Post by Ƨhatan on Dec 23, 2007 11:31:07 GMT -5
Ƨacrificial Ʀesonance
We are
We are the shaken
We are the monsters
Underneath your bed
[/b]We are
We are the shaken
We are the monsters
Underneath your bed
I’m an addict for dramatics.
Indeed, he was a particular fan of the dramatics: a dramatic slaughter here, a painful death there, a tragic story, the great hero felled by the horrible villain, a battle of wits, a battle of hooves, a battle for kicks, a battle for lives, and, of course, the sacrifice. Because, of course, a blood price is the only price that could ever be paid; no other would do, it simply wasn’t dramatic enough, not meaningful enough; but for one to give their own blood, or the blood of a loved one, now that showed that they were serious. Ah, yes, the sacrifice; indeed, the most dramatic of all the dramatics which he loved and enjoyed.
There was a time, once, not so very long ago, actually, that his very presence meant a death soon to come, a blood price to be a paid: a sacrifice. That was how the herd had known him; after all, was he not Sacrificial Resonance, the Call to Sacrifice? It had been his job, a job he had taken particular joy in; he planned carefully the death of each and every victim, a fresh, new, unique death for each of them, to keep things interesting, to make it dramatic. How he did thrive upon the fear the mere sight of him brought, the scent of it and the feel of it as each and every horse backed down, bowed out, got away. He lived for that fear.
But now? Now things were different, in a way. This was not the utopia of his father’s herd lands; this was…somewhere new. He didn’t quite know the word for it yet; it was an empty abyss, horse-less and lacking. As though there had once been lives here, only to be swept away by a mass slaughter. His paused, his eyes closing thoughtfully as he tried to imagine it, what could have happened to dramatically sweep away everyone who had ever lived here. It must have been a glorious slaughter, or perhaps a great slaughter for a capital wrong. His eyes opened slowly, a dark glint in their chocolate depths: amusement, nearly the only emotion which would find its way out of the depths of his orbs.
It was not, actually, altogether impossible for a horse, a prey-animal, to grin with the viciousness and ferocity of a predator; it was simply a difficult task, one which took time to master. And Res had, indeed, had plenty of time to master the predator’s grin, that wolfish smirk which could send chills through the horses back in the herd. His darkened lips twisted now into that smirk; he could just imagine the fear that must have filled the land at that time long since past; what a glorious time it would have been.
His hide shivered across rippling muscles at a chill of his own, but it could not be credited to fear which made him shiver so; no, he shivered from excitement, from longing: how he would indeed have loved to be present during such a time. His velvet lips parted to fill the air with a deep chuckle; ah, yes, he would indeed have enjoyed such a time, such sheer amounts of fear and terror to feed upon; it would have been glorious.
But, alas, such a time was now long since past, leaving in its wake this life-less abysmal oblivion of a land. Not a single horse had he set eyes upon since his stained daggers had set themselves into the ground of this place; but perhaps they were all hiding. Ah, yes, perhaps that could be it, for surely this place must have life, they were simply afraid of…something; the great disaster long past, or perhaps him? He let out a short laugh, shaking his head, trails of ebony dancing to his movement; no, this was not the herd, these horses knew him not; but there would be fear enough soon to come; indeed, indeed, he would make certain of that.
But, for there to be fear, there must be horses, and he did indeed wish a herd of his own; that was, after all, why he had left: for power, for the chance to lead his own herd, to instill in them the same respect shown his father, the same fear of both he and his father combined. Ah, yes, that was indeed what he wished by setting his hooves into the soil of this land. He supposed, however, that his herd would start small; ah, well, that would simply mean he could not kill any of them. Yet. But that simply meant more blood; they would pay the blood price, just not with their lives, and for ever screw up they would pay more. Yes, a constant supply of blood to be taken for a fee; perhaps leaving them alive was not such a sad thing, after all.
However, for even that to happen, he must first have land, have a mate, have horses to follow him, respect him, fear him. His shook his head once again, settling his ebony banner to the right of his powerful neck, before his legs struck out once more, his stained daggers digging into the ground in the short, quick steps of his trot, an elegant thing, to be sure. He may not yet have a land, but that would be easily fixed once he came across him, for now he meant to find himself a horse to follow him, if there were any worthy of it.
He dipped his head slightly, chuckling; ah, yes, worthy. What did it mean, to be worthy? Who would be worthy of setting hoof in his lands once he found them, of following him and respecting him and fearing his very name? Any idiot could do any one of those things; worthy was not an issue. All he needed was one who would be brave enough to stay, but afraid enough to bow out at a very glance from him. Surely he could find such a one, but where?
His trot slowed gradually to the smooth gait of his walk, his obsidian tresses settling themselves to the slower beat of his movement until at last he came to a halt, his daggers at rest, their stains hidden by the grass in which he stood. Well, he would not waste his time searching; let them come to him, and if they did not, then he would simply find a land on his own and set up shop and continue to wait. He was, after all a patient stallion, and he did not mind waiting for those things which he wanted. And what was it that he wanted now?
He chuckled as he dipped his head to feast upon the grasses about his hooves; now, now he wanted some fun, a couple of herd members to play with, to begin to instill that fear in them, that deep rooted fear that garnered respect. Any horse at all would do, he just needed to wait.
