[ Post a Response | Desreal ]
Posted by Br. Voraer on December 12, 2008, 7:32 pm It gnawed viciously at his internal workings, that foul hellhound that bears the name of hate. It chewed on him with its massive, saliva drenched fangs as if he were its fleshy bone, meant to be tossed around. He was in a particularly foul mood at the moment, the day having worn on and on for him so that his simmering anger was boiling and crackling with an intense ferocity, ready to spill over at any second whether someone did something to him or not. He couldn’t help his temper, he couldn’t control it, did not seek to control it. V O R A E R
67.161.190.109
His breath streamed from his olfactory caverns so nearly visible even without the tinge of cold atmosphere. His nails, they struck the earth with such fervor as he stalked through the thickets that it seemed as though he pranced upon solid steel, each placement ringing with a sharpness. Deep gouges, sliced impressions- those were left in his wake, marrs upon the chocolate and rich features of Mother Earth. His mass of rusted chains thrashed wildly at his robust haunches, hardly resting at his ankles before he’d vehemently swing them back to his flanks. The resounding slap echoed in his ear drums, and it felled his frown further and further against his façade, spurring his anger even more so that he hit the earth harder, swung his tassels more often. His ears rose and fell to his poll, sinking and rising as though the Titanic being rewound then fast forward in a perpetual loop. To say the least, he was pissed.
He drew his thundering meander to a standstill, breaths ragged and harsh as his rib cage rose and fell with a rapid pace that would seem as though he were exhausted from some battle or run. But he was not exhausted, quite the opposite he was fit to burst from his veneer layering of blood tinted flesh, fit to transform into his inner dragon and ravage the countryside, damn peasants and all. He seethed of anger as he stood, rigid and looming like some bronze tower. He was simply smoldering, not yet unchained, not yet. Upon the slight, grassy incline that he took current residence he looked down upon the forested realm, pupils gliding against every curve like trailing fingers. And for a brief moment the beast was calm, content at the least to be free of the watery cell within Solira, even if this thriving forest was still not his home. He craved the shifting sands and radiating heat of the oppressing sun. He craved blood, to unlock his own damned chains and be rid of the jabbing reminder of his failure. He did not do well being a prisoner.
Coming out of my cage
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