02-23-2017, 08:31 PM
Patience bores him, but he suffers it for the sake of the half-dead mouse lying in front of him. He must be patient until the vultures come, then he can watch them pick the mouse clean and leave nothing but the bones behind.
Why is he doing this thing?
Because he is equal parts bored and curious, and because he had stepped on the mouse just to see what would happen and he happened to crush it’s back. Now, Feast provides a feast and the vultures can eat this small scrap of skin and meat.
So, the palomino overo colt bides his time and his time is wasted.
His patience is not rewarded right at this moment; the vultures circle overhead but he poses too big a threat to them and he is too alive, too fleshy for them to sink beaks and talons into. With a snort, he leaves them to their small snack and goes off in search of other prey and pursuits.
Prey and pursuits.
Who is he kidding? Feast is no more fearsome than the mouse he maimed; not yet, anyway. One day, he tells himself. One day. He leaves cloven hoofprints in his wake and small puffs of dust stirred up from Pangea’s dry breast as he treks across it in a long slow crawl. Feast is in no hurry - none of them interest him, none besides his father the king and his mother who spends more time in Famine’s company than his because his twin is sickly and frail in appearance (but not less creepy than Feast is, that they have in common besides their parentage).
That is until he lays his black eyes upon her spotted buckskin hide. He has never seen spots before, let alone her but then he is a bit sequestered in just his family’s company. This is the first time he leaves the familiarity (and chokehold!) of their sides to savor the emptiness that is the broad back of Pangea (back, breast, body - she is their mother, even as dusty and dried up as she is, she provides for them in some scant measure). Feast, says nothing - just stares at her.
Why is he doing this thing?
Because he is equal parts bored and curious, and because he had stepped on the mouse just to see what would happen and he happened to crush it’s back. Now, Feast provides a feast and the vultures can eat this small scrap of skin and meat.
So, the palomino overo colt bides his time and his time is wasted.
His patience is not rewarded right at this moment; the vultures circle overhead but he poses too big a threat to them and he is too alive, too fleshy for them to sink beaks and talons into. With a snort, he leaves them to their small snack and goes off in search of other prey and pursuits.
Prey and pursuits.
Who is he kidding? Feast is no more fearsome than the mouse he maimed; not yet, anyway. One day, he tells himself. One day. He leaves cloven hoofprints in his wake and small puffs of dust stirred up from Pangea’s dry breast as he treks across it in a long slow crawl. Feast is in no hurry - none of them interest him, none besides his father the king and his mother who spends more time in Famine’s company than his because his twin is sickly and frail in appearance (but not less creepy than Feast is, that they have in common besides their parentage).
That is until he lays his black eyes upon her spotted buckskin hide. He has never seen spots before, let alone her but then he is a bit sequestered in just his family’s company. This is the first time he leaves the familiarity (and chokehold!) of their sides to savor the emptiness that is the broad back of Pangea (back, breast, body - she is their mother, even as dusty and dried up as she is, she provides for them in some scant measure). Feast, says nothing - just stares at her.