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cavaliar-art · 2 years

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❅ D E A R R A B B I T ❅

Arcovet’s magic eye rolled from his oesophagus like a snake from a burrow, slithering until it peaked beyond his maw and abandoned his cadaver of a face to a disturbing - slightly waterlogged - vacancy. It sparked with the residue of evaporated gore, drawing interwoven aqua-crimson mists in it's wake. He looked ahead: Rows and rows and rows in the deluge, not a single heartbeat falling off-key. Black walls of green lights. Beyond them, a black sky, eye severed; below, a shudder; above, a tempest; and behind, a million lightless lightships bleeding a forsaking darkness.

His master of a time-long-before had carved a pathway of emerald flame. He followed along it chirping, singing, the wet hailstorm blurry before him.

His old friends must've been nearby, because he smelled them: thick blood - cursed blood. He might've called to them, but this was the playtime of the lone wolf, a hallowed game. Tag, they called it, darting and chasing and screaming and sobbing as their limbs left them.

Thump-thump; violent beating, thousandfold - in front, underneath, to his side. He knew this song well; so many had taught him: those of the warmth; those sentinels of his cold, crushing, diamond desert; those who had beckoned to him from the depths of the Flood... and so he obliged the chorus and joined in.

Unnatural gore drowned his jaw, his eye sockets, his ear canal, spilt through the pores in his thick rawhide. He drew his black mace, cold saronite with a thick cloak of shadow-- waning, waxing, a midnight of onyx clouds heeding doom, a moon of stark blood-diamond-- with a chattering bare-boned grimace.

The runes lit into blood-red constellations peppered into symbols on a map of darkness. And then the metallic casing began to spin, growl, ground, grind. His eye returned home, perfect, through the looking-glass, firmly throned with prestige in its bloody abscess. One eye, slit, perched in the right socket like an aquamarine indented into abstract art.

His instinct-- conditioning-- took control, and there lurched a sudden lack of his lacking mind. His hindpaws splashed and crunched bone-dust as he raced forwards. His claws came upon a creature’s chest; felflame heated his hand, blurred his vision even more, its bowels severed from its chords, infernal words spewed like green rot-blood. And then he was upon the next creature- Or is this the same one, Covet?-; a felguard, and their weapons joined, growled, ground, drew apart. Every sentence was a bloodbath. Every word beckoned forth a blinking eye into the great Nether. Each letter, a new reason to reap wrath. Pauses, breaks, and breaths brought life and death one step closer together.

Fight. Rush. Flight … Hush:

'The Valley of Hearts; And it's protean God, buried, throned in bone-dust Soil, beckoning: Up-reaching it’s claw of magic architecture--one nail in particular, And the under-veins, a paradigm of fatal futures; umbriferous, beckoning: Wounds spilling wounds, wording more still? Oh. Would we work with weaklings;… Thoughts crumble so very easily, so our true thoughts sprout forth, beckoning: This foliage was telling. Life, death - usually both so reticent - interwoven in an embrace of fear, Death’s face etched onto life’s vibrant skin, scarred her, arms entangled, divaricating, beckoning: But no one looked at the trees. No- war, so often present in hearts, Closing the un-galvanised gates of supreme Kairos, rawboned and beckoning: Endings are innately laconic, malediction of brevity, stalled and they cease--’

--He took a firm blow to the muzzle. A crack sounded, muffled by the fire, flurry and flame, more bone for the soil. A twelfth of his skull, a puzzle. He continued onwards with the slaughter, unnoticing, for his mind was busy hoarding it’s supreme spoils.

The night plummeted into the darkest ocean. That was why the moon was white: frozen by the sea. He pressed jet paint to torn canvas; he dipped his hands into the black wax until he was covered, and then he spread his corpse into the mud, filled all his wounds with the blood of earth. He was the death, he was the war, he was the loss, he was the reaping, he was the pain, all overcast notions. He dragged them and held them into his lungs, and squeezed and sucked until their breath was his; the edges of their heart burst; he drew his children to his maw and swallowed them back down, the maggots to whom he had given birth.

‘--stalled, and they seize nonexistence, cold and raw, reckoning.'

He rumbled with the breathing of a hundred alien hearts nestled beneath his dead hide.

Connected with a makeshift amalgamation of a thousand bloods, his cardiac constellation exchanged fluid as violent and rapid as passing detonated grenades. Friend and foe alike could hear it's siren; thump-thump-thump-thump; endlessly ticking; thump-thump-thump-thump-; muffled; thump-thump-thump-thump-; a crescendo of puppeteered life displayed with pride.

It unnerved even this foe, so large and foreboding with its onyx horns, scaled grey skin, neon eyes shining brighter than Death, its wolf-sized blades. This one knew Deathknights. It had just said so, in fact. Arcovet had forgotten what conversation was; it didn't occur to him to reply.

The wolf rose his chin and gazed into the heights. There, high above, he saw the new alpha basking, washing the Pass with godly benevolence, so beguiling and beautiful.

The others would tell him to eat his pets. They would take them away until he forfeited, and paid his so-called ‘debts’. He always felt so sad, so cold as he brought their darkly outcome. But he loved them.

It was different now: fate's golden claw would shine upon his white-furred innocents, so benevolent and beguiling and beautiful. In the shadow of light there was more light; in the light of shadow there is more shadow. He was aegis-bound, he was dutiful.

And he had almost forgotten the fight; verse after verse after verse and you begin to lose track: but the Wrathguard was dead, grey skin made purple, horns shattered -- and now it was that death shone brighter than his once-neon eyes.

As the body withered to dust and returned to the nether, a whisper entered his mind: time to come home, Arcovet. 13 - 9 - 2019

#oc: arcovet #oc #art #poetry #personalart #surreal #writing #creative writing #deathknight #worgen

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