Post by Shhasow on Aug 16, 2011 14:22:14 GMT 10
Title: Old White’s Tale
Rating: G
Word Count: 676
Summary: From beginning to completion, the birth of a god to fulfillment.
First, there is nothing.
Then, a wisp, a beam, a tendril of something different. New.
He sees it with blinded eyes, chases it on shapeless legs, as a soundless howl erupts from lips and a throat connected to a chest that is not.
Somehow, he feels himself blink, and he simply is.
He knows himself, even as the god before him dubs him, “Old White,” and he springs away into the underbrush.
Old White feels the dirt beneath his paws, and it is a good feeling, like following a pattern that he has always known, even though he cannot remember. Scents dance across his nostrils as he breathes deeply, and he knows them as they bestir memories that have yet to be formed.
In the great realm, Old White has the entirety of it to roam. The endless forests, the rushing streams, even the translucent moon that glimmers as it rises and falls, all this belongs to him. Him alone.
The wolf thinks he is happy. Bored, he plays tricks on the gods, stealing bushy fur from the deer god to clothe himself, and fangs from the bull god to threaten. Old White fools the cheetah god into trading speed and sprints for a long plodding gait that eats up miles.
Then the gods call Old White. You have collected many gifts, and from many, they tell him. Too much has been taken, and you must cease. Already your followers are stronger, swifter, more resilient than any other. Yet, Old White, as is our right, we grant you one last gift.
The Dream god plucks the essence of clouds from the sky, the goddess takes it and weaves it into a long rope, and the god of justice begins to tighten it around the wolf god’s neck.
Old White cries out just before the knot tightens and he is forever leashed. Just one more thing, he begs though the words are bitter in his mouth and he must spit them out before they choke.
Another? the Black god asks coolly. You possess far too much already.
And I would give it all up, Old White yips, for a mate. His head lowers; his tail droops as he sighs. I have searched the Divine Realms for a glimpse of her. The other gods have their other half, the one who makes them complete. Is it no wonder that I seek the same? Yet these gifts, they do nothing to fill the emptiness when I howl to the moon at night and she does not howl back.
The gods retreat, and even with his keen hearing stolen from man, Old White cannot hear his fate. He remains, defeated, for what he told the gods was true.
They return.
You would give up everything for a mate? questions the Black god.
Yes!
Return as you were, as we made you? asks the Mother goddess.
Yes!
Well, brothers and sisters, I see only one course ahead of us, speaks Mithros, and he pulls the knot tight until Old White’s vision swims.
He hears them depart, and from his eyes drips moisture so that he cannot see. His vision is gone, and his head swims and his ears are muffled. His long tail he wraps around himself, yet it brings no warmth and he shivers. Old White knows that if he were to run, he would falter at the first pace. The gods have stripped him of everything, and he cries mournfully to the black moon.
A howl echoes nearby, and Old White peers into the darkness, his eyes picking up the mere suggestion of a shape. It is long and lithe, with fur that captures the night and clasps it close in the shadows.
Night Black, he whispers, and she comes near to touch cold noses. Old White bows his head as she snuffles into his ear, and he has never seen anything more beautiful than her piercing eyes and graceful muzzle.
Then they are dancing in the forests, seeing nothing but the other, and Old White knows happiness.
Rating: G
Word Count: 676
Summary: From beginning to completion, the birth of a god to fulfillment.
First, there is nothing.
Then, a wisp, a beam, a tendril of something different. New.
He sees it with blinded eyes, chases it on shapeless legs, as a soundless howl erupts from lips and a throat connected to a chest that is not.
Somehow, he feels himself blink, and he simply is.
He knows himself, even as the god before him dubs him, “Old White,” and he springs away into the underbrush.
Old White feels the dirt beneath his paws, and it is a good feeling, like following a pattern that he has always known, even though he cannot remember. Scents dance across his nostrils as he breathes deeply, and he knows them as they bestir memories that have yet to be formed.
In the great realm, Old White has the entirety of it to roam. The endless forests, the rushing streams, even the translucent moon that glimmers as it rises and falls, all this belongs to him. Him alone.
The wolf thinks he is happy. Bored, he plays tricks on the gods, stealing bushy fur from the deer god to clothe himself, and fangs from the bull god to threaten. Old White fools the cheetah god into trading speed and sprints for a long plodding gait that eats up miles.
Then the gods call Old White. You have collected many gifts, and from many, they tell him. Too much has been taken, and you must cease. Already your followers are stronger, swifter, more resilient than any other. Yet, Old White, as is our right, we grant you one last gift.
The Dream god plucks the essence of clouds from the sky, the goddess takes it and weaves it into a long rope, and the god of justice begins to tighten it around the wolf god’s neck.
Old White cries out just before the knot tightens and he is forever leashed. Just one more thing, he begs though the words are bitter in his mouth and he must spit them out before they choke.
Another? the Black god asks coolly. You possess far too much already.
And I would give it all up, Old White yips, for a mate. His head lowers; his tail droops as he sighs. I have searched the Divine Realms for a glimpse of her. The other gods have their other half, the one who makes them complete. Is it no wonder that I seek the same? Yet these gifts, they do nothing to fill the emptiness when I howl to the moon at night and she does not howl back.
The gods retreat, and even with his keen hearing stolen from man, Old White cannot hear his fate. He remains, defeated, for what he told the gods was true.
They return.
You would give up everything for a mate? questions the Black god.
Yes!
Return as you were, as we made you? asks the Mother goddess.
Yes!
Well, brothers and sisters, I see only one course ahead of us, speaks Mithros, and he pulls the knot tight until Old White’s vision swims.
He hears them depart, and from his eyes drips moisture so that he cannot see. His vision is gone, and his head swims and his ears are muffled. His long tail he wraps around himself, yet it brings no warmth and he shivers. Old White knows that if he were to run, he would falter at the first pace. The gods have stripped him of everything, and he cries mournfully to the black moon.
A howl echoes nearby, and Old White peers into the darkness, his eyes picking up the mere suggestion of a shape. It is long and lithe, with fur that captures the night and clasps it close in the shadows.
Night Black, he whispers, and she comes near to touch cold noses. Old White bows his head as she snuffles into his ear, and he has never seen anything more beautiful than her piercing eyes and graceful muzzle.
Then they are dancing in the forests, seeing nothing but the other, and Old White knows happiness.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!