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Posted on March 14, 2014 at 00:31:45 AM by A B R A X U S
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AS A ROARING LION, WALKETH ABOUT SEEKING WHOM HE MAY DEVOUR.” -----------------------------------1 Peter 5:8 Regardless of the considerable heft of the individual before him, the muscle that lay in ever-thickening cords beneath his pelt, his counterpart’s bountiful youth could not be denied; no, it gushed from him as puss from a festering wound. His patchwork carcass reeked of the naivety of the young laced with a party of aromas that were not solely his own. A pack dweller… he could be nothing else. This axiomatic discovery, however, does not earn the young wolf pardon from his presumed deficiencies, nor does it indemnify his worthiness outright. It is, as all things undoubtedly are, simply captured in the proverbial steel trap that is Abraxus’ ever-working, ever-calculating brain. A fact cataloged and considered with the brevity with which it is due, pilfered away into the murky depths of a brain that has never been, and never will be, entirely stable. His words earn him no discernible antiphon, no verbal retort spit back into the distance separating them with the vehemence of siphoned venom. Even as the mismatched whelp stumbles, cowering in some subconscious manner from the wretched canvas of pinched and dimpled flesh that has consumed a great portion of his façade, Abraxus does not stir. This is not to presume that the desire to seize upon this show of cowardice does not curl its titillating finger at him, beckoning him to try, to test the boundaries of whatever fear might dwell within the heart of this youngling. To know, without rebuttal, at what point he will succumb to it entirely. And yet it is not in the nature of this virile beast to wither so easily in the face of his own macabre predatory urges… at least, not yet. Whatever façade of steely resolve the infantile whelp might have been pulling taut over the raw meat of his insecurity quickly falls away, sloughed off as some sickly second skin. Submission coils unabashedly about him then; though the cues are subtle enough, echoed in the reclined triangles of his ears and the inwardly curling curve of his tail. His posture atrophies as if he is no more than some shrinking violet in the face of winter’s ivory cruelty, and it is this physical reflection of his mental unease that grates against the practiced predator that is the former Judilian king. It was a primitive practice amongst those of his species to look upon submission with an amalgamation, a balance, of disdain and appreciation. Abraxus, however, had never conformed to this diluted manner of believing that even the weak among them had some niche to fill. Even in his followers he had valued, encouraged, required their confidence, their vigor for the disarray that was their shared ambition. ”Because growling at oneself is the very pinnacle of sanity,” he gurgles, lurid mockery of a smile ekes unto his parted lips, pulling grotesquely at the already strained scar tissue that adorns half of his skull. A smile that only widens, pendulums of saliva swinging from his frayed jowls, as a wave of inquiries tumble from the young wolf’s lips… curiosities running abetted, unperturbed by the subtle promise of consequences yet to be perpetrated. ”So much curiosity… so many questions.” His words are delivered in a tone that could be nothing else apart from unapologetically foreboding. Danger dancing in the note of every syllable. ”I shall quench your curiosity once you have extended me the same courtesy. Tell me of your home, boy. From where have you come?” So much curiosity, indeed. .SIXTEEN.MALE.VAGABOND. |
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