"Your turn," I say as I allow my hat to fall to the ground beside me.
"Very well then," he responds.
He stands on two legs and sheds the dog form almost instantly. His skin turns brown, and he grows into a 7-foot tall brute composed of extremely dense muscle. His paws transform into fingers with short, sharp claws on each tip. His mouth is filled with long sharp, and his eyes grow wider, with their pupils disappearing completely and leaving only their signature orange glow. When he opens his mouth, he involuntarily releases the whispers of thousands of corrupting voices, that cause the weak-willed to not only enter a state of perpetual hunger but causes them to hunt for their innermost desires with ravenous intent.
We stand in silence, staring at each other. We'd inhabited these broken shells, these golems of warped bone and necrotic flesh for so long but still, you can see pain and disgust when we are forced to look at each other as we truly are. There is hate in this look; there is rage and sorrow and heartache but beneath it all... there is understanding. In a way, it feels right... therapeutic. we find ourselves free of the weight of our self-loathing and for the briefest of instances we stop feeling sorry for ourselves and feel sorry for each other. All this time and that hasn't changed... that look, that haunting spacy teary-eyed gaze that screams "My god. look at what he's done to you".
Famine's arms are massive and adorned with interweaving tattoo-like markings that form runic symbols, when he's calm these markings are black but when angry, they radiate with a vibrant orange light.
"So", he says with a sigh. "What now".
"We talk", I answer as I take a seat on a nearby rock.
"About?", he asks.
I sigh and reach into my pocket. I pull out folded papers and lay them on the grown unfolding them as I do so.
"What are these", he asks.
"posters for people who have gone missing in these hills", I explain and I lay down a poster with the face of a seven-year-old girl who'd disappeared over the last month. It is the last of six papers that I'd grabbed from the walls of various buildings and fixtures in town.
He stares at the faces for a moment and his expression changes briefly as if he has been stricken with a twinge of guilt. He reverts to a stoic countenance and his eyes shift back to me.
"I don't understand", he says.
"Famine, the people here think that you're some kind of evil spirit. I —"
"Are they wrong.", he interrupts with an exaggerated scoff.
"Yes. They are. We are not evil. We are nature, we are to provide a balance. You can't jus—"
"Just what, Pestilence? kill people? That's what we do, isn't it? We stack bodies; we meet quotas. People go places... sometimes they don't make it home. let the townspeople think what they will. They deserve to cope with their losses how they see fit"
"Famine we don't cull this way. We do not make our presence known. We do not pillage one area for decades. We do not kill to satisfy sick desires, Famine. We kill to maintain the system that has always been and must always be." I look down and notice another cluster of bottles at my feet. "how much have you been drinking, Famine"
Famine chuckles and repeats the word "'Satisfy...'"
"Famine?!", I say. "Famine answer the question."
"A lot", he finally answers as he bends to pick up an unopened bottle of vodka. He puts the tip of the glass tip to his lips and downs the entirety of the bottle's contents in one lengthy swig. He burps loudly and smiles before saying "A lot but... never enough."
YOU ARE READING
Holy blight (draft 2)
Fantasy"You must thank him for this air... as you don't deserve to breathe, and in shame you walk the earth, because you don't deserve to leave. A horseman doesn't sleep because they don't deserve the peace And a horseman never dies because they don't dese...
