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Post by sibber-chow on May 20, 2012 18:52:08 GMT -5
Each inhalation, each burning, labored breath had been a struggle this winter. The frozen air had gotten progressively worse as the island inhabitants predicted an ice storm headed for Isola Dei Dei , and the gales passed through him, leaving a chilled sensation to travel his spine and thoroughly through the core of every bone. In spite of the prediction of such stormy horizons, it wasn't even that this season was a particularly bad one that left the stallion's body to tremor with each gust and suffer with each passing minute of frozen endurance. Instead, there was something about the reanimation of a corpse and the conversion of souls that forbade the brute from comfort and allowed him to ache so feverishly.
Anil had not initially felt the pains of his resurrection. Rather, it had been the opposite; there had been an indescribable sensation of revitalization. Every breath was cherished and it was as if there was no cease to the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Yet, an end had come, and here he was, wandering the island in utter desolation.
There had been, and he could not deny that there still was, regret for having left behind his herd. Dear Phantom, dear Sorrows, he’d abandoned the mares… even baby Char, a filly he cared for as if she had been his own. The heart ache only aided the toll his burdened body took as it began to wither. Wither, yes, the reanimated corpse gifted to his soul could not cling to life much longer it felt. He was falling fast. The body was still strong, although not as compactly built with muscle as his Mustang body had been, yet it was as if each exertion, even each daily sensation of life was becoming a struggle upon the core of his being, as if his soul was rejecting the body and the second chance he had been granted…
Another snort of air burning through his lungs as the stallion came to a pause. Dark eyes were upon the terrain and he saw nothing but a patch of land as dismal in state as his own. How fitting. The stench of blood and death should have been apparent, should have warned him to turn away and leave these lands for good, but the aroma of his own decaying state and the raw sensation of quivering nostrils never picked up on these clues of the fate approaching him... the fitting end to come.
Word Count || 411
Character || Anil
OOC || lamey lame first post. >>
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Post by Storeh on May 20, 2012 19:26:31 GMT -5
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Cold and dead was the winter's grasp, breathing like a wraith upon his back. Spectre drifting like haunt through mind, feeling idle and wasting time. Tasting hollow feeling low, hunger calling from bones below. Treading far, he searched from prey, wind howling in mournful way. Click of teeth and sharp of hoof, snow falling heavy on heavy blow. Hunger, hunger, how can I sate thee? Wicked, wicked, without sorrow be. HUNGER. Simple mine seeking out blood to bathe and scream and shout. Where? Walking far and walking wide, nothing smiles and nothing ides. Seek! Hide as you will, hide as you may, Spyder will find you, sure as day! The massive stag let a giggle escape the chasm of his throat, twisting mist as it gave air. Ghosts again, he thought so now, clanking softly as though he had found- them. Dead, dead, they had died! Long since shattered and eaten alive! Starving. Barren earth and ageing stone, nothing here but ashen snow. Nostrils flared to the wind, catching blood and writing sin. Prey! Smell the weakness in their form, crippled mind to strike the blow. Orange eyes widened at the thought of this, the blood of the being calling to him. Go! Go! GO!
Not far. Seeking out, seeking slowly, drawing out. His pace was more an idle stalk, frame hunched forth and lips peeled back. Smartly, sweetly, he bared his teeth, tasting the blood he had yet to see. Whimper, whimper, he needed food. Chase? Chase! I will catch you. Large head threw back to tear at his own flesh, catching the skin on the ribs. Ripping easy, he tore a shard, lapping at his own crimson and laughing at loud. Haunting! Happy hunting! Blood pouring out, his head returned without a sound. Moving forward he crouched and snickered. Where oh where had the little fly gone? Oh where, oh where, could the pony be? Again, the scent took flight, and Spyder processed into the cold, leaving a bloody trail. Box? Box! Mind in a box! Body? Corpse? He drank in his choked laughter, nostrils painted red. Demon eyes widened once again, flashing darkly and sparking truth. Truth? When was he to dine? Shred, tear, see what's inside! The scarred bay moved forth with more strength, muscles moving effortlessly as though to fly.
