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vocab_drabblesTitle: 'Afterglow'
Fandom: Original Fiction
Author:but_can_i_be_trusted
Rating: R
Word Count: 243
Characters/Pairings: Original
Warnings: Gruesome imagery
Notes: Crossposted towhatif_au
Summary: There is no victory here.
The blood drips into the soil of the battlefield, animated by the hatred and fear and rage that were expended there. Screams of pain, pleas for mercy, are fading into the soft groans of the dying, abandoned by the few uncaring survivors.
There is no victory here. There is no defeat. There is only the hate-hot afterglow of destruction.
In the end, the most careful strategies meant nothing to this soil. And no amount of pot-valor could be enough to assuage the thirst these bloodstained plains feel.
The stench of blood clings to clotted dirt. Faint breezes guide those clumps together. Something slowly emerges, brought to life by the presence of so much death. A tiny creature, born of the terror that can only be found on a battlefield.
It's small, at first. Furtive. As though afraid that something larger might see it, and take it for prey. It nibbles at a bit of shredded flesh, gnaws at a hint of exposed bone. Laps at a bleeding wound, before that blood can congeal.
Then, becoming bolder, it grows. Sharp fangs and claws begin to emerge, that can rend and tear, and make its feast more readily obtained. In time, it loses its sense of pickiness. Fresh or rotting, nothing is to be rejected as the beast's appetite increases.
Soon, the beast's bloodthirsty nature will know no bounds. And it will roam, searching for new battlefields to serve as its feeding grounds.
Fandom: Original Fiction
Author:
but_can_i_be_trustedRating: R
Word Count: 243
Characters/Pairings: Original
Warnings: Gruesome imagery
Notes: Crossposted to
whatif_auSummary: There is no victory here.
The blood drips into the soil of the battlefield, animated by the hatred and fear and rage that were expended there. Screams of pain, pleas for mercy, are fading into the soft groans of the dying, abandoned by the few uncaring survivors.
There is no victory here. There is no defeat. There is only the hate-hot afterglow of destruction.
In the end, the most careful strategies meant nothing to this soil. And no amount of pot-valor could be enough to assuage the thirst these bloodstained plains feel.
The stench of blood clings to clotted dirt. Faint breezes guide those clumps together. Something slowly emerges, brought to life by the presence of so much death. A tiny creature, born of the terror that can only be found on a battlefield.
It's small, at first. Furtive. As though afraid that something larger might see it, and take it for prey. It nibbles at a bit of shredded flesh, gnaws at a hint of exposed bone. Laps at a bleeding wound, before that blood can congeal.
Then, becoming bolder, it grows. Sharp fangs and claws begin to emerge, that can rend and tear, and make its feast more readily obtained. In time, it loses its sense of pickiness. Fresh or rotting, nothing is to be rejected as the beast's appetite increases.
Soon, the beast's bloodthirsty nature will know no bounds. And it will roam, searching for new battlefields to serve as its feeding grounds.
