The Cycle (Twitch) (WIP)
"It's MEEE!" he cried, as each sweaty bolt plunged its way into a target, leaking putrid gas from each wound and filling his grayscale vision with a glorious smog.
“Who?"
His mind was a tub of hot oil, and a drop of clean water rose to the surface.
With a shake of his mangy head he launched another volley of stink doom. Armor melted, shields disintegrated, man's feeble attempt to make order from chaos fell to his odorous rampage. Their tidy designs and ceaseless polish couldn't save them. He was the great corrupter, the harbinger of decay.
But then it came again.
"Who?"
"ME!" he bellowed, moist darts of pleasure sinking into flesh like teeth into old cheese.
"ME!" he shrieked, as man, beast and flora tasted his rotten vengeance.
"ME!" he howled, firing his crossbow at the sky; dispersing wildlife and withering foliage.
His crossbow clicked. Empty.
His payload was spent, his targets long dead, but a zephyr of fresh air threatened to graze his nose hair.
And the question came again. Simply. Beautifully.
"Who?"
“Me." he whimpered. The stench of death somehow indiscernible despite the abundance of corpses.
“Who?”
"Me. Me. Meeee!" he moaned, closing his bloodshot eyes and plugging his ears with his stubby claws. But in the muffled din he could still make out clearly the chirping of a newborn bird, the trickle of a nearby stream, and the groan of new roots digging deep as life sprouted from the seeds of death he'd sown.
"The cycle.” he thought, miserably. No matter how much he mucked things up, they'd never stay mucked! The song of the forest mocked him; churning decay into beauty, chaos into harmony. Throw a foul note in the mix and soon cacophony would become a pattern of its own.
He opened his eyes to find the baby bird fluttering just in front of his nose. It looked at him quizzically, landing on his snout chirping it's horrible jolly little tune.
"Who are you, then?" he spat.
He wanted to swat the thing away, crush it; or better yet muddy up a wing so the thing would fly sideways. But despair had immobilized him. He couldn't even sneeze.
They locked eyes and the baby bird grew suddenly serious; a knowing wisdom washing over its sweet visage. It looked at him with, what was it, benevolence?
It blinked.
And then it relieved itself.
Fresh excrement coated the fur of his muzzle, and a spicy funk tantalized his nostrils. It dripped down onto his paws, and into the fur between his toes. It soaked right through his filthy coat directly into his filthy heart.
As if by magic, he was free. He whirled and jigged in a manic dance, the baby bird clinging for dear life. He crashed through flowerbeds, stomped down anthills, and stubbed each of his toes half a dozen times. When his jubilant maelstrom was complete, the little bird gave him a little whistle, a little flatulence, and flew off.
He watched it as it went, a twinkle in his eye. The sun hung low in he sky, and his gray world had a green tint.
"The cycle.” he thought, with a grin.
Replies
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"It's MEEE!" he cried, as each sweaty bolt plunged its way into a target, leaking putrid gas from each wound and filling his grayscale vision with a glorious smog.
“Who?"
His mind was a tub of hot oil, and a drop of clean water rose to the surface.
With a shake of his mangy head, he launched another volley of stink doom into the war-torn forest. Armor melted. Shields disintegrated. Man's feeble attempt to make order from chaos fell to his odorous onslaught. Their tidy designs and ceaseless polish couldn't save them. He was the great corrupter, the harbinger of decay. The Plague Rat.
But then it came again.
"Who?"
"ME!" he bellowed, moist darts of pleasure sinking into flesh like teeth into old cheese.
"ME!" he shrieked, as man, beast, and flora tasted his rotten vengeance.
"ME!" he howled, firing his crossbow at the sky; dispersing wildlife and withering foliage.
His crossbow clicked. Empty.
His payload was spent, and his targets long dead, but a zephyr of fresh air threatened to graze his nose hair.
And the question came again. Simply. Beautifully.
"Who?"
“Me." he whimpered. The stench of death somehow indiscernible despite the abundance of corpses.
“Who?”
"Me. Me. Meeee!" he moaned, closing his bloodshot eyes and plugging his ears with his stubby claws. But in the muffled din he could still make out clearly the chirping of a newborn bird, the trickle of a nearby stream, and the groan of new roots digging deep as life sprouted from the seeds of death he'd sown.