The fly. He saw the fly. Caught in the web that he had set. Trap. Shivering and sweltering in skin too large, Spyder stopped and waited as though to guard. Cocking head, he did not think. Snap the line and let it sink. Hook the kill, cast a line, phantom silhouette so divine! Smell the feast, smell the corpse. He could hear the blood pounding under the stag's flesh. Soft flesh. Supple. Tender. Tear! Tear! Scar! Breaking bones and crushing flesh, his muscles tightened with his teeth on edge. Weakness, truth. He could feel it under his skin, a million insects trying to get in. The weak must die. The weak must go. The weak must be killed and consumed and sent down below. Smile. Spyder smiled, showing the stained ruins of his teeth, matching so fittingly the patchwork of scars. Walking patchwork, a ragdoll and toy. Toy? Bite. No bark, just bite. The smirk twisted once again, the foulest depth it came from within. Whose dog was he? Whose plaything?
The hound of bedlam, hear my cry.
On legs like pistons he lunged forth, ears pinned back to tattered skull. Muscles taunt under pelt so stained, racing forth with mind so strained. Jaws parting in hellion cry, trumpeting death and promising demise. Flesh and rot he blurred through snow, sending blood streaming in flow. Eyes widened he took in his prey, motions known he then sprang. Sprang high and sprang hard, another bugle on lips, a scream, a howl, a proclamation. Spyder knew this way. War on the ice and war on the snow. Blood on the pure to taint it. Know. Pale horse behind his back, breathing on neck, crooked lips parting once more to bite into neck. Flesh so tender. Flesh so sought. Spyder would win. This stag would not. Hoping to crush and hoping to maim, the kill would be exalted, and none would we saved. Spyder shakes. Spyder cracks. Spyder leaps.
SPYDER ATTACKS!
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Music: .... [/td][/tr][tr][td][/td][/tr][/table][/center] |
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Post by sibber-chow on May 20, 2012 20:07:08 GMT -5
And, then it was that an ominous feeling wrenched at the gut of his mortal body yet seemed to sooth the soul that so desperately tried to escape. The feeling of his body and soul constantly at battle amplified twelve-fold as instincts of the mortal sensation told him to take his life and run with it while his soul begged for salvation and freedom from its mortal tomb. Mind raced through the fog, eyes hazed the world around him, knees shook and his body screamed and plead to crumble beneath all intensity while muscles still twitched and urged flight. No movement aside from an epileptic shudder seized the stallion’s body. He was nothing more than a sitting duck, a fly in the web, the perfect prey to a not-so-conventional predator.
Sight rushed back in a tunneled motion, objects and colors gyrating with intensity before slowing into a piercing sort of clarity and the warm trickle of blood ran down his already ragged, ill-groomed hide. Instincts over-powered all thought and all resistance to move from the entrapped soul; mortality overcame to fight for existence. A futile fight, but one that every creature embarked upon each day regardless. Why should Anil be so different?
Lurching away from the assailing brute, flesh tore from his bones allowing a gash heavily laden with crimson fluid where the foul creature’s maw had once been. No questions for why came to mind. Only the fight mattered; Anil had the heart of warrior, after all. It was only second nature.
Retaliation! He thrust his chocolate maw to dip into his adversaries own flesh with hopes of leaving behind a gash of his own into the red fiend’s hide. Yet, he was not so daft as to linger long enough for another snap by the crimson counterpart. Dancing backwards, orbs were upon the fiend of red clarity, while the surround winter’s desolation was none other than a white blur to his focused glance. And, another snap of the maw, yet movement was sluggish this time around. Whether it was the withered state of before or the new gash that bled a little too freely, he felt hazy again, blurred and slow to pull back. His feet no longer danced despite how quickly his mind might tell him that he should be moving. The thoughts were met with physical and metaphysical resistance.
Finally, sensation came back, circulating to every extremity of his bodice, and the brute was able to lurch away although he had no time nor immediate interest in assessing whether such evasion was completely unscathed or not. Orbs were again focus and tail slapped along his hide. It was upon this moment of clear reflection that he recognized his adversary as what it actual was; a horse. Another horse, although bloodied, scabbed, and demonic in every aspect, was his attacker? And, then he recalled the tales of a hell-ish fiend beneath the now fallen dictator, Orpheus. A snort, a stinging, burning sensation of exerted breath in a body that longed to live but no longer welcomed him.
