As usual, some WIP:
Sorrow: The crocodile moves through tunnels lined with coffins lost to dry rot. The catacombs are not damp enough to soothe his skin, but already he has found pools deeper down to rest in the dark, to heal, to hunt pale fish and blind frogs.
He smells his enemy, his tormentor, his twin. He is confused. A mind optimized for dark water and gliding menace isn't made for the politics of catastrophic theophany. Still, Sorrow did not reach his great bulk through intemperance or thoughtless action. Even a slow lizard king must consider the import of his acts.
Thoughts shifting with the speed of a stump rotting draw him forward. Sorrow glides on great-clawed legs, dragging his belly over holy ground, following the sounds of people and the scent of the one whose back he will break first.
This place is nothing but a enormous, stone swamp; and he knows well how to terrorize a swamp.
| Originally published at jlake.com. |