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Winter was no friend of the lonely traveler. She was a bitter and caustic lover; grating and unsavory; a saboteur of safe travels and general well-being...
But it was his favorite season— the season of Death.
His blood pumped faster. His limbs churned harder. He did not balk from work, but rather prevailed in it; always hunting for what was trying and yearning for all things he was hard-pressed to take. It was the time of the unfortunate, his time, and the dreary white, so soft and pristine, presented to him the sorts of things he preferred. Like challenges, and easy pickings: trapped victims and morose survivors on their last leg of hope.
All the uncertainty and stretches of time where he went unfed were things that invigorated the unconstrained predator to be his most natural self— an unyielding savage, teasing Hell with a soul he was not yet ready to relinquish; dissatisfied with his mortal coil, yet finding ecstasy in every moment he spent near the brink of it.
Even now he was thin, thinner than he could have liked, even though the red staining his pale mouth said that he had recently fed. But it had not been recently enough, as his eyes, squinted against the rising sun, shouted that he was still hungry.
[/td][/tr][/table]But it was his favorite season— the season of Death.
His blood pumped faster. His limbs churned harder. He did not balk from work, but rather prevailed in it; always hunting for what was trying and yearning for all things he was hard-pressed to take. It was the time of the unfortunate, his time, and the dreary white, so soft and pristine, presented to him the sorts of things he preferred. Like challenges, and easy pickings: trapped victims and morose survivors on their last leg of hope.
All the uncertainty and stretches of time where he went unfed were things that invigorated the unconstrained predator to be his most natural self— an unyielding savage, teasing Hell with a soul he was not yet ready to relinquish; dissatisfied with his mortal coil, yet finding ecstasy in every moment he spent near the brink of it.
Even now he was thin, thinner than he could have liked, even though the red staining his pale mouth said that he had recently fed. But it had not been recently enough, as his eyes, squinted against the rising sun, shouted that he was still hungry.
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Messages In This Thread
these scars long have yearned for your tender caress - by Darcia - February 27, 2017, 05:21 PM
RE: these scars long have yearned for your tender caress - by West - February 27, 2017, 05:41 PM
RE: these scars long have yearned for your tender caress - by Darcia - February 27, 2017, 09:00 PM
RE: these scars long have yearned for your tender caress - by Semira - February 27, 2017, 09:04 PM
RE: these scars long have yearned for your tender caress - by West - March 05, 2017, 06:55 PM