god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
The freshness of spring is clear in the forest, despite the burning embers of gold and red that paints the trees into an everlasting fire. Snow has disappeared from their black and twisting branches, melting into the thick pine-needle laden ground, while ice tries to cling helplessly to roots. The forest smells damp and earthy, a robust flavor that is tinged with the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh (her corpse lies in his chamber, but the jewel is safe within his depths) or the putrid, metallic smell of dried blood.
The smell of new blood drifts to him - a stench so familiar, so longed for, that he will come crawling through the darkness in search for its source. He has learned to love his visitors, and has gone so far as the borders of Sylva itself (leaving his placid lake behind him) to greet whoever dare lingers close enough for him to grab, to influence them towards his never-ending lake and to the darkness of his bone-filled cave. He kept little pieces of them (most of them didn’t notice, mostly because they were already dead) and his cave is littered with their remnants, little trinkets to remind him of past visitors, and to keep him looking forward for more.
Beneath the trembling darkness that the thick canopy overhead supplies, the evergreen and pearl stallion moves at a leisurely walk, carefully stepping over large roots of the tall redwoods, water dripping listlessly from the long and tangled tendrils of his mane and forelock. The scent is stronger now as he departs from his foreboding lake, the blackness of his eyes noticing the fresh blood that taints a trees bark every now and again, or marks the pine-needles with a sticky, red color. He lowers his head, nostrils quivering as a deep nicker passes through him, inhaling deeply of the equine blood. With a twitch of his nose he slowly raises his head, his tongue running over the cracked dryness of his pale lips.
The blood is not from a wound, but something that is doused in it, moving through the forest.
“I smell you,” his deep baritone voice gurgles into the silence, bottomless eyes scanning the darkness around him for any signs of whatever lies within.
Nothingness responds, and with a calculating twist of his head, he moves forward further and farther away from his precious water.
It is not long before the scent leads him to the scene - organs displayed in a haphazard pattern, body parts tethered together by only loose tendon and sinew, the dead eyes of the victims staring at him helplessly. He nudges a hindquarter with the broad of his nose, his pale tongue running across the cold and bloodless skin. The feast had been blood-soaked and thrilling, and Maugrim’s dark eyes glimmer with jealousy and viciousness. He almost did not notice the Clown as his bloodlust fills his soul, a sharp snort resounding from his pale nostrils as the familiar voice cuts through the air. Maugrim says nothing as he draws up beside the Forest-king, looking past Modicum and into the blackness of the dismal forest, raising his chin to sample the air around them. The stallion says nothing, wondering what will appear from the shadows beyond.
The smell of new blood drifts to him - a stench so familiar, so longed for, that he will come crawling through the darkness in search for its source. He has learned to love his visitors, and has gone so far as the borders of Sylva itself (leaving his placid lake behind him) to greet whoever dare lingers close enough for him to grab, to influence them towards his never-ending lake and to the darkness of his bone-filled cave. He kept little pieces of them (most of them didn’t notice, mostly because they were already dead) and his cave is littered with their remnants, little trinkets to remind him of past visitors, and to keep him looking forward for more.
Beneath the trembling darkness that the thick canopy overhead supplies, the evergreen and pearl stallion moves at a leisurely walk, carefully stepping over large roots of the tall redwoods, water dripping listlessly from the long and tangled tendrils of his mane and forelock. The scent is stronger now as he departs from his foreboding lake, the blackness of his eyes noticing the fresh blood that taints a trees bark every now and again, or marks the pine-needles with a sticky, red color. He lowers his head, nostrils quivering as a deep nicker passes through him, inhaling deeply of the equine blood. With a twitch of his nose he slowly raises his head, his tongue running over the cracked dryness of his pale lips.
The blood is not from a wound, but something that is doused in it, moving through the forest.
“I smell you,” his deep baritone voice gurgles into the silence, bottomless eyes scanning the darkness around him for any signs of whatever lies within.
Nothingness responds, and with a calculating twist of his head, he moves forward further and farther away from his precious water.
It is not long before the scent leads him to the scene - organs displayed in a haphazard pattern, body parts tethered together by only loose tendon and sinew, the dead eyes of the victims staring at him helplessly. He nudges a hindquarter with the broad of his nose, his pale tongue running across the cold and bloodless skin. The feast had been blood-soaked and thrilling, and Maugrim’s dark eyes glimmer with jealousy and viciousness. He almost did not notice the Clown as his bloodlust fills his soul, a sharp snort resounding from his pale nostrils as the familiar voice cuts through the air. Maugrim says nothing as he draws up beside the Forest-king, looking past Modicum and into the blackness of the dismal forest, raising his chin to sample the air around them. The stallion says nothing, wondering what will appear from the shadows beyond.
m a u g r i m.
@[Nexu]