 There is in her something terrestrial and ominous starting to open up. It's in the black brightness of her marrow and it pushes at her ribs with talons and tentacles. Between the planets and dark space of her it looms, a supernova made of horrific adoration for each and every bone-white inch of the king. He walks beside her and she walks beside him and it walks somewhere in the place between.
This body is too simple a thing for all the things churning and tangling around and around like snakes and comets through her veins. Her eyes are too plain for all the yawning crevices looming where her mind should be. Each of her teeth is too flat and marble hard for all flavors she wants to make them ache with. Her bones, oh her bones, they are too hollow and mortal feeling in this cage of flesh.
Eshek already wants to erupt and this world is still new dirt on her tongue and new sod stuck in her hooves.
The stone castle looms ahead and she cannot help but see it as nothing more than a mighty throne on which the unworthy perch like crows. She wants to unhinge her jaw and scrape her teeth along the stone to see what sound it might deem to sing. Surely the dust rising like mist at her unholy hooves might carry the sound and amplify it like snow. She smiles at the thought and that dead organ inside her ribs stutters and starts again. This time it sings a new song, a song of sand, and blood, and suffering.
Only the shadow of the basilisk brings her eyes from that old and cracked throne reaching towards the sun. The beast's clacking jaw sounds like an ode to her and the hiss it speaks with only words created for her and her alone. She turns towards the monster and each pop of her spine rings out like the crack, crack, crack of a whip hungry for blood.
Eshek turns from the throne and the ghost and makes her way towards the beast. The feathers feel like nothing as she brushes her nose like a kiss against a wing that has arched too close to her. “And what if I said I wanted your monster?” She looks back at the bone king and her lips are barely able to keep each flat, marble tooth from feeling flesh grind between them like grass and dirt.
“Would you still want to satiate my hunger?” Her head swings back towards the blindfolded predator. And the sound her hooves and the mist of dust make seems to say, in a language not made for horses, I understand, I understand.
Gods are not made to be tamed.
They are made to consume.
eshek
“a fathomless chaos of eternal night.”
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