in the abysmal herd of stone and dust
The hour is early when the elk with winter storms dying in their bones stumble into the canyon. Their bones are as brittle as icicles and their antlers are as delicate as weapons made of snowflakes are oft to be. In each of their chests there is something melting and their lungs breathe in and out with bitter cold instead of bitter fury.
They are dying, this herd of elk. They are dying.
They have all begun to think (as wild animals think) that their existence is suspect. They think like beasts brought by gods should think, and that is as a hive, as one. A doe thinks the same thing as a stag, and their child thinks the same thing as the parents. And all they think of with each mirror breath is that the sun feels a little too hot on their skin as it rises above them, made sickle like a scythe by a black cloud of dust.
Perhaps that is why the beast found them, huddled together into one single mass like lambs bleating and begging for the slaughter. However he found them doesn't matter because in the end he licks the air with his tongue and his hunger starts to ache in his chest when he feels sweet, cool winter on his beak instead of hot, desert sand.
But it's not flesh or blood or ice that he wants to feed on. He wants stone, an army of stone sentries in which he might play god. And so he reveals himself to the hive of winter elk, and because they are all one, they all look in his direction like a hundred leaves turning their faces towards the rain. They all feel their agonies the same too. The way each organ turns to stone inch by inch, and each muscle spasms as the meat around it hardens.
The eyes are the last to go, only because they all look at him and he wants to watch the moment a hundred lives snuff out all at once. Finally they all fade in one slow, slow blink and the winter storms in their chests are dead, dead, dead.
He has his menagerie of stone elk and he beds himself down in the middle of his herd to dream the ancient dreams of beasts when they are satiated.
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The hour is high-noon and the sun is no longer a scythe whetted by a dust-cloud but an orb, a ball of fire that promises to drink deep of all the water in the world. When he opens his eyes the shadows of his herd stretch low beneath a hundred bellies made of stone, full of stone. He is hungry again and already his collection seems tiny and small compared to the canyons gaping around him like the mouth of the great monster god.
He, Legion, feels blessed then when the sand in the distance billows up in a small cloud that suggests a single thing has come to see how lovely his army of stone is. And so he waits, watching from those low stone-belly shadows, as the cloud comes closer, and closer, and closer.
Oh, won't you come even closer! He begs silently (monster to monster), because his beak and his tongue are made too close to god to tangle itself around the language of horses. And maybe as the shadows shift a little in a cloud it seems as if all the stone elk are starting to whisper words that pour from their frozen lips like dust and darkness.
He waits and waits and waits That small cloud of dust comes closer and closer and closer.
The moment the dust cloud comes close enough to clog whatever hole is left in the lead elk's stone head Legion rises up from the center of his collection. His tail smacks against the dirt and the elk at his side disintegrate into piles of dust that rise up around him like spirits let loose from the bowels of the desert.
And in that cloud of dead-elk dust he lunges for the white horse who has appeared in his own cloud of red-desert dust.
They are dying, this herd of elk. They are dying.
They have all begun to think (as wild animals think) that their existence is suspect. They think like beasts brought by gods should think, and that is as a hive, as one. A doe thinks the same thing as a stag, and their child thinks the same thing as the parents. And all they think of with each mirror breath is that the sun feels a little too hot on their skin as it rises above them, made sickle like a scythe by a black cloud of dust.
Perhaps that is why the beast found them, huddled together into one single mass like lambs bleating and begging for the slaughter. However he found them doesn't matter because in the end he licks the air with his tongue and his hunger starts to ache in his chest when he feels sweet, cool winter on his beak instead of hot, desert sand.
But it's not flesh or blood or ice that he wants to feed on. He wants stone, an army of stone sentries in which he might play god. And so he reveals himself to the hive of winter elk, and because they are all one, they all look in his direction like a hundred leaves turning their faces towards the rain. They all feel their agonies the same too. The way each organ turns to stone inch by inch, and each muscle spasms as the meat around it hardens.
The eyes are the last to go, only because they all look at him and he wants to watch the moment a hundred lives snuff out all at once. Finally they all fade in one slow, slow blink and the winter storms in their chests are dead, dead, dead.
He has his menagerie of stone elk and he beds himself down in the middle of his herd to dream the ancient dreams of beasts when they are satiated.
--------------
The hour is high-noon and the sun is no longer a scythe whetted by a dust-cloud but an orb, a ball of fire that promises to drink deep of all the water in the world. When he opens his eyes the shadows of his herd stretch low beneath a hundred bellies made of stone, full of stone. He is hungry again and already his collection seems tiny and small compared to the canyons gaping around him like the mouth of the great monster god.
He, Legion, feels blessed then when the sand in the distance billows up in a small cloud that suggests a single thing has come to see how lovely his army of stone is. And so he waits, watching from those low stone-belly shadows, as the cloud comes closer, and closer, and closer.
Oh, won't you come even closer! He begs silently (monster to monster), because his beak and his tongue are made too close to god to tangle itself around the language of horses. And maybe as the shadows shift a little in a cloud it seems as if all the stone elk are starting to whisper words that pour from their frozen lips like dust and darkness.
He waits and waits and waits That small cloud of dust comes closer and closer and closer.
The moment the dust cloud comes close enough to clog whatever hole is left in the lead elk's stone head Legion rises up from the center of his collection. His tail smacks against the dirt and the elk at his side disintegrate into piles of dust that rise up around him like spirits let loose from the bowels of the desert.
And in that cloud of dead-elk dust he lunges for the white horse who has appeared in his own cloud of red-desert dust.
@Raum, on his way back from the battlefield, might see ahead a mass of dark shapes that looks so very out of place against the red, canyon stone. When he's close enough he will see that it's not a mass of shapeless darkness, but a hundred winter-elks turned to black stone. Maybe it's the voice that rings in his head, saying 'closer, closer, closer, come closer' that makes him take that final step towards the dead herd.
Suddenly, Legion the Basilisk lunges and the battle is waged. Hopefully Raum knows enough about ancient beasts to avoid looking Legion directly in the eye.
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Thanks for giving me a monster to write. <3
Enjoy! -nestle
Suddenly, Legion the Basilisk lunges and the battle is waged. Hopefully Raum knows enough about ancient beasts to avoid looking Legion directly in the eye.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
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Enjoy! -nestle
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