For 180 seconds...oh shit look at the time

Moath · (This post was last modified: June 18, 2019, 10:49 AM by Moath.)

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...

The words made sense to the monstrosity, though ‘help’ had faded into ash. Their Family was broad, yet small, no disease of whelping and airing made easy by their picky ways of reproduction. Moath almost couldn’t remember his own crafting of Midar with Malene, but the Spawn was of his own loin. However, besides the usual coat color, the same shade they all shared, no similarities could have been made. It was almost disgusting how they all were, a clan of just cesspoolic catastrophe - yet it was that selective disaster which made them who they were.

Melonii.
And Meldresi would have been proud, would she not?

These things passed through his mind with tiny clinks of nails, pointed and tipped, against the shards of fallen glass. They did not echo, yet they remained in the nightmarish hulk’s distant thought with the aftermath of complexity he could not grasp just yet. Not yet.

A slight cant began, eclipsing his dome in a leaned crescent as the words tinked and clinked against the glass with the nails. It made sense, he told himself.
There was no help in his head, no comprehension of assisting this blooden banner they waved in the terrible wind-
but Family came back to Family.
And Malcanthet was here.

Family.

Moath righted his skull, and dragged an unachored limb forward, the rest sluggishly pursuing. Monumental steps, ones you would expect thunder to bellow behind, yet the murderer moved with no sound. And before long, he stood before his brother.

Staring down upon the lean and long legged beauty of his near angelic designed twin, Moath said no more. His coat in particular was struck and tangled, matted and condensed with old blood and darkly rotting skin of uncleared flesh. The lushness of his disgusting pelt confirmed it was not his wound nor spill. It reeked of past, and of pain. But he made no move to deliver upon his Brother silence. He would not be ushered into the rolling hole of quiet. No, as he was blood, as he was of Melonii. And Moath recognized such, as he inhaled the perfumes of delicacy that he did not know.

And in silence, he waited.