Author:
- - - Krymsyn - - -
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Date Posted: 15:17:12 11/12/01 Mon
In reply to:
«†he¿ƒate»
's message, " <~>Beauty is the key to death..<~>" on 21:53:35 11/11/01 Sun
Ignorance. I love it. So many times I gain negative attention, and yet, when I desire such attention, all I am given is foolish attempts at compasion and understanding. Fools. Don't they understand that all I want is the glory of pain? Don't they realize the only joy in my life, the only joy that ever was in my life, is the tearing of soul from body, by my own doing? They can't understand why my hooves ache to dive against soft flesh, opening barriers that were never meant to be unlocked, tearing flesh away from brittle bones, leaving them naked before me. They think it's sick that I'd wish for their blood to drench me, to cool me, like a refreshing river, a slim waterfall crashing against my already scarlet figure. They call me a brute for stabbing young foals with burning branches. They call me demented for nuzzling a mare only so that I might tear her jugular from her slim neck. No, they just don't see that this is my life. Why don't they see? That is the true question. Is their innocence blinding them that fully? Then I shall spread the truth. I shall sneak upon them while they ignore me. And as they die, they will have learned why their pain is my joy. When they can glimpse at the maniacal laughter bubbling away from me, the giant grin spreading across my lips, then they will understand the joy of the hunt, the thrill of the kill, the adrenaline that simple pours through evry nerve in my body. And then it will be too late.
Undaunted by the lack of attention given to the flightless raven, the male continues his odd actions, hooves acting like rivets, bolting against the solid earth, tainting, marring her appearance. Pillars lock beneath unactive body, forming solid columns holding the brute's massive weight. Flanks relax lightly, muscles resting while unneeded. Slim strads of obsidian whips tangle behind the figure, meshing whilst licking and kissing at the male's shaded hocks. Scarlet pelt draws taught over thick muscles, warrior-like shield merely resting in place, scars tainting the image, hidden beneath thick layers of fuzzy winter coat. Slender neckline glides up to massive skull, holding onyx orbs within their hollows, the jewels glittering lightly in their caves, expressions running through them like writing upon a computer screen. As time passes, boredom with a touch of randomness seeps into the stallion's mind, staining with curious hues. Ashen lips spread, pinkened tongue gliding against ivory daggers to create speech. Deep masculine chest swells with breath, vocal chords sending the resounding noise into the chambers of the chest to expand and deepen before the words can mingle with the slight breeze. "Might I ask of you, a name? An identity? Or is such an inquiry too much for you to reply to... Perhaps it's too foolish of me to ask, and I should be punished. Yet if you do not think in such a manner, perhaps a whisper might seep from you, carrying a word or two that I might refer to you by." The man who asks a question is a fool for a moment. The man who does not ask his question is a fool for a lifetime.
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