Post by hahtalekin on Jun 16, 2011 22:21:26 GMT -5
South of the plains, at the edge where rippling grass meets hard-packed earth, a cloud of dark birds gather. Their cawing echos across the skies in raucous, hungry choruses as they sweep downwards like the great spires of black swirling wind that scours the plains in the heat of the summer.
Dinner, dinner! They cry out as one, wild delight in the flock's tone. A great and fantastic feast! Behold what the chosen ones have given us!
Below their sharp claws and bright eyes is a form stretched out across the earth, distinct alone in size and shape. It is a horse, once brilliant hide and pale mane dull and dirtied by dust and dried, iron-red blood. Sirocco, once herd stallion of the Dorado, lays amongst a battlefield. Broken brush and bramble, churned earth and overturned stones. His lower legs are gored with great rips, as though they were torn in a single go as opposed to the fangs of predators. Some wounds look older than others, more matted, as though days were spread between them. The entire area reeks, the pungent smell not of wolf or cat or even man, but pig. The musk is unmistakable.
They have come! Cries out the scavenging flock. Such banquets we have in their wake. Such tender flesh! Come! Eat! We follow the chosen, for in their cleansing we shall feast!
Last Edit: Jun 16, 2011 22:26:17 GMT -5 by hahtalekin