Whether it was out curiosity or simply to attempt a moment for rehabilitation in the body that warred itself in the fight for survival, words were finally uttered from his own lips. "Why, fiend, hell-hound do you feast upon me? Your master has passed - haven't you none to serve? None to spill blood for?"
Word Count|| 585
Character || Anil
OOC || Meh...
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Post by Storeh on May 20, 2012 21:11:33 GMT -5
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The revulsion of flesh ripping as though nothing more than threadbare cloth, tattered rags hanging from skeletal forms. Bones calling from below, marrow singing! Quiver with anticipation. Dancing the ballet so highly praised, so wanted, devil’s spawn, hellion. Exhalation to bring exaltation! The snap of teeth like lover’s qualms. Adrenaline pouring over to rush through swelling veins, the blood singing soprano high! Calling his name! Spyder felt his skin tear, an explosive release of skin from muscle, blood itching inside him. Tear it all away! At first it was a purr, a bubble of metallic form throat. Then the world rang with his laughter! The holding frame did not shake with his hysteria, voice breaking the silence like shattering glass. Onward they countered, dodging. Hooves clashing like sharpened fate. Echoes of giggles. A warrior was this prey, in a body ill fit, rank with death! Destiny says death. Demise. Desecration! Bending, bending, and break! Decay and rot clung to him, and Spyder long to ingest it. Swallow it whole, tear his ribcage apart and live. Live! Die. The soul was contained, drained, and remained. Renamed? The bloody bay had little use for names. His own was a coat, to turn and shed. Called easily form split tongue, cut maw, beaten form, cleaved raw. Brute. Bastard of blood. Breaking, destroying, maiming. More! Movement stopped the dance in pause. Wait. Wait. Count the clause.
Tail to lash and teeth to clamp, ear pricked forth in idle interest. Curiosity may have killed the thrice-damned cat, but Spyder was the one to put an end to that! Eyes to seek and eyes to see, Spyder’s own glared back at thee. Cocking head as lyrics rained, drinking in as stilts reclaimed. Motionless as made corpses the cracked stag stood, orange eyes sparking in darkness remote. Tilting head and cracking smile, blood-cacked lips splitting in grin, skeletal nay but stained so yes. Interest or distaste as his tongue racked over teeth. Blood so wanted, blood so sought. Save your words, your soul is bought! Serve to whom would the Spyder made his web? Does it matter if one shall serve the dead? Dearest brute may lay his bones, but the claim can still be staked on tattered soul. ‘Fiend or hellion matters not, nor the symbol of a service bought. Deep inside your blood will flow, my being longing to let it show. The warmth of flesh can sate my needs, the hunger telling me to feed. Riddle this and riddle that, soon you will have riddled your last.’ Tone so soft and tone so sweet, bitter edges as though never to meet. Drowning in sugar and drenched in spice, keeping low to save the vice. Sparking iris and binding time. Long for death and torture thrive. ‘Fly in the web. Fly in the trap. Dig yourself deeper. There’s no going back.’
Intoxicated by squandered speech the brute cut vocal to let words bleed. Muscled neck arched in silent progression, teeth digging at the wound on the chest unhidden. With a dare to fate to do its best, he thrashed at the skin and twisted into it. He tore the hide and ribboned the skin, laughing the threats as he shredded his skin. Spyder the warmonger, Spyder the dog. Beading of blood to torrent to flood. Tempting the movement, his eyes chose to dance, teeth dripping crimson as he chortled to death. Threads of hide spun a wave through his teeth, dripping to the earth below his feet. Orange eyes widened, flames to dance, fangs baring at the stag in sadistic grin. Malevolent wish in more than mind. Speaking answer to murder kind! His neck was thrown upward to heavens to scream, body raw as muscles tightened like coiled spring. War was this battlefield and trap, silken thread to edge the gap. Crimson beaded at his nostrils, live rivers running to the ground. Less than a moment. Fly! Fly! He jumped and he lunged, and he flailed and he sought to tear. Move! Move! Without care without cease. Without thought without heed! Criss crossing scars serrated the skin, sharp points of hooves digging within. Contact was sure as the battle to rage, bash then to tear, flaying to the four winds. Struggle was heightened, the mind so raw. He sought to bring from mouth the forsaken cry. Pity with need for dying! Why? Why?
Salvation.
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