10-24-2018, 04:36 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She is not unused to visions – she has supped quite often of madness, has heard voices, seen creatures dead, alive, and nonexistent. She is not so used to visions from her own father (her own rapist, too, but that’s another rabbit hole, a nasty one). But she recognizes his voice, echoing in her mind, invasive, sending images of a chestnut stallion with a seal on his chest. Curious. My corpse masterpiece pauses, head lifting, sniffing the air as if she is a bloodhound. She has yet to step foot on Pangea’s shores (odd, that she hasn’t, it seems like such a good match for her – Carnage-created and half dead). But she knows the way. She sees other horses heading that way, too, and it comes to her that this is not her vision alone, that it is shared. A communal killing, then. Alas, she does so hate to share. “Rhonen!” she cries, as if she knows him, shrieking his name across the drowned woods, hunting. She is not cunning in this hunt, she is oafish, brutal, crashing through underbrush. Another vision comes, now, and whether from the dark god or her own dead brain, she doesn’t know. Rhonen and his father, Mikhael. Her own son. Hers and the queens. (She’d loved her, as much as creatures like her could love anything. But she fucked that up, of course, so then she – well. She ruined her.) Nasty memories. Nasty. She has never felt much for her own blood, has viewed them with a detached curiosity, a bit of bewilderment, as if they had suddenly appeared beside her. She feels nothing now, as she finds him, one amongst a throng – there are beasts and horses, and some stand in pious protection, others want for blood. She is the latter. She dives into the fray, crashing against their bodies, hooves flailing at her own grandson, seeking flesh, seeking anything, seeking to feel alive. how original a sin. |