Post by Deathy on Jun 2, 2013 10:08:09 GMT -5
... | SIMON WHAT | ...
... In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours....
This jungle was wrong, everything was different, everything distorted and strange. In place of air, thick with warm, wet steam and the smell of thin and twisting vines, the forest that the Beast moved through in the shadows of silence, was wet and damp and cool. It smelt of mould and rotting leaves, of dark, dank dirt.
It was strange, so very foreign and that was almost intimidating enough for the beast to turn and flee back to the Monkeys cave. They had been through the strange jungles before, the monkey and the beast, but the Monkey had always been in control then, a stranger in familiar country. But Tigers do not bow to nature, they use it and bend it to their will. So The Beast moved through the low fauna that litter the forest floor, stunted, thick and the wrong shade of green.
But freedom, strange and foreign as it looked, was still freedom. The Monkey that controlled the body was terrified of The Beast. The Beast mused that the monkey was a coward, scared of the glory and power that The Beat brought, scared to use it, to control it. Regardless, The Monkey kept the beast trapped, locked in a cage of stubbornness and fear, far out of the light and away from the freedom that The Beast craved.
The Beast had been getting restless, it hated being trapped in small places, it hated not being able to stretch and flex, to eat when it was hungry and sleep when it was tired. It yearned for sunlight and the freedom to roam.
The Monkey was terrified of everything. The Monkey rarely exercised, moving at a speed that drove The Beast mad, made it rage and throw itself at the bars of fear that had been made its cage. The Monkey rarely ate meat, and even then usually weak, bloodless, chicken. The Beast could feel itself starving, losing tone and definition in its muscles, wasting away and the shine from its coat fading. And sleepless nights plagued The Monkey, making the beasts eyes itch, and its jaw stretch and yawn.
And so the beast had waited, had bidden its time. The monkey was always alert, always watching, blocking the beast at every push for freedom it made. But eventually, the monkey would slip, the beast knew, eventually, everything slipped and then you moved, launching from the shadows, slaying and devouring your prey. Piece by blood piece.
Hunters knew how to wait, and The Beast was a hunter, so it had waited and waited.
The Monkey had been making food, fading afternoon light shining through glass windows, using sharp steel too cut and slice, and then, the beast purred at the memory, the steel had slipped.
Slicing through the soft flesh of The Monkeys finger, making blood well and seep from the cut, dripping onto the bread board, deep and red, then blinding pain, a moment of weakness in the cage of fear. That had been all the gap The Beast needed, stealing in from the darkness, taking control and changing. Standing in the yellow toned kitchen, 300lbs of solid flesh and potential violence, with a bloody front paw.
Leaving a trail of blood meandering through the house in search of freedom, The Beast had barged through a door, knocked over the steel bin, sending the bin spinning, lid toppling away and waste flying, The Beast had slunk its way to freedom.
Freedom turned out to be a forest that smelt wrong, with light that slanted at strange angles and was the wrong shade of yellow.
But freedom was freedom and the beast intended to reveal in it while it lasted. The Beast knew that eventually The Monkey would claw its way free of the cage that The Beast had created for it, a cage of fierce pride and longing. The Beast could feel The Monkey now, an itch at the back of its mind, a persistent scratching racket, which would not stop and could not be stilled.
One day the monkey would accept that The Beast was part of him, a strong, vicious part that would never fail and never falter. But until that day The Beast was prepared wait, and to take what frredom it could steal away. Even if it was just an illusion, a farce of freedom and of power.
It was strange, so very foreign and that was almost intimidating enough for the beast to turn and flee back to the Monkeys cave. They had been through the strange jungles before, the monkey and the beast, but the Monkey had always been in control then, a stranger in familiar country. But Tigers do not bow to nature, they use it and bend it to their will. So The Beast moved through the low fauna that litter the forest floor, stunted, thick and the wrong shade of green.
But freedom, strange and foreign as it looked, was still freedom. The Monkey that controlled the body was terrified of The Beast. The Beast mused that the monkey was a coward, scared of the glory and power that The Beat brought, scared to use it, to control it. Regardless, The Monkey kept the beast trapped, locked in a cage of stubbornness and fear, far out of the light and away from the freedom that The Beast craved.
The Beast had been getting restless, it hated being trapped in small places, it hated not being able to stretch and flex, to eat when it was hungry and sleep when it was tired. It yearned for sunlight and the freedom to roam.
The Monkey was terrified of everything. The Monkey rarely exercised, moving at a speed that drove The Beast mad, made it rage and throw itself at the bars of fear that had been made its cage. The Monkey rarely ate meat, and even then usually weak, bloodless, chicken. The Beast could feel itself starving, losing tone and definition in its muscles, wasting away and the shine from its coat fading. And sleepless nights plagued The Monkey, making the beasts eyes itch, and its jaw stretch and yawn.
And so the beast had waited, had bidden its time. The monkey was always alert, always watching, blocking the beast at every push for freedom it made. But eventually, the monkey would slip, the beast knew, eventually, everything slipped and then you moved, launching from the shadows, slaying and devouring your prey. Piece by blood piece.
Hunters knew how to wait, and The Beast was a hunter, so it had waited and waited.
The Monkey had been making food, fading afternoon light shining through glass windows, using sharp steel too cut and slice, and then, the beast purred at the memory, the steel had slipped.
Slicing through the soft flesh of The Monkeys finger, making blood well and seep from the cut, dripping onto the bread board, deep and red, then blinding pain, a moment of weakness in the cage of fear. That had been all the gap The Beast needed, stealing in from the darkness, taking control and changing. Standing in the yellow toned kitchen, 300lbs of solid flesh and potential violence, with a bloody front paw.
Leaving a trail of blood meandering through the house in search of freedom, The Beast had barged through a door, knocked over the steel bin, sending the bin spinning, lid toppling away and waste flying, The Beast had slunk its way to freedom.
Freedom turned out to be a forest that smelt wrong, with light that slanted at strange angles and was the wrong shade of yellow.
But freedom was freedom and the beast intended to reveal in it while it lasted. The Beast knew that eventually The Monkey would claw its way free of the cage that The Beast had created for it, a cage of fierce pride and longing. The Beast could feel The Monkey now, an itch at the back of its mind, a persistent scratching racket, which would not stop and could not be stilled.
One day the monkey would accept that The Beast was part of him, a strong, vicious part that would never fail and never falter. But until that day The Beast was prepared wait, and to take what frredom it could steal away. Even if it was just an illusion, a farce of freedom and of power.
... But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear....
Lyrics from 'The rain of Castamere' by George R.R. Martin