Duck Lake Story; one.

@Astraeus

Pumpkin was a bitter old man. He remembered seeing the sky turn crimson, and the his paws tainted with scarlet, and the corpses laying on the ground. So brittle, and so easy for them to break- but of course, they were barely the size of his paw. Their eyes yet to open, and even then, they would never open again.

That wench, deserved the suffering he inflicted. So did them all, all these.. Vixens, and whores! He scorned the woman that was crossed, and flashed his fangs to them so. Pumpkin knew in their hearts they were all witches, they held no loyalty, no honor, and would betray their husbands. He would save the men of this world.

Then the pups-

the very thought of them stirred his core. He felt bitter and angered, the mere sight sent the old man into a chaotic rage. The mothers already betrayed, and the world did not need more bastards.

He was on a mission; godly and holy. It was the justice of this world to clean the whores and bastards.

keepin ursus thread vague; a bit of naturalist in there

Loam to clay, clay to grit, grit to lake;
paper crown searches in the watery gloom, as if his reflection will reach for his rotund cheeks and lilt into his ears what he wants to know. The triad and the cowbird had departed from Ursus' claim, where the argent had laid safe and ever-watchful among the poppies and posies. Quailing; spineless ; he knew all too well —

I am no swordsman.
Gossamer-thin patience, withering like lead in flexing digits. And so it is here Astraeus confides his hand-to-mouth woes, streaming from lips, lashes; only so the banks and the water can hear. He assumes he must listen in return, or their oath was just emptily dealt nothings;
but not afore ruminating about what makes him. Oh, father who bore him, was he warlord? And his mother? His prize? Maybe she was some forlorn maiden, who'd fled her son in lusting for hear homeland and her hearth. And him? Was he not her heart; her hearth?

Does his papa, does his Mahler even love him? All those wishy-washy nights where he'd sat in-waiting for those empurples royals to lick a n assuring kiss and his crown a guide him homeward. Was the warden even searching? Or was he besides himself with his real brood, saying the same words he'd spoken to him?

Maybe my father was a swordsman.
gauzy-eyed, bleary, infantile pearls of tears who'd been welling in the sacks of his emeralds, solemn cadence of pitter-patter breaking the still vigil of the lake breaking. Those inscrutable seconds which sorrow drowns every-and-each moment, he mimicries what his so-called papa had ruffed: “Hooo, mein herz.”
a single, last tear that he would ever shed.

Ebbing sadness departs like the flowing of raging river, broken into pieces as it passes him by, now he resolves absently listen to what the earth has to riddle to him...

He was gray, just like him. Gray, just like all the others were. Was this another one of his bastards? Definitely not from her, she only had a few, and a few there were left to slaughter. He could only laugh, laugh at what has been spread, and so has been chosen for the end. Surely a sign, that he was to remove the stains.

Surely so.

A snarl, a cackle, oh the bitterness. He prowled to the sorrowed pup, caring not of what moment he may have. Maybe he was thinking of him, and the dearest one who was now perished, and sent to hill. Alongside them all, and this one? Would join him so.

A dart forward, a thirst for blood, and a claw toward the child.

Seemingly, the hand undesirably deemed fate decided he was not rebuked enough. Perhaps it was timely, in a cruel, contorted manner. All he knows in the twinkling, the writhing under some vengeful vessel; the sun drinking away the sky:
        and the candle held to cheek and eye as the embers ruin him —

        Welded shut tearful lashes were, and the beating of a faster, braver, wiling heart —
        a raging hymn in his ears, rising of fear like yeast in an oven,
        (fear wrath pain tear wind earth sky sun live)
        a flint and steel spark as the embers join him:

        anguish.

        Bloodied lips uncurls to unveil inexperienced sabres;
        a shriek of a warlord that made the undine Naiad ripple as so did her waters, spilt bloodlet dilutes the lake's surface. As he was possessed by phantasmal essence. 
        The filched throat of loathed enemy betwixt slavering jaw.

        What had he become? Something to bewarned, heeded. He found the taste of it delectable. And so on this solemn eve, the mini-warlord severs his pride from the hilt of it's shoulders —
and after the sun fully is laid to rest in bed of the horizon, he lays in wait for his henchmen.

I am the answer, I am the swordsman.

What should've been an easy kill, as a misery of misfortune. A grab at the pup and a smile at glee to rid the world of another bastardous pup. Though arrogance clouded their mind, as they dominated him so, and not thinking of anything else. Pumpkin was to strike and bite-

but then their very voice was ripped away from them.

A gush of blood as they looked at the other in awe, not understanding what just happened, nor realizing, what was. No healing from their throat as it poured n endless stream onto stream onto the victim, but suppose they were no the victim. His vision wavered at the loss of blood, and their body started to sway and topple forth.

Whether they went onto the child, Pumpkin doesn't know.

The world faded into black, and so did his breathe into the air.