Re: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 1: Godsworn Valley]
08-08-2012, 11:28 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by XX.
The dirt he lay in was cold, bone-cold, though beyond it the inferno raged and spat bouquets of sparks into the smoke-clogged sky. The heat was a dull presence on his fur, a faint shriveling of skin and a singeing of hair and nails. Charred meat and parched air filled his nose. The bright copper-salt of blood and the ozone of the river was a thick perfume clinging to his matted fur. He tried to close his eyes, but they had no lids.
He felt nothing, though his ribs on one side were laid bare and glistening in the shadows of the undergrowth. Greenish blood clogged what was left of his fur, pooling beneath him and vanishing into the thirsty ground. All his wolves, he thought. All his men. His head refused to move, but he knew that beyond his limited vision there was nothing but clumps of torn fur and a few polished skulls grinning wetly at their deaths. He smelled them too, their whispery spirits dissipating. He thought he could hear the Endless Hunt calling them away.
A growl escaped his mouth somehow, louder than he’d expected. The cracks and pops of overheating wood and the roar of the blaze were all that spoke at his makeshift funeral, attended only by the bodies of his former comrades and the dying swell of the forest. Weakly he shifted his legs, no longer able to feel them brush against the damp ground. It was a blessing, he supposed, though he hated it. No hunter should die a peaceful death.
Then there came a scent, strong and musky and vibrant, and he thought that perhaps his prayers had been heard.
In his stunned state he was not surprised to see the dead leaves caught in the brambles whirl up in a chattering maelstrom of twigs and sticks, nor to see the mahogany of Kedemonas’ body twist into being from the gathered debris. The god’s aura was palpable: a virile stink of fertile earth and fresh blood that made him want to lie at the divine hooves and howl in tribute. But he could not move, so the wolf snarled a greeting, and the horned god laughed.
“Ah, wolf,” he said, his voice a thunder of masculinity, “You’ve been hunted well.”
He said nothing. His tail wagged once, smearing a trail of mud.
The god’s tawny eyes were bright with laughter as he strode the length of the cramped clearing, examining the pitiful remains of the fallen. Not a drop of the earth soaked with the river’s blood landed on his gleaming hooves. “You of all them must have known that I treasure nothing so much as a quarry escaping its killers. Contrary though it seems.”
“Qu…” The wolf sucked in a ragged breath. “Quarry…”
“Yes. Your river.” Kedemonas turned to the woods, a rough-hewn hand resting on the bark of a dead oak. “She’s a queer kind of hunter. Not like my usual. All songs and whispers.” His nose wrinkled. “A thespian. And you, my wolf? What did you make of her?”
The wolf didn’t have much breath left. He gave a bubbling whine.
The hunting god laughed, a boisterous roar that scared hidden birds from their nests. “Ah, you’re a talkative one,” Kedemonas chuckled. He turned back to the wolf, his eyes bright with merriment. “I will not give you any pretenses, wolf. There is hell being played among the gods. A noble fracas over some softskin’s long-dead words. I may not be a god for long. I ask you, wolf. Shall a god die quietly? Shall a god spend his final breath fighting petty squabbles over hints and whispers?”
He howled as best he could, more of a prolonged whimper than something worthy of a divine salute, but Kedemonas took it all the same. The horned head bowed and the wolf felt a fierce, feral energy fill him, resonating in his bones and banishing the mist from his eyes. Pain, sweet pain, flooded over his battered body, unbearable in its strength so that he nearly screamed before it vanished in a wellspring of fury and pride. Memories of the river- insatiable, churning- sprang through the fog of his weakened mind. He rose whole and healed, not a single scar to show where its freezing fangs had torn through his flesh. Above him, the sky had darkened with storm clouds gathering waves of iron. He lifted his head to them and this time gave a true howl, a sonorous challenge to the monster that had killed his men. When he looked back to earth, Kedemonas had gone. All that remained was a pile of withered leaves.
“I call a hunt,” said the god’s voice in his mind. “A hunt of you and all my wolves, and my cats, and my falcons, and my men. Lead a charge that shall make the heavens tremble and the earth weep blood in remembrance. Cirrha, this is the last task I set to you. Hunt this damned earth bare.”
