Thursday, January 12, 2006
Page 16
Other acts of violence were inscribed on there, though that was the most prominent. The name of the leader was quite long, for his acts were so diverse and he took so much pleasure in them. He was most often called Begetter of Violence. As Begetter stood before the dangling corpses he took his knife from its place on his belt and smashed the chest of the first one, striking and separating the rib cage before tearing it open, he then reached his fist into the gash and moved those hungry fingers through the soft flesh, tearing at the lungs and gripping the still heart with his fist, ripping it from its bondage within, severing it with his blade and then biting into it with a fierce passion, his lips smeared with the red of the pink flesh, as with his hands, the clear juice running down his chin.
Begetter of Violence then turned to the fire and plunged his hand into the heat before letting go, dropping the pink and red heart before stepping over to the second body, and repeating the process, though not as easily. The chest proved more difficult to shatter and separate to expose the tender organs within. Again he reached within, and tore at the dead flesh of the cadaver, letting bits run from the gaping hole before ripping what his soul desired, and once again biting deep into the strong flesh of the heart as though it were a golden red apple. His lips wrapped around it in warm embrace as his teeth pierced it before, the still warm flesh slipping down his gullet before he turned to the side and plunged this heart too into the fire with his other hand.
Reaching for the sky in celebration, all the Clark’s cheered their victory and their zealous dispatch of the prisoners. The bodies were cut down and burned, fueling the bright tongues.
Sometime during the night the desert began to rumble and some of the sand dance and quake, though none head it, as they were drunk on liqueurs fermented from the flesh of the cacti which they drank from flasks and bottle that they broke, dashing them to bits in the fire. The women had begun pairing off with their favored men, though, not always only in pairs. After a while the pulse slowed and on the edge of the evening’s resting place, a large black shadow moved through the pavilions and hide shelters till its black shell stood out into the firelight with the occasional glistening of metal through the ash here and there, a large hammer in hand. Some were startled and backed away; others were too drunk to even care. Still others were too lost in their passions and sweaty embraces about the bonfire to stop. The leader stood and admired the armor from the far end of the fire.
He grunted a greeting, neither warm nor welcome, but there was lust in his eyes, and any clear minded man or woman could see the fire spreading out before a blood smeared metal warrior.
The figure wearing the object of Begetter’s lust replied by reaching back and stripping off the helmet, clear of soot and ash, but scored by fire and dented from a great act of abuse, dangling it to the side. Broken Spears stood before them, his hair burned away and his face twisted with healing burns, but clearly identifiable in the light of the fire.
Begetter of Violence opened his eyes a little wider with surprise, though few others reacted at all. Moans of passion and drunkenness filled the night and those not yet intoxicated returned to their drinking, their alarm subsiding because Broken Spears was one of them. The crackling of the fire rose above all else.
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Begetter of Violence then turned to the fire and plunged his hand into the heat before letting go, dropping the pink and red heart before stepping over to the second body, and repeating the process, though not as easily. The chest proved more difficult to shatter and separate to expose the tender organs within. Again he reached within, and tore at the dead flesh of the cadaver, letting bits run from the gaping hole before ripping what his soul desired, and once again biting deep into the strong flesh of the heart as though it were a golden red apple. His lips wrapped around it in warm embrace as his teeth pierced it before, the still warm flesh slipping down his gullet before he turned to the side and plunged this heart too into the fire with his other hand.
Reaching for the sky in celebration, all the Clark’s cheered their victory and their zealous dispatch of the prisoners. The bodies were cut down and burned, fueling the bright tongues.
Sometime during the night the desert began to rumble and some of the sand dance and quake, though none head it, as they were drunk on liqueurs fermented from the flesh of the cacti which they drank from flasks and bottle that they broke, dashing them to bits in the fire. The women had begun pairing off with their favored men, though, not always only in pairs. After a while the pulse slowed and on the edge of the evening’s resting place, a large black shadow moved through the pavilions and hide shelters till its black shell stood out into the firelight with the occasional glistening of metal through the ash here and there, a large hammer in hand. Some were startled and backed away; others were too drunk to even care. Still others were too lost in their passions and sweaty embraces about the bonfire to stop. The leader stood and admired the armor from the far end of the fire.
He grunted a greeting, neither warm nor welcome, but there was lust in his eyes, and any clear minded man or woman could see the fire spreading out before a blood smeared metal warrior.
The figure wearing the object of Begetter’s lust replied by reaching back and stripping off the helmet, clear of soot and ash, but scored by fire and dented from a great act of abuse, dangling it to the side. Broken Spears stood before them, his hair burned away and his face twisted with healing burns, but clearly identifiable in the light of the fire.
Begetter of Violence opened his eyes a little wider with surprise, though few others reacted at all. Moans of passion and drunkenness filled the night and those not yet intoxicated returned to their drinking, their alarm subsiding because Broken Spears was one of them. The crackling of the fire rose above all else.
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# posted by BentSea @ 1:23 PM 
