her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs

Moath · March 22, 2019, 05:19 PM

There was nowhere left to go, nowhere left to run. Panic crept up my throat as I ran into yet another dead end, and realized he had led me here. Turning around, I found him...

Shambles and twiddling twitches was what so many had reduced Moath to. But the hulking nightmare lived on, his unending lumber following behind his Mother as some awful boogeyman brought to the light, would. A massive shadow behind a nimble shade, the awful psychopath lived on.

She had brought him unknowingly to the borders of another pack, and the threads tingled the nares of the beast. Again, it brought to life something innately evil within him, and had she not moved to halt and stopping him with her howl to them, he would have lumbered past her and attempting finding the foods. But ebonyesque amethysts stayed upon his petite Mother, his blank expressing coupling with his dreadful huffs of inhales and exhales, rigid and rough wreckage of sound that almost asked what they were doing here. But he had no mind to ask.

However, grey python of tongue rolled out of a lolling set of jaws, lips shredded from his many encounters with Foods whom had fought back. The serpent, dry from his wheezeful intakes and exhausts through I parted maws, rove over over stained ivories, slithering brusquely over the knives that he had used so many times, knives he hoped to use again, today. Hunger pulled at him, and the salivation began. It pooled obstructively on the end of his unfurled tongue, and ran a telling dribble through the left and right torn scraps of jowls. Turning to the mountain place, the beast hoped he and his Mother would find Food soon.

That they could kill someone, together.

And in silence, he waited.