Dark Creatures (fragment)
They circle each other, shafts of light piercing their darkness and, only for an instant, illuminating the dangerous trap of the two men together. If you watch Abraxas, this scene becomes a dance: graceful, his steps are fluid and he moves within his long robes like shadow sliding or like black water. The silver streaks in his long, long hair are exclamation points of sudden sharp moonlight, something to draw out the worst, the beast in the creature that counter-circles, the movement that's counter-changed.
If you watch Fenrir, it's a hunt: he's no elfin figure of shadow and light like Abraxas, he's all darkness and all monstrous, huge and composed of greys and dull lambent lights. His eyes are fixed, his body a visual growl, a sense of something huge and evil and so deadly that watching him move is like watching the old fears that twist and glide under the surface of bad dreams.
Anyone with any sense moves out of the circle of fire.
But there's no violence here, save the violence that shimmers in the air around these Dark Creatures. No violence, only a sudden shudder that runs through Fenrir's back, a howl that splits the night and sends all sensible creatures winging into less brutal darkness- the clawed hand that lashes and rips into the hollow of Abraxas' slender back, draws him in and smears the twin tastes of old blood and old evil together in something so cruel and fierce and filled with the dominant, half-sleeping enmity of decades that it could never be called or considered a kiss.
Abraxas should break under the onslaught, but instead his laughter only spreads on the wind like a dark stain. They withdraw into the shadows...
If you watch Fenrir, it's a hunt: he's no elfin figure of shadow and light like Abraxas, he's all darkness and all monstrous, huge and composed of greys and dull lambent lights. His eyes are fixed, his body a visual growl, a sense of something huge and evil and so deadly that watching him move is like watching the old fears that twist and glide under the surface of bad dreams.
Anyone with any sense moves out of the circle of fire.
But there's no violence here, save the violence that shimmers in the air around these Dark Creatures. No violence, only a sudden shudder that runs through Fenrir's back, a howl that splits the night and sends all sensible creatures winging into less brutal darkness- the clawed hand that lashes and rips into the hollow of Abraxas' slender back, draws him in and smears the twin tastes of old blood and old evil together in something so cruel and fierce and filled with the dominant, half-sleeping enmity of decades that it could never be called or considered a kiss.
Abraxas should break under the onslaught, but instead his laughter only spreads on the wind like a dark stain. They withdraw into the shadows...