------------------I have seen the dark universe yawning ---------------------------------Where the black planets roll without aim, “Perhaps.” The sea speaks from her lips, oozing syllables as much as it oozes brine and salt-water. She is as coarse as the ocean bottom, jagged with corral and a graveyard of bones long since picked cleaned by all the scavengers of the depths. Each syllable sounds like a tentacle, crawling out from her smile and across the gruesome shadow she paints. Out, out, out to wrap around that humming pulse of his life vein throbbing beneath the broad arch of his cheekbone. He lowers his weapons and she chuckles. It's the roar of the sea as it thunders against the cliffs, the crumbling echo of those cliffs when they can't hold against the tides. Those antlers of his, peeling and on the cusp of some evolution are little more than picks she'll use to dig out his flesh from between her teeth when she's done slaking her hunger. Outside this temple, soon to be turned into a feeding ground, the stars thicken and brighten, a primordial, celestial silk under which she will turn this shrine into something more, something as holy as she. The marble will run red, as if all the earth has been broken down to the core of its being, disintegrated into molecules and blood. Already she can see it, see the way she might dash his bones upon the sharp edges of the broken statue to crack him open like a gull might crack open a mollusk or spear out the insides of a crustacean. “I shall worship on the altar I will make of you.” Oh, but her words sound holy and promise more than any god of this place might offer. She promises freedom from the mortal cage of these horse bones, freedom to be tethered not to earth but to the entire cosmos. Wormlust promises that she might pray upon the very core of him, whisper her secrets of revelation as she etches words into his bones with the points of his own evolving antlers. And when she moves, lifting up those heavy, world devouring wings the marble seems like nothing more than a cloud to pillow the heavy weight of all that she is. The shadows of him, of her, of the pillars of stone are swallowed up in the blackness of those wings. They blot out the stars, the moons, any light that might have filtered past her to highlight the dripping fangs that appear as she gapes wide her smile. Already she salivates for the sweetness of his rage, his hate, all the dark things that have seasoned him better than any brine might. Her wings never beat enough to take her up, up, up above him, up to where she might land upon his back like a falcon, a dread hawk, a carrion bird to pluck apart his demise. She only walks forward, wings spread wide to swallow up all the memories of any world outside this one of hunger and survival, of a monster older than Novus, older the any world he might fathom with the limits of his mind. He has fought against the wrong sort of god, shattered her image to dust in an empty show of fury and suffering. She. She is the thing they should worship and fear. For she needs no stone statue to inflict fear and adoration, she only needs the harsh snap of her teeth, the suffocating weight of her wings and the way she seems like the first thing to ever have been created. Her hunger could create religions. monster of the sea |
@Lysander
