Post by Samson on Mar 24, 2016 19:32:58 GMT -6
I walk with the noise;
It's reaching out of me.
It's reaching out of me.
My, my, my. Kairos had been busy.
When Samson had last skirted Kal’dyne, at the beginning of his portentous journey, the air had been heavy laden with the stench of Valyn females. Their presence had been enough to keep the albino at bay – not out of fear, but out of apathy. Their existence was a small speck on his peripheral vision, and he had no intention of inspecting it closer; no intention of getting caught up in their mess. Thankfully, that was no longer a possibility. The lush sanctuary was his playground, as was the rest of Anikira, but now he could do as he pleased without any bothersome consequences to interrupt him. Idly, he wondered where the pack had been driven to – that is, if they were still alive – but he stopped thinking about it as soon as he realised that he couldn’t care even a smidgen less.
The thick jungle canopy spread out above him, and sunlight filtered down in streams across his pure ivory pelt. The change was a welcome relief once his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of the rainforest. The brute had been travelling through blisteringly dry heat for months, and though the heat barely phased him, the change in scenery was pleasant. The air here was damp; each inhalation coated his mouth with an extra layer of moisture. Soon his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth and he began to pant steadily.
Weary from travelling and in no rush to return to the juvenile rite of passage that awaited him further north, ruby eyes scoured the area for a decent place to rest. How long had it been since he rested? Samson hardly knew. Time was a concept that had been lost to him on his journey, where he’d had no use for it. Gods were timeless – existing in neither the past, nor the present, nor the future. Samson was no god, despite harbouring some, but that was where he, too, had existed. In the cracks between time and timelessness; between reality and something greater, something realer.
A faint presence pressed itself around his mind, like a dark mist shrouding an orb of glass – enveloping but not interfering. Samael had been raucous after they’d left Xisyn, but he’d grown eerily quiet of late. But Samael was a narcissist, and nothing was surer to entice him back to the forefront of Samson’s perception than either the mention of him, or the denial of him. Like a starving whelp, Samael craved attention, and whined without it.
An impish smile upturned Samson’s mouth, baring his sharp teeth. Nothing gave him more satisfaction than pissing off his parasitic acquaintance. Ever since Fenrir had captured his attention, Samael had been restless, vying for control of Samson’s broken mind. But the host knew that without Samael, he was nothing. Beneath the spirit’s influence he was a pathetic, broken, angelic whelp. Samael was the crutch, and the injury, too, and his appetite for breaking things was insatiable.
“Matriarch-fucker,” he cursed aloud, as his stomach gurgled in protest. Samson might not need to keep up with time, but he certainly needed to keep up with his hunger. Having a corporeal form was so irritating sometimes. It was the spirit’s fault. Samael didn’t need to eat, and he took great pleasure in obscuring his host’s base needs. Even now, the amusement was rolling off him in waves, clashing unceremoniously with Samson’s irritation. The brute halted, ruby eyes scanning his immediate vicinity. Nothing. But…
There: two scents. One prey, the other not so much. Samson had never been interested in cannibalism, although there was a first time for everything.
Dinner was fairly easy to track down, as it made no attempt to conceal itself. Samson weaved through the trees eagerly, intent on finding his next meal. When it came into view, Samson fixed his rosy gaze upon it, his mouth practically foaming, but a moment later his excitement died in his jaws. Next to the vulture stood a wolf. She was certainly no Kairos wolf, that much he could tell from her scent, but he supposed he didn’t smell of his birth pack either. Either way, she was in the way of his next kill.
“Is the fledging yours?” he questioned, looking at the odd-eyed female for just a split second, before his predatory gaze returned to the bird. “Only...We’re ravenous.”
Word count: 735
Notes: *screeches* FIRST SAMSON POST