Intro to Centaur!AU
Men.
Men are such small creatures, in many ways. It isn't just their modest stature, not even in comparison to his own people--and that in itself is another contrast. His people are unknown even to he, and those he has taken under his rule are but relations in name only.
These men, they gather in such numbers, so that the heaving bulk of them creates a pustulent mass on the free land. They transform it, but not to the betterment of any. They feed of it like parasites, like ticks and flies suckling at a corpse already withered. These men slither upon one another, so thick are they, so secure in their city-states that they build walls to contain themselves, a seething, stinking mass of humanity that no longer bears any relation to the meaning of the term.
Men busy themselves with naught but their own short lives, and clamber upon one another for the smallest advantage. He has heard them likened to ants, or even the great architects the termites, but he feels this is unfair and inaccurate. Men do not work as one. Men do not come together for the greater good at the cost of their own personal comfort. Even the termite is not mindless, like a man can be. Men see not but ways to make their path to the top of a teetering pyramid, where the air is no less foul for their misdeeds.
Men in their cities, in their towns, in their settlements, they seek endless propagation. Even weeds have their uses, but these men are a blight.
He looks down, down to where a man now dead lies upon his cobblestoned road, silent in the midst of his creation. The man's chest is caved inward, and his eyes are unseeing. The man was once a creature who knew not his own beauty, nor his potential. The man's eyes were once light, perhaps blue. They are now grey, and the man has concerns of his own no longer.
He is not unfamiliar with humility. He embodies it, and for these men, in their city, his people teach them its value.
Bane lifts his hoof, and gently scrapes it against the stones near the man's torso.
Men are so small, in so many ways.
Men are such small creatures, in many ways. It isn't just their modest stature, not even in comparison to his own people--and that in itself is another contrast. His people are unknown even to he, and those he has taken under his rule are but relations in name only.
These men, they gather in such numbers, so that the heaving bulk of them creates a pustulent mass on the free land. They transform it, but not to the betterment of any. They feed of it like parasites, like ticks and flies suckling at a corpse already withered. These men slither upon one another, so thick are they, so secure in their city-states that they build walls to contain themselves, a seething, stinking mass of humanity that no longer bears any relation to the meaning of the term.
Men busy themselves with naught but their own short lives, and clamber upon one another for the smallest advantage. He has heard them likened to ants, or even the great architects the termites, but he feels this is unfair and inaccurate. Men do not work as one. Men do not come together for the greater good at the cost of their own personal comfort. Even the termite is not mindless, like a man can be. Men see not but ways to make their path to the top of a teetering pyramid, where the air is no less foul for their misdeeds.
Men in their cities, in their towns, in their settlements, they seek endless propagation. Even weeds have their uses, but these men are a blight.
He looks down, down to where a man now dead lies upon his cobblestoned road, silent in the midst of his creation. The man's chest is caved inward, and his eyes are unseeing. The man was once a creature who knew not his own beauty, nor his potential. The man's eyes were once light, perhaps blue. They are now grey, and the man has concerns of his own no longer.
He is not unfamiliar with humility. He embodies it, and for these men, in their city, his people teach them its value.
Bane lifts his hoof, and gently scrapes it against the stones near the man's torso.
Men are so small, in so many ways.