((May possibly contain imagery unsavoury to some.))
Darkness. Full darkness. The sky is black, illuminated by the pinpricks of tiny starlight. The moon is dark, new as some would say, but she knows better. The moon is hidden beneath the dark residue of blood.
Out in the bay, something stirs. The water ripples, boils, bubbles ....something is rising from the depths.
A horned head lifts from the silent blackness, green eyes alight with inhuman fury and hunger scan the waiting ships. She hungers. For too long she has waited upon her island with her sisters, alone, with no passing ships to lure to their deaths. No food for too long.
She moves across the surface of the water, every sense alert, stretching out to listen for the heartbeats of the unwary. The Dockland is alive with life, men and women laughing, living, unaware of the silent death that stalks them from the waters.
Here, at the foot of the steps that lead down into the water, she stops, she waits, listening as she locates the ones who will feed her and her kin this night. The horned head rises, a scaled body follows. Arms that reach to venomous taloned hands pull her from the water. A tail, fearsome in its aspect, coils and uncoils to lift her up the dark steps towards the sounds of revelry.
They are unwary, this prey. They believe themselves safe on land, in groups. She could almost laugh at their naivety. She lives and feeds at sea ....she hunts on land. Coiling and uncoiling, that ferocious tail lifts her higher, onto cobbles slick with human excretions, slinking through the shadows cast by the ships that sway gently against the piers and mooring lands.
There ....she hisses in anticipation. Four stumble away from their party toward the shadows where she waits. Her tail flicks eagerly, saliva drips from the protruding fangs at her muzzle. Closer ....closer ....they are unaware of her, too buoyed up with drink and merriment to listen for the rasp of scales on stone as she draws further into the shadows.
They see her, finally, they look into the face of their personal Death. She strikes fast, the venom of her claws and tail flooding their terrified bodies, paralysing them, killing the screams that rise but do not take flight. Blood drips over the cobbles as she hisses in triumph. She and her sisters will dine well tonight.
There are a few distance splashes to entertain the other revellers, but they do not investigate. And in the morning, all there will be is blood, washed away by the salt sea and snow.
Darkness. Full darkness. The sky is black, illuminated by the pinpricks of tiny starlight. The moon is dark, new as some would say, but she knows better. The moon is hidden beneath the dark residue of blood.
Out in the bay, something stirs. The water ripples, boils, bubbles ....something is rising from the depths.
A horned head lifts from the silent blackness, green eyes alight with inhuman fury and hunger scan the waiting ships. She hungers. For too long she has waited upon her island with her sisters, alone, with no passing ships to lure to their deaths. No food for too long.
She moves across the surface of the water, every sense alert, stretching out to listen for the heartbeats of the unwary. The Dockland is alive with life, men and women laughing, living, unaware of the silent death that stalks them from the waters.
Here, at the foot of the steps that lead down into the water, she stops, she waits, listening as she locates the ones who will feed her and her kin this night. The horned head rises, a scaled body follows. Arms that reach to venomous taloned hands pull her from the water. A tail, fearsome in its aspect, coils and uncoils to lift her up the dark steps towards the sounds of revelry.
They are unwary, this prey. They believe themselves safe on land, in groups. She could almost laugh at their naivety. She lives and feeds at sea ....she hunts on land. Coiling and uncoiling, that ferocious tail lifts her higher, onto cobbles slick with human excretions, slinking through the shadows cast by the ships that sway gently against the piers and mooring lands.
There ....she hisses in anticipation. Four stumble away from their party toward the shadows where she waits. Her tail flicks eagerly, saliva drips from the protruding fangs at her muzzle. Closer ....closer ....they are unaware of her, too buoyed up with drink and merriment to listen for the rasp of scales on stone as she draws further into the shadows.
They see her, finally, they look into the face of their personal Death. She strikes fast, the venom of her claws and tail flooding their terrified bodies, paralysing them, killing the screams that rise but do not take flight. Blood drips over the cobbles as she hisses in triumph. She and her sisters will dine well tonight.
There are a few distance splashes to entertain the other revellers, but they do not investigate. And in the morning, all there will be is blood, washed away by the salt sea and snow.