in him. It is a dark tide that overthrows the goat-grump shadow of his face. She bares her teeth at him in warning; lacking a tolerance for threats towards them - they are hers’, part of her collection, and she sends the odd pair off with a whistle and a jerking motion of her head that they’ve come to understand all too well. (Nips and snorts usually follow if they are slow to obey her, so they obey and are gone before they further rouse her ire.)
She calms, barely.
Attentive once more to him, as he spins her name from his lips like a chant she cannot ignore.
Sinew leans into him - into teeth and tension. The sensual violence of him has instilled a dark craving in her. If only he knew… it too, is a kind of power and one that he holds over her head, as much as his name in her mouth is powerful too. He finds the scar and peels back from her, like skin from tendon and bone, and she almost feels a physical hurt from the separation of their bodies. Her black, black eyes find his, matching stare for stare and steel for steel. Some measure of contempt hurls itself through her blood and her spit until she chokes it back down - “Tarnished,” the name is scratched out of her throat, like a birch split open by winter. She feels split open by the admission, and is slow to stitch herself back together for the lust and loathing is apparent in her face.
“He marked me,” she begins.
“And I liked it.” she ends.
Pollock, she knows, will not like this.
He though, has marked her in other ways, more so than Tarnished ever had.
Greatness.
Damnation.
His spawn grows.
She fattens up prettily;
A plump roast of pregnancy that often stays away - from him, from all of them.
Time, ravenous, comes --
The birth is not easy, it never is.
She goes to the Mountain.
For some reason, they should be born there;
So she has a taste of their true selves.
Out comes the first colt:
He is big - bigger than she imagined, a gluttonous thing that she rips the birth sac back from so that he can take in a greedy suck of air.
Oh he is breathtaking! Even in his smear of birth fluids and blood, he is a thing to behold! From the tips of his tiny goat horns down to the devilishly darling cloven feet. Like his sire before him, he has but one beautiful broken nub of a wing that hangs limp and darling from the right side of his body.
(All he has in common with Sinew, is that like her, he is an overo.)
Then comes the second colt:
Big too, but somehow smaller - or maybe skinnier, she cannot decide. Like the brother before him, she rips the sac from his nostrils and he takes in a greedy suck of air.
He too, is just as breathtaking! Wet, without a shiver, she beholds him. He is Pollock in miniature from the palomino skin to the broken nub of a wing on the left side. However, he is a pure throwback to her sire, Infection - it is the undead appearance that makes her realize this, and too, the tiny fangs from the mouth that opens in a baby yawn. (Rattlesnake, she thinks, fawning over those tiny perfect sharp teeth in his perfect hellish mouth.)
She does not know yet, that he can will himself invisible. He may not even know it yet.
Up on the Mountain, she nurses them.
Knows that Pollock shall not be far from her in hopes of laying eyes upon the bountiful fruits of their union. (Already she plots ahead to the next, his seed - her loins, how much hell can they bring to earth?) Pride holds fast to her face; adoration, too.
She thought Burnt had been a gift - still is, but nothing like these too.
“Feast and Famine,” she names them, satisfaction thick on her tongue as they turn their heads as one to her.
Time, still ravenous, passes --
They have matured and she allows them no more milk, which makes them sullen boys.
They try her patience and pick at her motherly nature like a bad scab that itches; she snaps her teeth at them, shoos them ahead of her, as they clamor back towards the familiar slab of crude earth that is their residence. “Behave,” she reminds them, not having to say the threat of how their father is king now of that eyesore of earth they call home. They listen, snickering and smirking, plotting small ways to disobey her because she loves them too much to really chastise them (though they are familiar with her teeth and hooves, and how quick they are to dole out punishment to either of them).
“Pollock,” she beckons, unmindful of the way that she can conjure him up like smoke. The power she has over him is lost in the power their sons have over her - whatever those hellish brats desire, they get, and she feeds them the very things they ask for; stories, promises,
Greatness.
Damnation.
These are pets, as their mother had been; mammoth-made and strange.
(They are just as strange and exotic; a flavor that Sinew is constantly drawn to - craves, even.)
