10-21-2018, 06:42 PM
KINGSLAY
He comes.
Of course he does, slithering out of the canyon shadows like a rabid animal; the corners of his mouth full of froth and the putrid stink of decaying flesh. He isn’t rabid though, and it only makes him worse for it. His was a disease he’d welcomed into his body, cradled and nurtured, grown lovingly into adulthood. So, of course he comes, reeking of death, not because his father beckons him but because his sickness had lead him to seek out Rhonen’s flesh anyways.
It doesn’t matter to him if the boy is guilt, or if he is innocent. It only matters to watch the blood boil over in his veins. It doesn’t matter to him if this is someone’s child, someone who was born into the world to be loved. It only matters to see the mud suck him under, to fill his lungs with earth until they collapse or break apart from the pressure - to see pieces of them infiltrate the cavity of his chest. It only matters to salvage the eyes, unseeing, for the birds and the flies to have their way with.
FIND HIM. KILL HIM.
KILL HIM.
KILL HIM.
So, when he finds him he conjures the rain to make the ground slick and wet. It would suck at his heels, and splay his legs if he tried to run. Then he adds the heat, degree by degree by degree; first a frothy sweat, next a racing heart and panic, until the blood was hot and the flesh would sizzle and burn and the air would fill with the sweet, grotesque aroma of burning hair and cooked fat that he had come to worship. He pays no mind to the others, their madness only adds to the imagery he devours whole like a starving snake.
And if he changes his mind, they are only extra bodies to slay.
Of course he does, slithering out of the canyon shadows like a rabid animal; the corners of his mouth full of froth and the putrid stink of decaying flesh. He isn’t rabid though, and it only makes him worse for it. His was a disease he’d welcomed into his body, cradled and nurtured, grown lovingly into adulthood. So, of course he comes, reeking of death, not because his father beckons him but because his sickness had lead him to seek out Rhonen’s flesh anyways.
It doesn’t matter to him if the boy is guilt, or if he is innocent. It only matters to watch the blood boil over in his veins. It doesn’t matter to him if this is someone’s child, someone who was born into the world to be loved. It only matters to see the mud suck him under, to fill his lungs with earth until they collapse or break apart from the pressure - to see pieces of them infiltrate the cavity of his chest. It only matters to salvage the eyes, unseeing, for the birds and the flies to have their way with.
FIND HIM. KILL HIM.
KILL HIM.
KILL HIM.
So, when he finds him he conjures the rain to make the ground slick and wet. It would suck at his heels, and splay his legs if he tried to run. Then he adds the heat, degree by degree by degree; first a frothy sweat, next a racing heart and panic, until the blood was hot and the flesh would sizzle and burn and the air would fill with the sweet, grotesque aroma of burning hair and cooked fat that he had come to worship. He pays no mind to the others, their madness only adds to the imagery he devours whole like a starving snake.
And if he changes his mind, they are only extra bodies to slay.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.