And the Hyleoroian captain leapt, bounding silently in the forest.
_______________
There’s a storm on the way…
From the bass-line roots of the earth to the electric microcosmic impulses of the canopy’s fingers the sound carried like a doubled-back heartbeat, like a little voice singing like a wind-up tin-steel bird, like a frequency not earthly but kaleidoscopic heaven fire blinding in its radiance and scintillating in its pornographic glory: all flesh laid bare, all fibrous muscle and branching carbon a cellophane strip of clairvoaynce. A righteous hushing humming in its liquid bones made the ground ripple in fear and bow before a king, before the king, king of water and shadows and little wolf pups screaming in the dirt dirt dirt, scream Sonora, it will not save you. It hears.
There’s a storm on the way, and it’s coming, no matter what I say…
All the trees in their infinite feel-touch-taste were symphonies, are orchestras, cacophony of strings and keys and plucking horsehair bows swallowing songs of insects birds snakes bats ants pheasants, drowning in the river, drown drown, each scream a new note on the page, ink fresh and wet and running down the bark in ribbony-thick black wriggling rivers.
But a song will only scratch the skin…
Every note a universe.
The next time you see me, remember you need me, I’m the storm coming, coming, coming.
The forest unimaginable in scope, it sings of the new opuses the wolf-men taught it, barks and howls sharp staccatos and the breaking of bones a wordless beautiful bleeding percussion. Remember? Each century the song grows thicker with the seed of its sorrows, all crashing waves and lapping shores and paper boats pulled down by dead men memories. Born into forests and rivers it’s all fa-a-mi-liar territory but for the al-consuming dissonance of what the echoes contradict. Bacterium changes, unseen flora and fauna, micro macro ecosystems dissuade its senses. Even the dirt here tastes strange. What a funny old world.
Run towards the hills to avoid the high floods-
And in the subcutaneous auroras of the sky’s bursting rain-swelled skin it smells another.
I can do a dance that’ll make the sky cry blood-
Lampade, O beauty beyond the songs of men, fission fusion chaos of burning eye-blind horror:
I’m coming for you.
Listen to our lives, the wind will whisper the way it is; I’m going to happen, what a lovely day it is…
The dirt he lay in was cold, bone-cold, though beyond it the inferno raged and spat bouquets of sparks into the smoke-clogged sky. The heat was a dull presence on his fur, a faint shriveling of skin and a singeing of hair and nails. Charred meat and parched air filled his nose. The bright copper-salt of blood and the ozone of the river was a thick perfume clinging to his matted fur. He tried to close his eyes, but they had no lids.
He felt nothing, though his ribs on one side were laid bare and glistening in the shadows of the undergrowth. Greenish blood clogged what was left of his fur, pooling beneath him and vanishing into the thirsty ground. All his wolves, he thought. All his men. His head refused to move, but he knew that beyond his limited vision there was nothing but clumps of torn fur and a few polished skulls grinning wetly at their deaths. He smelled them too, their whispery spirits dissipating. He thought he could hear the Endless Hunt calling them away.
A growl escaped his mouth somehow, louder than he’d expected. The cracks and pops of overheating wood and the roar of the blaze were all that spoke at his makeshift funeral, attended only by the bodies of his former comrades and the dying swell of the forest. Weakly he shifted his legs, no longer able to feel them brush against the damp ground. It was a blessing, he supposed, though he hated it. No hunter should die a peaceful death.
Then there came a scent, strong and musky and vibrant, and he thought that perhaps his prayers had been heard.
In his stunned state he was not surprised to see the dead leaves caught in the brambles whirl up in a chattering maelstrom of twigs and sticks, nor to see the mahogany of Kedemonas’ body twist into being from the gathered debris. The god’s aura was palpable: a virile stink of fertile earth and fresh blood that made him want to lie at the divine hooves and howl in tribute. But he could not move, so the wolf snarled a greeting, and the horned god laughed.
“Ah, wolf,” he said, his voice a thunder of masculinity, “You’ve been hunted well.”
He said nothing. His tail wagged once, smearing a trail of mud.
The god’s tawny eyes were bright with laughter as he strode the length of the cramped clearing, examining the pitiful remains of the fallen. Not a drop of the earth soaked with the river’s blood landed on his gleaming hooves. “You of all them must have known that I treasure nothing so much as a quarry escaping its killers. Contrary though it seems.”
