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Oct 21, 2016 18:51:12 GMT -5
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on Oct 21, 2016 18:51:12 GMT -5
Hello, all, and happy upcoming Halloween!
In the spirit of this spook-tacular month, I have a small treat for all you peering eyes! While certainly not the best or the more horrifying story, I do hope to at least give you guys a bit of a taste of the creepy! So, without further ado, I present to you, my first appearance within the Fan Fiction section with this ghoulishly inspired tale, 'The Serpent of The Battlefield'!
Enjoy, and proceed with caution!
The Serpent of The Battlefield
A one-shot | Gore-Warning/Cannibalism-Warning
A one-shot | Gore-Warning/Cannibalism-Warning
Gluttony and greed were two things that he knew well. He knew that the two were very akin, and that one could coddle the other until pride was born to him. He knew how to sow the rot and gain the spoils, and he also knew how to fill his stomach with the flesh of his bitterness, and found it altogether delectable.
Yes, he knew many a things of which most wouldn’t dabble, and he found them altogether attractive in their timeliness.
He was born into a place of little repose, with chaos looming as it so often does in times of stress. Blood was something he tasted in the air on the eve of every day, and it was what he blinked away in the heat of other’s rage. It was what caused him tremblings and repulse, and what stained him gray and weary, and what made him do the things that he then did.
So simple was it to say that it was all because of war; that he was the product of chance and outcome; the spawn of pain; the serpent of the battlefield.
As time went on, his steps grew accustomed to the ways of fighting, and his eyes no longer turned from the sight of the macabre. He had grown accustomed to his afflictions, and altogether, his scars had come to define him as something had ultimately become; a monster of misshapen ideals and calloused ways.
He loved them- those scars- as one might love their young.
So it was on a day that his stomach was empty, and his thoughts particularly distorted, that he let air to a dark temptation he’d so often dwelt upon.
Wearing his gluttony like a second skin, he tore the pride from his chest, and replaced it with his tongue. And with nothing to stop him, he snapped the bones between his teeth, stripped them of their flesh, and paid not mind to the filmy eyes that stared at him. He tore and cut, and chewed until his stomach was full with the prey he dare not name aloud, and when he was finished, he contemplated that, indeed, it was an acquired taste.
And so with every battle, he treated himself to the bounty in which he reaped. He ate one, and then another, and tore their tendons, and lapped their blood. He ate his brother and his sister, and the one who’d shared their meal with him once before, and found it all too ironic in the process.
And after all the the things he’d done, he cared not for what might befall him in consequence, and swore not to give himself up to the feeling of guilt. Even when they’d wept at his reveal, and cradled their children to their chests, and hid their faces within their bosoms, thinking to themselves ‘Let them not see someone so evil for surely he would give them the most terrible of nightmares’, he cared not, nor felt the sweat of guilt.
In rage and anguish, they cast him to the mountains, where not a step fell, nor a voice could be heard. He could no taste meat soured with fear, nor take pleasure in the bounty of war. He was left alone to wallow in his emptiness and void, and contemplated how, truly, no one knew gluttony or greed as intimately as he did... Because he was, after all, the product of chance and outcome; the spawn of pain and suffering...
The one and only, serpent of the battlefield.
Yes, he knew many a things of which most wouldn’t dabble, and he found them altogether attractive in their timeliness.
He was born into a place of little repose, with chaos looming as it so often does in times of stress. Blood was something he tasted in the air on the eve of every day, and it was what he blinked away in the heat of other’s rage. It was what caused him tremblings and repulse, and what stained him gray and weary, and what made him do the things that he then did.
So simple was it to say that it was all because of war; that he was the product of chance and outcome; the spawn of pain; the serpent of the battlefield.
As time went on, his steps grew accustomed to the ways of fighting, and his eyes no longer turned from the sight of the macabre. He had grown accustomed to his afflictions, and altogether, his scars had come to define him as something had ultimately become; a monster of misshapen ideals and calloused ways.
He loved them- those scars- as one might love their young.
So it was on a day that his stomach was empty, and his thoughts particularly distorted, that he let air to a dark temptation he’d so often dwelt upon.
Wearing his gluttony like a second skin, he tore the pride from his chest, and replaced it with his tongue. And with nothing to stop him, he snapped the bones between his teeth, stripped them of their flesh, and paid not mind to the filmy eyes that stared at him. He tore and cut, and chewed until his stomach was full with the prey he dare not name aloud, and when he was finished, he contemplated that, indeed, it was an acquired taste.
And so with every battle, he treated himself to the bounty in which he reaped. He ate one, and then another, and tore their tendons, and lapped their blood. He ate his brother and his sister, and the one who’d shared their meal with him once before, and found it all too ironic in the process.
And after all the the things he’d done, he cared not for what might befall him in consequence, and swore not to give himself up to the feeling of guilt. Even when they’d wept at his reveal, and cradled their children to their chests, and hid their faces within their bosoms, thinking to themselves ‘Let them not see someone so evil for surely he would give them the most terrible of nightmares’, he cared not, nor felt the sweat of guilt.
In rage and anguish, they cast him to the mountains, where not a step fell, nor a voice could be heard. He could no taste meat soured with fear, nor take pleasure in the bounty of war. He was left alone to wallow in his emptiness and void, and contemplated how, truly, no one knew gluttony or greed as intimately as he did... Because he was, after all, the product of chance and outcome; the spawn of pain and suffering...
The one and only, serpent of the battlefield.
