When the world turns cold and heavy with sleep, blanketed beneath a pristine snow fall that lay unscarred, the slick wet rot of decaying leaves still line the bones of Beqanna.
The dark man has taken notice with eyes far too wide and watching of the perceived little lamb. He titters and minds her openly. The execution of breathing catches within her throat, throbbing her lungs, as he holds her. One long dark limbs draws the creature closer and then another follows. ’Epithet’-, her name in the mouth of another releases the hold and her burning lungs gasp desperately for air.
He is out of place in this modern world, standing like an ancient god, crumbling and nearly forgotten...but there lay something much stronger that the looming storm of his earthly body. The dark eyed mare notices a tingling sensation begin to crawl up the long path of her spine till it prickles like fever sickness at her jowls, her mouth dry with a sandpaper tongue. ’Home again?’ The syllables fall away from the scarred lips as his black eyes never leave the curve of her face.
Perhaps he is an ancient god...one of the ones who cracked the sky and split the earth to draw demons and the Reckoning. Epithet bristles slightly, taunt with anticipation, collected. ’What has brought you back?’ A conclusion to his approach, a punctuation in her atmosphere.
The pale mist woman lifts her chin slightly to better observe him, breath him, taste the sickness on his skin. He is not of the new generation and it is proclaimed in each calculated moment of the stallion. Epithet can recall the days before her magic had mutated when she once walked the land as a powerful goddess but was too young and naive to wield it. ”I wanted to see what Beqanna has birthed in my absence.” Simple enough.
Epi is still cautious but curious. His blood is old (possibly older than her own) and she wants to know why he has captured her flitting attention. ”You know my name, old man, how is this?” The question is directed despite already knowing the answer. One brow lifts with the tilt of her head, a hind hood lifting to crook as she shifts her weight from one hip to the other. She attempts to read his demeanor, peek behind the age worn cracks of his alluring features. Gods do not allow themselves to grow old nor do they ever truly fade away.
They simply rest.
All other sounds and souls cease to exist as her small ears flicker forward, listening, scrutinizing. She does not tremble in his presence for he is like her. They have a common bond that has yet to be exhumed from beneath the decay of their own souls. They are the rot beneath the snow, the sun bleached bones of the slaughtered. The stories of old weave between their ribs and infect their dreams. Epithet would know him once he gave his name...and only then will the last grain of sand fall in the hourglass that kept time frozen in this very moment.
The dark man has taken notice with eyes far too wide and watching of the perceived little lamb. He titters and minds her openly. The execution of breathing catches within her throat, throbbing her lungs, as he holds her. One long dark limbs draws the creature closer and then another follows. ’Epithet’-, her name in the mouth of another releases the hold and her burning lungs gasp desperately for air.
He is out of place in this modern world, standing like an ancient god, crumbling and nearly forgotten...but there lay something much stronger that the looming storm of his earthly body. The dark eyed mare notices a tingling sensation begin to crawl up the long path of her spine till it prickles like fever sickness at her jowls, her mouth dry with a sandpaper tongue. ’Home again?’ The syllables fall away from the scarred lips as his black eyes never leave the curve of her face.
Perhaps he is an ancient god...one of the ones who cracked the sky and split the earth to draw demons and the Reckoning. Epithet bristles slightly, taunt with anticipation, collected. ’What has brought you back?’ A conclusion to his approach, a punctuation in her atmosphere.
The pale mist woman lifts her chin slightly to better observe him, breath him, taste the sickness on his skin. He is not of the new generation and it is proclaimed in each calculated moment of the stallion. Epithet can recall the days before her magic had mutated when she once walked the land as a powerful goddess but was too young and naive to wield it. ”I wanted to see what Beqanna has birthed in my absence.” Simple enough.
Epi is still cautious but curious. His blood is old (possibly older than her own) and she wants to know why he has captured her flitting attention. ”You know my name, old man, how is this?” The question is directed despite already knowing the answer. One brow lifts with the tilt of her head, a hind hood lifting to crook as she shifts her weight from one hip to the other. She attempts to read his demeanor, peek behind the age worn cracks of his alluring features. Gods do not allow themselves to grow old nor do they ever truly fade away.
They simply rest.
All other sounds and souls cease to exist as her small ears flicker forward, listening, scrutinizing. She does not tremble in his presence for he is like her. They have a common bond that has yet to be exhumed from beneath the decay of their own souls. They are the rot beneath the snow, the sun bleached bones of the slaughtered. The stories of old weave between their ribs and infect their dreams. Epithet would know him once he gave his name...and only then will the last grain of sand fall in the hourglass that kept time frozen in this very moment.
E P I T H E T