“Qu…” The wolf sucked in a ragged breath. “Quarry…”
“Yes. Your river.” Kedemonas turned to the woods, a rough-hewn hand resting on the bark of a dead oak. “She’s a queer kind of hunter. Not like my usual. All songs and whispers.” His nose wrinkled. “A thespian. And you, my wolf? What did you make of her?”
The wolf didn’t have much breath left. He gave a bubbling whine.
The hunting god laughed, a boisterous roar that scared hidden birds from their nests. “Ah, you’re a talkative one,” Kedemonas chuckled. He turned back to the wolf, his eyes bright with merriment. “I will not give you any pretenses, wolf. There is hell being played among the gods. A noble fracas over some softskin’s long-dead words. I may not be a god for long. I ask you, wolf. Shall a god die quietly? Shall a god spend his final breath fighting petty squabbles over hints and whispers?”
He howled as best he could, more of a prolonged whimper than something worthy of a divine salute, but Kedemonas took it all the same. The horned head bowed and the wolf felt a fierce, feral energy fill him, resonating in his bones and banishing the mist from his eyes. Pain, sweet pain, flooded over his battered body, unbearable in its strength so that he nearly screamed before it vanished in a wellspring of fury and pride. Memories of the river- insatiable, churning- sprang through the fog of his weakened mind. He rose whole and healed, not a single scar to show where its freezing fangs had torn through his flesh. Above him, the sky had darkened with storm clouds gathering waves of iron. He lifted his head to them and this time gave a true howl, a sonorous challenge to the monster that had killed his men. When he looked back to earth, Kedemonas had gone. All that remained was a pile of withered leaves.
“I call a hunt,” said the god’s voice in his mind. “A hunt of you and all my wolves, and my cats, and my falcons, and my men. Lead a charge that shall make the heavens tremble and the earth weep blood in remembrance. Cirrha, this is the last task I set to you. Hunt this damned earth bare.”
And the Hyleoroian captain leapt, bounding silently in the forest.
_______________
There’s a storm on the way…
From the bass-line roots of the earth to the electric microcosmic impulses of the canopy’s fingers the sound carried like a doubled-back heartbeat, like a little voice singing like a wind-up tin-steel bird, like a frequency not earthly but kaleidoscopic heaven fire blinding in its radiance and scintillating in its pornographic glory: all flesh laid bare, all fibrous muscle and branching carbon a cellophane strip of clairvoaynce. A righteous hushing humming in its liquid bones made the ground ripple in fear and bow before a king, before the king, king of water and shadows and little wolf pups screaming in the dirt dirt dirt, scream Sonora, it will not save you. It hears.
There’s a storm on the way, and it’s coming, no matter what I say…
All the trees in their infinite feel-touch-taste were symphonies, are orchestras, cacophony of strings and keys and plucking horsehair bows swallowing songs of insects birds snakes bats ants pheasants, drowning in the river, drown drown, each scream a new note on the page, ink fresh and wet and running down the bark in ribbony-thick black wriggling rivers.
But a song will only scratch the skin…
Every note a universe.
The next time you see me, remember you need me, I’m the storm coming, coming, coming.
The forest unimaginable in scope, it sings of the new opuses the wolf-men taught it, barks and howls sharp staccatos and the breaking of bones a wordless beautiful bleeding percussion. Remember? Each century the song grows thicker with the seed of its sorrows, all crashing waves and lapping shores and paper boats pulled down by dead men memories. Born into forests and rivers it’s all fa-a-mi-liar territory but for the al-consuming dissonance of what the echoes contradict. Bacterium changes, unseen flora and fauna, micro macro ecosystems dissuade its senses. Even the dirt here tastes strange. What a funny old world.
Run towards the hills to avoid the high floods-
And in the subcutaneous auroras of the sky’s bursting rain-swelled skin it smells another.
I can do a dance that’ll make the sky cry blood-
Lampade, O beauty beyond the songs of men, fission fusion chaos of burning eye-blind horror:
I’m coming for you.
Listen to our lives, the wind will whisper the way it is; I’m going to happen, what a lovely day it is…