lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He is many things – their dark god, a creator, a destroyer, a founder, sire, grandsire, king, on and on and on and on, title after title piled on him as the years or decades or centuries wash past him. He wears these well, absorbs them into himself, expanding them.
And Kreed?
She is convenient.
She is who happens to be there when the desire hits. It’s one of his simpler desires, one that he often ignores, considers it nearly banal.
But sometimes there is such enjoyment in the simple pleasures.
His eyes flutter closed and he listens to the movement of the nearby mare, the gentle rustling of her wings. She does not know how close he is – for he does not wish to be seen, not yet – and he drinks in this information. She will do.
He walks out, and makes himself known. He is in no grand costume, does not know if she is smart enough to recognize him immediately, or if she thinks him one of the myriad of plain gray stallions with a swirl of Arabian in their blood.
It’s a moot point anyway, for she was his as soon as he heard those hoofbeats, the noise that thrummed in time with his fleeting desire for blood.
“Kreed,” he says, and his voice is soft, as if he were here to seduce her, a handsome stranger come upon in the woods, “there is something I want from you.”
Her answer doesn’t matter. He speaks only because he wants her to look upon him, to engrave his face in her memory before he moves again.
He is quick, now, preternaturally so, and his teeth latch upon the joint of her wing, and
rip. He twists his neck, tasting blood and feathers, and feels it give, lets the wing fall from his mouth and he moves to the other side, twisting again, tearing, breaking, the raucous joy of destruction flooding his veins.
It’s the simple things.
c a r n a g e
