12-27-2018, 07:27 PM
the berserker / the quiet one — Ruthless, cunning, ament was a god buried under mortals skin, pulled taut and brimming with rage and wonder alike. Needs instinctively pool into his mind and he follows them, obedient to the calling of his blood, the same ring that many bones under tred have lived by, died by. Ament knows these are not the times to follow- but he is relentless, obeying- loyal to an outdated custom once known to all. Instinct has always been a tool the ven wield like a shield around these newer- smarter predators. It always curves in his mind, the way that these animals have seemed to repress. With sense comes the need to explain, with sense, instincts fade.
These instincts have never failed him, but poison bleeds into his system. It chokes him without care and asphyxiates his instincts into submission. never quite enough to kill- because he always snapped out quick enough. He craves - complexity. he keens for that shine that glimmers inside these complex creatures. He craves it- needs it- wonders. and wonder brings with it understanding, and understanding brings nothing but rage.
Rage is the afterthought of wonder, a frustration that clouds sense and leaves only the smallest unexplored instinct he hides. He does not listen, refuses to, denies it fr only the sake to remain civil. To remain the sense of innocence that he has, the control over his body- his mind- his sense.
feathers are fluffed, soft browns and pale and darker forest browns blend on his face. his feathers are not bluester, just an attempt of release, tension bleeds between each feather. Rage simmers under his skin and he runs, he runs until he can hear the steady trickle of footsteps behind him. Until he can see the flash of a lion, scent the air, and think stranger - think enemy.
Tension is choking him, his labored breathing makes him noticeable. But he is not prey- and he stands his ground. Feathers lie flat now, crest pressed deep into his skull. The ocean is still in his eyes, hiding his stress and the brimming rage inside him. he waits for recognition, light to flash in the other's eyes- some sort of acknowledgement to the threat under his skin, and purs low, a rumble of a threat that sounds more similar to a growl.
These instincts have never failed him, but poison bleeds into his system. It chokes him without care and asphyxiates his instincts into submission. never quite enough to kill- because he always snapped out quick enough. He craves - complexity. he keens for that shine that glimmers inside these complex creatures. He craves it- needs it- wonders. and wonder brings with it understanding, and understanding brings nothing but rage.
Rage is the afterthought of wonder, a frustration that clouds sense and leaves only the smallest unexplored instinct he hides. He does not listen, refuses to, denies it fr only the sake to remain civil. To remain the sense of innocence that he has, the control over his body- his mind- his sense.
feathers are fluffed, soft browns and pale and darker forest browns blend on his face. his feathers are not bluester, just an attempt of release, tension bleeds between each feather. Rage simmers under his skin and he runs, he runs until he can hear the steady trickle of footsteps behind him. Until he can see the flash of a lion, scent the air, and think stranger - think enemy.
Tension is choking him, his labored breathing makes him noticeable. But he is not prey- and he stands his ground. Feathers lie flat now, crest pressed deep into his skull. The ocean is still in his eyes, hiding his stress and the brimming rage inside him. he waits for recognition, light to flash in the other's eyes- some sort of acknowledgement to the threat under his skin, and purs low, a rumble of a threat that sounds more similar to a growl.
made by wisker
I LET THE ANGER GO—
AND MOTHER NATURE FOUND IT'S PLACE
AND MOTHER NATURE FOUND IT'S PLACE