02-28-2017, 09:29 PM
feast.
death inspires me,
like a dog inspires a rabbit.
The tip of the longest pinion feather barely scrapes the ground from the one broken wing that juts from the right side of his back. Twigs and thorns both try to catch at the feathers, dirtying them and tearing them loose so that there is a scattering of pale feather-fluff behind him, almost like a trail of breadcrumbs so that he cannot lose his way through the labyrinthine trunks of the trees. But even the wind is against him and blows his trail of feathers away until there is no remainder left of his passage through there, or so the wind thinks because it cannot undo the cloven marks left by his split goat-hooves. So he creeps ever on, slow and steady.
Fixated;
Feast is fixated and his head is a compass that points to a specific direction, except that the colt cannot say if it is further North that he goes or elsewhere. Just forward, towards the sliver of moonlight that begins to pierce the darkness all around him. He is unafraid - the son of the gift-giver and brother to the krampus-prince has nothing to fear, not now. Not from the scurry of dirty pest-paws to the gleam of hunger in predatory eyes; he is unafraid in his strange creep-crawl that serves a slow purpose in getting him there, wherever that is - apparently, towards the singsong chant of “come out, come out, wherever you are.”
It makes him pause, considering;
Come out, the wily feminine voice beckons.
(Beneath the girlish persuasion, there is stony command that intrigues him.)
She ought to be careful whom she calls from up and out of the dark, like him - flat black eyes fixate on her, devoid of fever or interest (except for the faintest spark of it in their empty depths), as the palomino overo steals close and closer yet. “You should be more careful who you conjure up out of the dark,” he cautions, his tone curiously devoid of reprimand or mischief as he circles her, looking over the sky blue points that blend into the black of her skin and end in the pale bits of hair that cascade down her neck and over her rump. She could be pretty, he supposes, if he was given to appreciating beauty but there is nothing beautiful in the plumpness of the living beyond what they can offer as carrion.
(He’d taste her if he could but he lacks Famine’s fangs to devour her by, and has only his grim black stare to kill her by. That and his boyish charm.)
Feast smiles up at her, craning his head to get a better look at her blue-blazed face.
“Looks like the sky rubbed off on you,” he tells her, his eyes more believable in their farce now - they look almost kind, almost.