08-29-2021, 09:20 AM
Molech
He is hungry.
Hungry for their thoughts, their innocence; starved of touch and the sound of their rapidly beating hearts, like dove’s wings fluttering against its cage. Too long has it been since he created his own story, weaved himself into theirs seamlessly, became a part of their life that they could not live without, feeding on their desires and dreams - becoming the exact thing they needed (and wished for) the most.
He can only do so much, though - they have to be willing, otherwise he finds it too difficult to wedge his way into their lives, too much work for a reward so simple. He just wants them - is that really so terrible? - and when their mind is shrouded, relentless and unbreaking, he simply moves on. He does not have time to waste with those whose wills are too strong, too unbending. He needs them to be malleable, he needs them to be lost and alone searching for a guide; a stronghold. He could be anything and everything, if only they would give him a chance.
So he searches for chances in the cold mist that circulates ominously beside the river, icy fingers reaching out through the stillness and the silence, searching for a stream of consciousness that fits his needs. He lets his own thoughts drip languidly from his own mind, seeping into the open and into the mind of any nearby that were willing to allow him entry. Sad, lonely thoughts would permeate their own, a beacon to any who may have an empathetic heart. Those tended to be the easier to infiltrate, ones who cared more about others than themselves.
The tri-colored stallion keeps his head low and travels slowly, tracing the river’s edge with careful, quiet steps. The mist from the river dampens the deep goldenrod of his mane, plastering the tangles of it onto the dark evergreen of his neck and shoulder. Molech’s large wings shift at his sides, the chill of autumn settling over him bitterly. The muscles in his jawline are taut with clenched teeth, feeling the frustration as only emptiness surrounds him. He sighs slowly, allowing his breath to seep from him in a cloud of warm fog, curling around his handsome face as he attempts to release the tension there. He tastes the air, a thin and terrible forked tongue flickering darkly from his parted lips - a thin wave of inky black against his golden mouth, and then it is gone, disappearing.
Hungry for their thoughts, their innocence; starved of touch and the sound of their rapidly beating hearts, like dove’s wings fluttering against its cage. Too long has it been since he created his own story, weaved himself into theirs seamlessly, became a part of their life that they could not live without, feeding on their desires and dreams - becoming the exact thing they needed (and wished for) the most.
He can only do so much, though - they have to be willing, otherwise he finds it too difficult to wedge his way into their lives, too much work for a reward so simple. He just wants them - is that really so terrible? - and when their mind is shrouded, relentless and unbreaking, he simply moves on. He does not have time to waste with those whose wills are too strong, too unbending. He needs them to be malleable, he needs them to be lost and alone searching for a guide; a stronghold. He could be anything and everything, if only they would give him a chance.
So he searches for chances in the cold mist that circulates ominously beside the river, icy fingers reaching out through the stillness and the silence, searching for a stream of consciousness that fits his needs. He lets his own thoughts drip languidly from his own mind, seeping into the open and into the mind of any nearby that were willing to allow him entry. Sad, lonely thoughts would permeate their own, a beacon to any who may have an empathetic heart. Those tended to be the easier to infiltrate, ones who cared more about others than themselves.
The tri-colored stallion keeps his head low and travels slowly, tracing the river’s edge with careful, quiet steps. The mist from the river dampens the deep goldenrod of his mane, plastering the tangles of it onto the dark evergreen of his neck and shoulder. Molech’s large wings shift at his sides, the chill of autumn settling over him bitterly. The muscles in his jawline are taut with clenched teeth, feeling the frustration as only emptiness surrounds him. He sighs slowly, allowing his breath to seep from him in a cloud of warm fog, curling around his handsome face as he attempts to release the tension there. He tastes the air, a thin and terrible forked tongue flickering darkly from his parted lips - a thin wave of inky black against his golden mouth, and then it is gone, disappearing.
YOUR PRECIOUS LIGHT IS FADING
@flower