"The cycle.” he thought, miserably. No matter how much he mucked things up, they'd never stay mucked! The song of the forest mocked him; churning decay into beauty, chaos into harmony. Throw a foul note in the mix and soon cacophony would become a pattern of its own.
He opened his eyes to find the baby bird fluttering just in front of his nose. It looked at him quizzically and landed on his snout with a cheerful chirp.
"Who are you, then?" he spat.
He wanted to swat the thing away, crush it, or better yet muddy up a wing so the thing would fly sideways. Despair had immobilized him, though. He couldn't even sneeze.
They locked eyes and the baby bird grew suddenly serious; a clandestine wisdom washing over its sweet visage. It looked at him with, what was it, benevolence?
It blinked.
And then it relieved itself.
Fresh excrement coated the fur of his muzzle, and a spicy funk tantalized his nostrils. It dripped down onto his paws, and into the fur between his toes. It soaked right through his filthy coat into his filthy heart.
As if by magic, he was free. He whirled and jigged in a manic dance, the baby bird clinging for dear life. He crashed through flowerbeds, stomped down anthills, and stubbed each of his toes half a dozen times. When his jubilant maelstrom was complete, the little bird gave him a little whistle, a little flatulence, and flew off.
He watched it as it went, a twinkle in his eye. The sun hung low in the sky, and his gray world had a green tint.
"The cycle.” he thought, with a grin.
---------------------------------
"It's MEEE!" he cried, as each sweaty bolt plunged its way into a target, leaking putrid gas from each wound and filling his grayscale vision with a glorious smog.
“Who?"
His mind was a tub of hot oil, and a drop of clean water rose to the surface.
With a shake of his mangy head, he launched another volley of stink doom into the war-torn forest. Armor melted. Shields disintegrated. No matter how well maintained or meticulously organized, each barrier fell to his odorous onslaught. Their tidy designs and ceaseless polish couldn't save them. He was a force like gravity; The great corrupter, the harbinger of decay. The Plague Rat.
But then it came again.
"Who?"
"ME!" he bellowed, moist darts of pleasure sinking into flesh like teeth into old cheese.
"ME!" he shrieked, as man, beast, and flora tasted his rotten vengeance.
"ME!" he howled, firing his crossbow at the sky; dispersing wildlife and withering foliage.
His crossbow clicked. Empty.
His payload was spent, and his targets long dead, but a zephyr of fresh air threatened to graze his nose hair.
And the question came again. Simply. Beautifully.
"Who?"
“Me." he whimpered. The stench of death somehow indiscernible despite the abundance of corpses.
“Who?”
"Me. Me. Meeee!" he moaned, closing his bloodshot eyes and plugging his ears with his stubby claws. But in the muffled din he could still make out clearly the chirping of a newborn bird, the trickle of a nearby stream, and the groan of new roots digging deep as life sprouted from the seeds of death he'd sown.
"The cycle.” he thought, miserably. No matter how much he mucked things up, they'd never stay mucked! The song of the forest mocked him; churning decay into beauty, chaos into harmony. Throw a foul note in the mix and soon cacophony would become a pattern of its own.
He opened his eyes to find the baby bird fluttering just in front of his nose. It looked at him quizzically and landed on his snout with a cheerful chirp.
"Who are you, then?" he spat.
He wanted to swat the thing away, crush it, or better yet muddy up a wing so the thing would fly sideways. Despair had immobilized him, though. He couldn't even sneeze.
They locked eyes and the baby bird grew suddenly serious; a clandestine wisdom washing over its sweet visage. It looked at him with, what was it, benevolence?
It blinked.
And then it relieved itself.
Fresh excrement coated the fur of his muzzle, and a spicy funk tantalized his nostrils. It dripped down onto his paws, and into the fur between his toes. It soaked right through his filthy coat into his filthy heart.
As if by magic, he was free. He whirled and jigged in a manic dance, the baby bird clinging for dear life. He crashed through flowerbeds, stomped down anthills, and stubbed each of his toes half a dozen times. When his jubilant maelstrom was complete, the little bird gave him a little whistle, a little flatulence, and flew off.
He watched it as it went, a twinkle in his eye. The sun hung low in the sky, and his gray world had a green tint.
"The cycle.” he thought, with a grin.
Here's a fancier update. PDF formmmm.