07-16-2020, 03:59 PM
Worm was there.
Like a snake, he slinks in at Silent's call, and upon seeing Silent posed so above all of the rabble, with no sign of Kydobi, a thrill pulses through him. He does not need Silent to explain to him what has happened, he can feel it in the crowd, the energy, the change. There is a crackle in the air, whimsical, wild. Orange eyes find the massive one he has grown fond of, a smile rippling across his stained maw and he laughs.
Weakness had been ousted, the castle had crumbled, the rabid guards and dogs were unleashed, and they called for blood. He would let Silent speak, and listen carefully, ever so lovingly to his words, let the music of blood and war soothe and whet his appetite.
Where was the body? Could he keep it within his home? Could he watch that great feline skull rot daily, rub his depraved self over the man's decay? He had disgusted Kydobi so, his filthy habits and awful tongue, but what good was his kindness now?
Should they perch it upon their borders and leave it, let the flies breed and eat away at what remained? Prove to the other clans that there was a new regime, a new power? The idea of all of this, well. It was exhilarating. Thrilling, in an acute way he had not yet felt.
His eyes found Atticus in the crowd, and he hoped the boy would know, how kindness dies. How it festers and rots in the sun, how flies and maggots overtake its corpse, how it was ambition and power that drove the world forward, the willingness to cut your teeth on the bones of someone weaker.
Power could not exist, without putting one's whole weight on another's bones.
Like a snake, he slinks in at Silent's call, and upon seeing Silent posed so above all of the rabble, with no sign of Kydobi, a thrill pulses through him. He does not need Silent to explain to him what has happened, he can feel it in the crowd, the energy, the change. There is a crackle in the air, whimsical, wild. Orange eyes find the massive one he has grown fond of, a smile rippling across his stained maw and he laughs.
Weakness had been ousted, the castle had crumbled, the rabid guards and dogs were unleashed, and they called for blood. He would let Silent speak, and listen carefully, ever so lovingly to his words, let the music of blood and war soothe and whet his appetite.
Where was the body? Could he keep it within his home? Could he watch that great feline skull rot daily, rub his depraved self over the man's decay? He had disgusted Kydobi so, his filthy habits and awful tongue, but what good was his kindness now?
Should they perch it upon their borders and leave it, let the flies breed and eat away at what remained? Prove to the other clans that there was a new regime, a new power? The idea of all of this, well. It was exhilarating. Thrilling, in an acute way he had not yet felt.
His eyes found Atticus in the crowd, and he hoped the boy would know, how kindness dies. How it festers and rots in the sun, how flies and maggots overtake its corpse, how it was ambition and power that drove the world forward, the willingness to cut your teeth on the bones of someone weaker.
Power could not exist, without putting one's whole weight on another's bones.