11-17-2016, 05:56 PM
Progeny are, at best, a way to get your rocks off.
That was the way he saw most of what became of the things that slithered out of him every time he had mounted some poor bitch of a mare, making her wiggle and scream under him. There is a level of grim satisfaction that crosses his face with every life he creates, just as with every life he takes—as if he were a God.
Of course, a god never dies.
And yet, without his magic, that is precisely what he had become. He had warped himself over the land and had made it his own, licking the flames and seeking something darker from which to stand upon. His black heart was still growing as he took a smoky step forward. That useless organ was rattling away in his ribcage, his skeleton fading in and out of crackled flesh that was still burning from where the fairy had restored his magic. The stench of death clung to him like a bad perfume—following him everywhere he went. And yet, the stain of his progeny upon this earth was still making its mark here. He could sense it. He breathed her in.
He could feel her.
Red eyes scan the horizon looking for the squirmy worm. It had grown now; he knows that. Probably creating more squirmy worms of her own. Such is the pity. Life is overrated.
But pleasure is everything. Even pleasure that comes in death.
@[Kortnee]
That was the way he saw most of what became of the things that slithered out of him every time he had mounted some poor bitch of a mare, making her wiggle and scream under him. There is a level of grim satisfaction that crosses his face with every life he creates, just as with every life he takes—as if he were a God.
Of course, a god never dies.
And yet, without his magic, that is precisely what he had become. He had warped himself over the land and had made it his own, licking the flames and seeking something darker from which to stand upon. His black heart was still growing as he took a smoky step forward. That useless organ was rattling away in his ribcage, his skeleton fading in and out of crackled flesh that was still burning from where the fairy had restored his magic. The stench of death clung to him like a bad perfume—following him everywhere he went. And yet, the stain of his progeny upon this earth was still making its mark here. He could sense it. He breathed her in.
He could feel her.
Red eyes scan the horizon looking for the squirmy worm. It had grown now; he knows that. Probably creating more squirmy worms of her own. Such is the pity. Life is overrated.
But pleasure is everything. Even pleasure that comes in death.
@[Kortnee]