01-09-2017, 04:15 PM
I am ready he says.
Not today, little boy says Death.
In the dead of winter, there is nothing left of the world but to die. Those who survive chance the wonderment of living to see a new season of life and luxury. But what luxury was there in bounty? There was none.
Chew on the bones of your adversary. Drink their marrow until their strength becomes yours and you learn exactly what it means to walk a mile in your enemies’ shoes. The black draft stands tall, coming down the bluff. He steps on a log, separating it with a great cracking sound. The snow; it’s falling. And poor little Kilter.
He, like the rest of the poor plebians of this world; He is dying.
It’s beautiful.
He says nothing as he approaches the skeletal formation of the boy. Fog follows in his wake, circling around them both until there is a shroud of death that comes closer… closer.
Death does not want you boy, it says. And neither does your father. What purpose does the young wolfpup have in this world? In a place that does not care whether or not he lives or dies, Deimos finds that he cares very much. The only audible sound is a snarl, and he drags a thick black hoof through the snow, digging up root, removing the rotting foliage beneath. Revealed; next springs’ shoots—full of water; full of nutrients.
The black child has a choice to make.
What say you, boy. Do you live, or do you die?
DEIMOS
cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
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