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+--- Thread: i am the gnawing on your bones; straia (/showthread.php?tid=2130)
i am the gnawing on your bones; straia - Kingslay - 07-05-2015
KINGSLAY
In the distance there are fires that curl in amber spirals up and into the air, eating up the life-filled bark of ancient trees. The flames snap and crackle as they grow, as they devour, and the air soon becomes heavy and thick with ash and smoke and death. He could stop them if he wanted. He could have them wax and wane while the winds hissed, and then peter out for the effort, if he wanted. But he likes the way they consume. He likes the way they turn the forests to charred, black ash and rubble. He likes the way they take, and take, and take. The way they give nothing back.
It is the only light he will not smother – the flames.
The only thing he can let live, apart from the girl with the muddy, brown eyes.
He felt a kinship with her, once – with her muddy, brown eyes, and the slope of her hips, and the way she breathed his name as though he was someone instead of something. He feels a kinship with the fire and the ash, now. He is like the smoke he leaves in the wake of his burning body, dark, and silent, and suffocating. He could end you while you slept. He could end you while you dreamt of things much softer, much lighter, much kinder, and less scathing than he. He is not someone. He is something.
Something vile.
Something wicked.
Something lethal.
Like the smoke, he winds through the trees left standing. He curls through the trunks, and skims beneath the low hanging branches that turn to kindling at the touch of the flames along the ridge of his neck and spine.
He has come for her.
He has come for the promises she made once.
He has come because the girl with the muddy, brown eyes is still lost to the horizon and once – once, Straia promised to bring her home if he gave her what she wanted.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.
RE: i am the gnawing on your bones; straia - Straia - 07-06-2015
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
RE: i am the gnawing on your bones; straia - Kingslay - 07-08-2015
KINGSLAY
Above him there are ravens that are as black as ash.
They dive overhead tearing holes in the veil of smoke he has so gingerly crafted. He remembers them like the witches because of the way that they swoop and they swirl, and the memory makes the scars that would line his chest if it were not for the charcoal and soot come alive. The lines were carved through living flesh then by the long, gnarled nails of witches in the night, and the memory burns them hotter than the flames he surrounds himself in.
And the corners of his lips will twitch and quiver, not because the phantom scars are burning, but because the ravens are a welcome entourage.
They combat the flames while he burns them hotter, because he likes to watch the struggle, because the thrill of life and death is the only thing that he will ever be truly capable of loving, because…
Because he is what he is.
Because he is a monster.
Because he is a god.
He does not change. He does not grow. He is caught in a loop that leaves no room, or time, or space, for evolution. And she is a Queen now, with a ring of feathers strung round her forehead – and he is impressed even if it is only momentarily as he contemplates the methods of the feathers collection. He wonders if ravens scream. He wonders if they bleed and cry when you take away their wings. He wonders if she will let him find out, but decides in a moment that he will regardless of her clearance.
‘Kingslay,’ she says, like they always do. They would sing the name he gave them all, between their teeth and through their lips, until the end of time – or until he took it back.
“Etro,” he says, because he does not change, and he does not grow, and he has never been a creature of many words. And she will know precisely what he wants.
They dive overhead tearing holes in the veil of smoke he has so gingerly crafted. He remembers them like the witches because of the way that they swoop and they swirl, and the memory makes the scars that would line his chest if it were not for the charcoal and soot come alive. The lines were carved through living flesh then by the long, gnarled nails of witches in the night, and the memory burns them hotter than the flames he surrounds himself in.
And the corners of his lips will twitch and quiver, not because the phantom scars are burning, but because the ravens are a welcome entourage.
They combat the flames while he burns them hotter, because he likes to watch the struggle, because the thrill of life and death is the only thing that he will ever be truly capable of loving, because…
Because he is what he is.
Because he is a monster.
Because he is a god.
He does not change. He does not grow. He is caught in a loop that leaves no room, or time, or space, for evolution. And she is a Queen now, with a ring of feathers strung round her forehead – and he is impressed even if it is only momentarily as he contemplates the methods of the feathers collection. He wonders if ravens scream. He wonders if they bleed and cry when you take away their wings. He wonders if she will let him find out, but decides in a moment that he will regardless of her clearance.
‘Kingslay,’ she says, like they always do. They would sing the name he gave them all, between their teeth and through their lips, until the end of time – or until he took it back.
“Etro,” he says, because he does not change, and he does not grow, and he has never been a creature of many words. And she will know precisely what he wants.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.
RE: i am the gnawing on your bones; straia - Straia - 07-09-2015
straia
the raven queen of the chamber