Rage, maybe rage would lift me up
It’d been a while since he’d swam in the ocean.
On lighter, better days, perhaps, when the world wasn’t so blinding and overwhelming, when he hadn’t been refined into something broken, beaten, and battered, when the earth hadn’t churned itself below his feet, pulled it out from beneath him.
And now, now there were fins and spots, sleek skin and flesh, a muzzle breaking over the surface, seeking air and oxygen, before bristling down into the depths – another predator to mark his skills, his forms, his attuned nature. Another way to hunt, to embrace the world around him, a son of the sea as he’d been worlds and worlds before, pushing, pushing, pushing himself in the waves, in the undulations.
It hadn’t been a pleasure trip – considering and contemplating a hoard of fish to be frozen in Halo’s wares for the winter, stockpiling as he so often did when the opportunity presented itself. His fangs enclosed over scales, and brought them back to a designated rock, where they could settle and deplete, where he’d be able to manifest them into his bag later, and carry them into the glacial terrain. Cyclical, a notion, a semblance, he could fathom and understand, snagging at the lines, at the tethers, never quite exploding into vehemence, but a nagging vitriol, ghosting over another lesser set of fins and gills.
On lighter, better days, perhaps, when the world wasn’t so blinding and overwhelming, when he hadn’t been refined into something broken, beaten, and battered, when the earth hadn’t churned itself below his feet, pulled it out from beneath him.
And now, now there were fins and spots, sleek skin and flesh, a muzzle breaking over the surface, seeking air and oxygen, before bristling down into the depths – another predator to mark his skills, his forms, his attuned nature. Another way to hunt, to embrace the world around him, a son of the sea as he’d been worlds and worlds before, pushing, pushing, pushing himself in the waves, in the undulations.
It hadn’t been a pleasure trip – considering and contemplating a hoard of fish to be frozen in Halo’s wares for the winter, stockpiling as he so often did when the opportunity presented itself. His fangs enclosed over scales, and brought them back to a designated rock, where they could settle and deplete, where he’d be able to manifest them into his bag later, and carry them into the glacial terrain. Cyclical, a notion, a semblance, he could fathom and understand, snagging at the lines, at the tethers, never quite exploding into vehemence, but a nagging vitriol, ghosting over another lesser set of fins and gills.
DEIMOS
