When the sea sweeps away from the shore Wormlust goes with it and dives divinely into the dark deep that's black enough to be not ocean-water but the blackness between universes where it's still and cold enough that nothing lives. She's another thick shadow moving through the bottom of the sea, a shadow of a shark with dark droplets of blood floating like clouds above her head and octopus tentacles hanging from between her smile like a broken silk on the loom of fate. The sea is deeper where she is now and she waits, waits, waits for the rush of immortality to burn like molten metal through her bones again.
It never happens.
And when the sea rises like a mountain and crashes back to land Wormlust goes with it again. She is the white-water and flotsam on the curling, tsunami and her wings hang over the crest of that dread wave and carry her on and on with the waters as they crash over the cliffs. For a moment the sea feels higher than the mountains and she feels higher than that as she rushes to land on the waters.
Wormlust feels high enough to be something more than divine, something more than the very first living creature ever to be. She feels as if the land rushing below her waves is nothing more than the below and she laughs and laughs and laughs to see the mortals sucked deep into the foaming dark waters. Her only regret is that she's too far above the swallowed grasses to feed, to fill her belly with the dead so that the sea-worms might not feast and bloat and look to be the great devouring predators of the deep.
She's too alive with the speed of her forward flowing to notice the rocks and twigs that leave razor blade lines of blood across her skin.
Soon the land no longer passes quickly below her and the waters spread to thin to carry her further. It's her wings that carry her deeper into the Night-lands, and they look like storm clouds when they spread wide and she looks like a bolt of lightning when the storm flashes in the distance and reflects upon her skin.
Wormlust is incandescent in the storm-glow and her reflection looks like a strange thing in the waters that ripple black enough to be melted glass that might cool and capture all those trapped to the land like ants inside amber.
Ahead a black unicorn poses on a rock and Wormlust imagines tearing that horn from upon her head and tossing it out like an offering to those black waters (her waters). She spirals above the unicorn and looks to be a great monstrosity of feathers and bone-white and glow when the storm rages on around them.
A bolt strike near by the two of them and Wormlust drifts off again, her wings are too lovely to burn and smolder and coat the sea in a fine dull sheen of ash.
And in the corner of her gaze when she turns there are great beasts that fly towards the court. They are mighty, wider in the wing than she. Oh, she thinks, they look to be god-made, monsters from the imagination of children and she bares her teeth and her lips bleed where the edges of her sneer meet flesh.
They look to be worthy of a hunt and perhaps strange enough to carry bits of her immortality in their blood. So she flies higher than them and drifts almost above the storm clouds, a dread eagle as bald as bone that closes in erratically in her madness of need, need, need. Even the chill in the air and the way her weak lungs scream for air, for a lower altitude in their new mortality cannot stop her.
She's felt death in her bones since she surfaced on this wicked sea and she would dash herself to pieces in the storm-clouds just to feel the thrum of religion coursing like a meteor through her veins.
WORMLUST
monster of the sea
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