|| It's a classical case...!

[Storeh]

[atrb=border,1,true][atrb=width,394,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=#000000] A gentle thrumming of a bashing suite, grinding the wheels through the rust of the cogs unused, brought by a thought tempted so sweet, laying down in a place so snugly dug as though for the fate drawing. Closer, it called, on the breath of a wind, sour to bitter with the wings of soaring high, the feathers brushing with vultures claws. A heart so tragically frantic harbored in his throat, plastered like crimson on the backs of his eyes when he blinked. Blinked. Flickering of a memory, bubbled from the sea, spreading over his eyes like a blinder of a plea. A laugh so summoned as he wished to catch her scent, the brute of the scars as a treasured lament. Counting the steps leading from one to the other, playground angels consorting and dancing with the devil, as though the flames of hell could purge his penance! A thought like that for damnation already stapled as casually to the face. Ripped edges of nostrils flared with the hunt for anything to sate, liquid orbs sparking with the need or desire to play the flesh with plucking motion. Giggling while he stalked, crouched as though a lithe little cat, the rippling movement of muscle enough to crack paper skin. The prey was bound to show itself if the patience would care to wear thin, a growl in his throat on the air of a chuckle, as though they muddled to tell the difference. A wraith of submission would catch him there. No recollection just the tear at his mane, the catching of hooks on his pelt, the watch for the land that he did not own. More like hired hand for brutish assignment. Better suited to the grave or asylum. The snap of his death to grind his own bones, the lowest of tone on the speaking of a moan, a wish for the crimson to rise. Reminding so sweetly of a mare's broken call, not to he but to help at all, a plead so sweet to poison her tongue. Hunt for the damsel not so yet in distress, though the other would have to wait for the bait to be set. Snicker so little, a hauntingly remind. A name for a breath and a command set aside. Digging into the marrow with the cackle of chord, yet there was nothing to cradle save the pitiless earth. A vast expanse, so tired of trudging, the wolves moldering where he let them lay. The squeal of an equine, the final speak of demise, was without compare to the leash he leaned from. Back he was hauled, snapping his own neck. Fight, his body called! Oh, what a dreadful plight. Kill. Kill. Kill. What was so hard about it all? A beckon, a call, then there it was set, no no. no. Tick the sky went, tsk the earth, harrow the master! Slave was he? Set in stone? Ever the more? Sleeping in the morgue. Plow under the bones from the listful tasks. Speak, little one. A comfort or a pin to the heart. Croon heartful one, the manner in way, my mind so broken as it was to stay. The ground is hard to give with his wandering, Spyder so plagued without a breathless cry, like a bird without wings that still shall fly. Until he decided something just had to die. The voice was reaching through the smog, the shimmering of air with the bite of a fog, his lips were spreading, his teeth were bared at the hallucination from the sway of his tail. Back and forth, the stallion rocked, his chest so heaving- his head so taunt! Oh, the brilliant streams of stained rebellion, the tireless oxygen to breath. A giggle, a gander, a word sung. The edges were snapping, the borders were blurring, the eyes were widening. And his heart was racing. Pounding in his ears, pulsing through his blood, dragging through his gaits and narrowing his eyes. Giggle to life. Laughter to death. Sway, sway, sway! Fly, my fly, where is my fly? He could not see her, he could not smell here, but boy. He. Could. feel. Her. There. Over there. Somewhere over there. The euphoria of her heart, the scars ripping her skin. Feel. Spyder was reaching. The brute was prepared for something, anything. Expectant, rash, without wait. His teeth were set on the jaw just to break. Destroy. Take. Never give back. The warmth of the blood lapping at his jowls, the deepened tearing of the skin just to make him crawl. Her crawl. Anywhere. Anyone. Challenge, and race. Spaces are shimmering. It is all the same. First one to fire, first one to die. Cross his path. The Spyder waiting for the fly.

[/color]

Muse: ...
OOC: .....
Music: ....

[/td][/tr][tr][td][/td][/tr][/table][/center]