a thousand teeth and yours among them; mast / any

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

The black stallions makes his way from the Dale as the large, gray warrior, letting himself fume when he is outside of their borders. He had played it perfectly—and yet they had still questioned. He had seen it in the way that they had closed ranks and questioned, in the way that their eyes had been narrowed, their body language tense. The fury he felt licked up his sides and scorched his throat; he had not felt thwarted like that since the mother tree had split the ground beneath his feet. Weed could only hope that he had been successful in planting seeds of doubt in his mind. He could only hope that they would believe.

Forcing himself to forget the anger, Weed shrugged off the disguise and resumed his normal appearance, long and lanky, the raven made of vines flying from its hiding spot to come rest upon his shoulder, the claws digging into the flesh and leaving scars next to the ones self-inflicted. This time, he does not run. Instead, he gives himself time to gain composure, to be ready for the next Kingdom—to not let the excitement of the raid be worn around him or the indignation of the Dale’s suspicious nature.

When he is close enough to the kingdom, Carnage’s magic takes hold again and Weed morphs. This time, he becomes a small, unassuming mare—some breed of pony, he reckons. His coat lightens to a creamy gold, and his mane and tail bleach to white. His face goes from lean and hard to soft and rounded, the features friendly. This would do, he thinks, before rearranging his expression into one of concern. The raven pushes off from him and into the sky, making its way once more into the trees to find a hiding spot.

Assuming a limp, Weed makes his way, hobbling, to the border, satisfied to still see the tree dying. Pulling his mouth into a frown, he lifts his small head and whinnies quietly, the sound breaking as if he was too nervous to complete the call. Weed gingerly lifts his front leg and holds it as if injured, swallowing and waiting for whatever lucky Gates resident was the first to find him and listen to his sad tale.

WEED

© oscar keys