12-12-2017, 02:25 PM
WICKED
SOMETIMES ITS MY LIFE I CAN TASTE
And so, in the end, Grandfather had left. He had taken his grandchildren with him, and after they had all grown and turned one into the other, Wicked sought to retrace his steps. Doing so brought him home.
And he was much changed.
His dark purple hide was big, and his horns were massive. They clung to his head like massive black spires, twisting and gnarled, just like what was left of the stallion's heart. His black leathery wings were like his father's. He'd never met the man, but he'd heard Mother curse his name enough times to know what his father looked like. His black eyes were now seasoned, experienced. He was a killer, and there was one definable thing about him.
He preferred the taste of meat and blood over any other.
The mere thought of it set him on his insides, and made him hard. Feeling the intimate connection of warm blood and eating the still-beating heart of your prey was something that could not be matched by the munching of grasses, which he found tasteless. He would much prefer drinking an enemy's blood than vegetation any day.
And though his name was Wicked, he did not feel Wicked. He simply was, who he was. He could not help how he has been raised--dipped into the river Styx practically ever since the day he was born.
His face is grim set as he looks over the meadow... Shaking his head, he tosses his horns in an aggressive manner. He may have been the youngest of three--the runt--but even his sisters could not deny that he had grown to be by far the largest of them all. He was the brunt of no one's jokes any longer.
pic by kyle thompson html by call