Indeed, he was a particular fan of the dramatics: a dramatic slaughter here, a painful death there, a tragic story, the great hero felled by the horrible villain, a battle of wits, a battle of hooves, a battle for kicks, a battle for lives, and, of course, the sacrifice. Because, of course, a blood price is the only price that could ever be paid; no other would do, it simply wasn’t dramatic enough, not meaningful enough; but for one to give their own blood, or the blood of a loved one, now that showed that they were serious. Ah, yes, the sacrifice; indeed, the most dramatic of all the dramatics which he loved and enjoyed.
There was a time, once, not so very long ago, actually, that his very presence meant a death soon to come, a blood price to be a paid: a sacrifice. That was how the herd had known him; after all, was he not Sacrificial Resonance, the Call to Sacrifice? It had been his job, a job he had taken particular joy in; he planned carefully the death of each and every victim, a fresh, new, unique death for each of them, to keep things interesting, to make it dramatic. How he did thrive upon the fear the mere sight of him brought, the scent of it and the feel of it as each and every horse backed down, bowed out, got away. He lived for that fear.
But now? Now things were different, in a way. This was not the utopia of his father’s herd lands; this was…somewhere new. He didn’t quite know the word for it yet; it was an empty abyss, horse-less and lacking. As though there had once been lives here, only to be swept away by a mass slaughter. His paused, his eyes closing thoughtfully as he tried to imagine it, what could have happened to dramatically sweep away everyone who had ever lived here. It must have been a glorious slaughter, or perhaps a great slaughter for a capital wrong. His eyes opened slowly, a dark glint in their chocolate depths: amusement, nearly the only emotion which would find its way out of the depths of his orbs.
It was not, actually, altogether impossible for a horse, a prey-animal, to grin with the viciousness and ferocity of a predator; it was simply a difficult task, one which took time to master. And Res had, indeed, had plenty of time to master the predator’s grin, that wolfish smirk which could send chills through the horses back in the herd. His darkened lips twisted now into that smirk; he could just imagine the fear that must have filled the land at that time long since past; what a glorious time it would have been.
His hide shivered across rippling muscles at a chill of his own, but it could not be credited to fear which made him shiver so; no, he shivered from excitement, from longing: how he would indeed have loved to be present during such a time. His velvet lips parted to fill the air with a deep chuckle; ah, yes, he would indeed have enjoyed such a time, such sheer amounts of fear and terror to feed upon; it would have been glorious.
But, alas, such a time was now long since past, leaving in its wake this life-less abysmal oblivion of a land. Not a single horse had he set eyes upon since his stained daggers had set themselves into the ground of this place; but perhaps they were all hiding. Ah, yes, perhaps that could be it, for surely this place must have life, they were simply afraid of…something; the great disaster long past, or perhaps him? He let out a short laugh, shaking his head, trails of ebony dancing to his movement; no, this was not the herd, these horses knew him not; but there would be fear enough soon to come; indeed, indeed, he would make certain of that.
But, for there to be fear, there must be horses, and he did indeed wish a herd of his own; that was, after all, why he had left: for power, for the chance to lead his own herd, to instill in them the same respect shown his father, the same fear of both he and his father combined. Ah, yes, that was indeed what he wished by setting his hooves into the soil of this land. He supposed, however, that his herd would start small; ah, well, that would simply mean he could not kill any of them. Yet. But that simply meant more blood; they would pay the blood price, just not with their lives, and for ever screw up they would pay more. Yes, a constant supply of blood to be taken for a fee; perhaps leaving them alive was not such a sad thing, after all.
However, for even that to happen, he must first have land, have a mate, have horses to follow him, respect him, fear him. His shook his head once again, settling his ebony banner to the right of his powerful neck, before his legs struck out once more, his stained daggers digging into the ground in the short, quick steps of his trot, an elegant thing, to be sure. He may not yet have a land, but that would be easily fixed once he came across him, for now he meant to find himself a horse to follow him, if there were any worthy of it.
He dipped his head slightly, chuckling; ah, yes, worthy. What did it mean, to be worthy? Who would be worthy of setting hoof in his lands once he found them, of following him and respecting him and fearing his very name? Any idiot could do any one of those things; worthy was not an issue. All he needed was one who would be brave enough to stay, but afraid enough to bow out at a very glance from him. Surely he could find such a one, but where?
His trot slowed gradually to the smooth gait of his walk, his obsidian tresses settling themselves to the slower beat of his movement until at last he came to a halt, his daggers at rest, their stains hidden by the grass in which he stood. Well, he would not waste his time searching; let them come to him, and if they did not, then he would simply find a land on his own and set up shop and continue to wait. He was, after all a patient stallion, and he did not mind waiting for those things which he wanted. And what was it that he wanted now?
He chuckled as he dipped his head to feast upon the grasses about his hooves; now, now he wanted some fun, a couple of herd members to play with, to begin to instill that fear in them, that deep rooted fear that garnered respect. Any horse at all would do, he just needed to wait.
Ɔall Ʈo Ƨacrifice
We are
We are mistaken
We are the voices
Inside your head
Word Count: 1169
Lyrics © Matchbook Romance, Taking Back Sunday
Character and Post © Shatan[/size]