Blasphemous, barbaric; but she tolerates his boiling stare, even if it is for the mere sake of their earthy exertions. He sowed dark seeds in the burnt soil of her uterus, and she felt those seeds take shape and begin to grow, even then, she knew.
Greatness.
Damnation.
She knew;
She knew.
He eyes her things and she can almost see the bloodlust rise in him. It is a dark tide that overthrows the goat-grump shadow of his face. She bares her teeth at him in warning; lacking a tolerance for threats towards them - they are hers’, part of her collection, and she sends the odd pair off with a whistle and a jerking motion of her head that they’ve come to understand all too well. (Nips and snorts usually follow if they are slow to obey her, so they obey and are gone before they further rouse her ire.)
She calms, barely.
Attentive once more to him, as he spins her name from his lips like a chant she cannot ignore.
Sinew leans into him - into teeth and tension. The sensual violence of him has instilled a dark craving in her. If only he knew… it too, is a kind of power and one that he holds over her head, as much as his name in her mouth is powerful too. He finds the scar and peels back from her, like skin from tendon and bone, and she almost feels a physical hurt from the separation of their bodies. Her black, black eyes find his, matching stare for stare and steel for steel. Some measure of contempt hurls itself through her blood and her spit until she chokes it back down - “Tarnished,” the name is scratched out of her throat, like a birch split open by winter. She feels split open by the admission, and is slow to stitch herself back together for the lust and loathing is apparent in her face.
“He marked me,” she begins.
“And I liked it.” she ends.
Pollock, she knows, will not like this.
He though, has marked her in other ways, more so than Tarnished ever had.
Greatness.
Damnation.
His spawn grows.
She fattens up prettily;
A plump roast of pregnancy that often stays away - from him, from all of them.
Time, ravenous, comes --
The birth is not easy, it never is.
She goes to the Mountain.
For some reason, they should be born there;
So she has a taste of their true selves.
Out comes the first colt:
He is big - bigger than she imagined, a gluttonous thing that she rips the birth sac back from so that he can take in a greedy suck of air.
Oh he is breathtaking! Even in his smear of birth fluids and blood, he is a thing to behold! From the tips of his tiny goat horns down to the devilishly darling cloven feet. Like his sire before him, he has but one beautiful broken nub of a wing that hangs limp and darling from the right side of his body.
(All he has in common with Sinew, is that like her, he is an overo.)
Then comes the second colt:
Big too, but somehow smaller - or maybe skinnier, she cannot decide. Like the brother before him, she rips the sac from his nostrils and he takes in a greedy suck of air.
He too, is just as breathtaking! Wet, without a shiver, she beholds him. He is Pollock in miniature from the palomino skin to the broken nub of a wing on the left side. However, he is a pure throwback to her sire, Infection - it is the undead appearance that makes her realize this, and too, the tiny fangs from the mouth that opens in a baby yawn. (Rattlesnake, she thinks, fawning over those tiny perfect sharp teeth in his perfect hellish mouth.)
She does not know yet, that he can will himself invisible. He may not even know it yet.
Up on the Mountain, she nurses them.
Knows that Pollock shall not be far from her in hopes of laying eyes upon the bountiful fruits of their union. (Already she plots ahead to the next, his seed - her loins, how much hell can they bring to earth?) Pride holds fast to her face; adoration, too.
She thought Burnt had been a gift - still is, but nothing like these too.
“Feast and Famine,” she names them, satisfaction thick on her tongue as they turn their heads as one to her.
Time, still ravenous, passes --
They have matured and she allows them no more milk, which makes them sullen boys.
They try her patience and pick at her motherly nature like a bad scab that itches; she snaps her teeth at them, shoos them ahead of her, as they clamor back towards the familiar slab of crude earth that is their residence. “Behave,” she reminds them, not having to say the threat of how their father is king now of that eyesore of earth they call home. They listen, snickering and smirking, plotting small ways to disobey her because she loves them too much to really chastise them (though they are familiar with her teeth and hooves, and how quick they are to dole out punishment to either of them).
“Pollock,” she beckons, unmindful of the way that she can conjure him up like smoke. The power she has over him is lost in the power their sons have over her - whatever those hellish brats desire, they get, and she feeds them the very things they ask for; stories, promises,
Greatness.
Damnation.