Thread: Animal (Verse and Zoophilian)

This is for myself and Zoophilian. Enjoy the read. The house he lived in was at the beginning of the forest and the edge of the city. Wooden for most part, speaking of heritage and money. He'd seen to that it was decorated accordingly, allowing porcelain, cabinets and other furniture to remain in their rightful places even generations after their purchase and installment. The hall wasn't so much welcoming as it was proper, staunch. Fully restored and well lit, with a few frames hosting contemporary ventures, but not warm despite its oaken, intimate century constellation. You would arrive, wipe your shoes, hang you coat and place your hat, damn it. The entrance floor could seem soulless. So much old mixed with expensive new that it would be hard to find a common denominator other than symmetry and unison. If you'd done a round or two of wealthy homes, you'd see through the well filtered, sometimes unobstructed daylight hitting wooden details and chrome art to note it was all to impress rather than represent. As with other facades, this one gave a clue to the innards of its owner, its wearer. A big, grinning clue at the last wall from the main entrance. Between twin windows, large and proud, lined with heavy curtains of a faded color, a sizable plate of polished, white ceramic hung from the wall. Underneath it stood a table a few shades murkier, often with refreshments of varying, minimalistic or traditional containers cylindrical water pitchers with orange and cucumber slices afloat, expertly whittled bowls of dried cranberries or yellow raisins, carrot chips with thyme, and the like. But even to a dullard with no other grand home tours on his resume, the display of snacks would not be the focal point at the end of the greeting tier of this three story building. Instead it would be the wolf skeleton held onto the enamel surface of the ceramic arc. He, because monsters are usually of male gender, had been allowed to keep approximately half his calcium frame, even in death, as it was cut and adjusted to look like he was jumping out and to the right, frozen in a dynamic pose out of the milky surface which did not match the slightly yellowed nature of his bones. The teeth were cracked and broken, for whatever reason the artist could have justified it with. The floor at the top of the stairs, found somewhere adjacent to the insistent hall, would host more of the same. And more of worse. Busts of things that were shot in the head, heads of things that were unmade by a center mass wounds - stuffed, the end of the skin, beginning of flesh dried around protruding bone. Spilling from the bone, where marrow should be, was gold, frozen in drip. Not for the wingless or headless birds, of course. If bones were hollow, they had silver instead. The immortal bodies were mingling with practical and pretty things. Real vanity, not the kind he'd payed for like downstairs. Many rooms, many menageries of concluded prey. He sat in his study, which showcased only the finer pieces of his art. A bull, leaping with golden rivers where legs and hooves should be. A wolverine perched in its curdled, yellow puddle. And then antlers, of course. He wore glasses of a deep, disappearing green shade, framing eyes that were a lonely red. You could call it a vivid brown, if you were a liar. The ends of his jaw were sharply cut, as was the tip of his chin. Very few shadows in an otherwise smooth, soft face. Pressed black vest over a blue that wanted to be black as well. Purple, emaciated tie. Black crown of hair, fangs up on each side, long and thick without sheen, to underline his youth despite his obvious success. Sword of a body, spear of a body, either way his physical form, followed by the tailor, was a narrow weapon. He sat by a glass table, one dapper leg crossed over the other in the platinum stick chair. Four others placed around. He thought. While this process had been rather long, pieces had all fallen in to place faster than Edmon Naderson had hoped. The preparations proved to be somewhat tedious, but he'd found pleasure in the anticipation of it. In the end objects of investment - of lust or otherwise - are simply profit in wait, and there were things on the way that he deemed more than rewarding in themselves. How beautiful it had been to watch the genesis of her new view, her opened and reforged mind. More so, it had been good to coax her, to inject the seeds and nourish them by pouring poison in her ear. It was not a sin in the conventional way, not one that he carried alone, he would argue, since her mind had been inclined toward this -- persuasion already. His personal tastes were the catalyst of his ambition to cultivate hers, and here were the results. Secretly and in plain sight - as all well hidden secrets are - a table of contraptions was placed along the wall to the side of his desk, which in turn was a pleasant distant, in this large room, from the glass table. Contraptions with pipes and funnels, and contraptions with blades and spikes. Sitting by one of the legs was a gaping animal, open from chin to rear, its insides of an artificial sheen. Latex. Parts of it methodically littering the floor around it. Again, if you cared to look. Edmond knew where people would set their eyes. He'd been concealing things without covering them all his life. The lighting was pleasantly radiating out from the warmly colored rug, and that's where most people would direct their attention. She would be here soon, ready for the service he'd offered. It wasn't like she could back out now, the process had long since started. To be honest he might very well conclude it without her say so, but what is more satisfying than having the mouse drown itself because you told it there was cheese at the bottom of the brook? The person close to her, that had binded her with him, had seen a similar fate. It was a delicious story, really, one that he would have to recant during todays meeting, where she would become something else, and he would treat her accordingly. And all he'd payed to gain this pleasure was honey words and supposed support. The doctor of many fields and Jack of many trades was here in his home today, to initiate a certain nightmare.