fit for a king (p)
Jan 31, 2015 19:32:23 GMT -5
Post by spook on Jan 31, 2015 19:32:23 GMT -5
THE FEAR WILL NOT KILL YOU
THERE'S NO SUCH MERCY
THERE'S NO SUCH MERCY
This entire city was filthy, and Alhambra found himself pining desperately for the city he and Lark had left. He wasn’t a dog immensely accustomed to change, what with being born and raised in a single city, with finding his talents and specializations within the dogs of that city. Making contacts. Building necessary relationships. Maybe the brindle greyhound had grown spoiled, coddled by long years among the same group of brigands, but he’d enjoyed being spoiled. Now—this. The first week they’d been in the city, it’d been in a period of absolute upheaval, nature itself intent on destroyed the miserable fucking hellpot.
His internal fustian was entirely that—internal. Alhambra, when alone, maintained a perpetual air of eerie silence. Now, he stuck close to the shadows of a block of nondescript buildings, slipping along them like nothing more than a shadow himself. He kept his head low, not from any sense of diffidence or fear, but because this was how a shadow comported itself—this was how a shadow moved.
Or so daddy had told him.
Lie—daddy hadn’t had the time of day for his son, so Alhambra had learned by tracking his father throughout the city and memorizing the way he moved, the way he spoke.
Maybe he was just a facsimile of an older dog, but at least he’d proven adept at what he did. Or at least he had been. Right now he felt somewhat useless, and this sense of futility had settled him into a truly terrible mood. Everywhere he walked, his legs became soaked to the elbow, and he spent the remainder of his evening curled in some miserable alleyway pulling dried mud from his fur. But abruptly the buildings fell away and Alhambra found himself confronted with a veritable oasis—evidence of landscaping and the sound of running water drew him onward.
He pulled away from the buildings and the feel of grass beneath his feet halted the bitter tirade winding through his mind. The scattered trees had been ripped asunder by the storm, but they’d not been destroyed—they would regrow. Treading almost daintily on his toes, the greyhound stepped to the bank of the stream and squinted in pleasure—once the clouds moved on and the sunlight reached this place, it would be positively opulent. A place worthy of him.
for Bird is the word