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ready for a new round of Ceramic DM?(judgements in, check in for finals...)
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<blockquote data-quote="Gregor" data-source="post: 938772" data-attributes="member: 11751"><p><strong>Here is my entry for Round 1</strong></p><p></p><p><strong>The Price of Kindness</strong></p><p></p><p>The day ended as it usually did. The sun slowly dipped into the horizon and with its descent, cast its deep amber light across the valley. Long shadows slowly spread from the field of trees which blanketed the vale like dark narrow fingers, spreading their grip and claiming this territory for the night. As the evening blanket of shadow crept up towards the rocky hills which skirted the valley, Eamon MacCumhail moved as fast as his weathered form would allow. Up through the narrow stone halls and rooms in which he had made a home for himself over the years, he pressed on, limping occasionally and bracing himself with one hand on the wall. Feeling the smooth stone run along his fingers as he moved, a smile permeated itself upon his face for he knew what was to come this evening – a special treat that only the deep light of sunset during the summer months could produce. Panting slightly, he reached the uppermost hall, which progressively opened up into the wide valley below him. Continuing to brace himself against the nearest wall, his smile grew to a grin. He was not too late. Above, beside and all around him, the stone walls shone and glittered with a myriad of colours and shades as the various minerals and metals which still clung to the stone reflected the light. Pouring in from the many holes and crevasses in the upper most portions of the hallway, the sunlight bathed the walls in its warm farewell [pic 1]. Eamon did not blink an eye, for his admiration of this natural wonder was absolute. Deep reds, gold and purples bathed him in their presence and he closed his old eyes, feeling the warmth of the light against his skin. Despite the fact that he had lived in these caves for more than thirty years and had seen this phenomenon hundreds of times, he never grew tired of it. Eamon knew that these caves, the whole valley in fact, had once been deep under the oceans and in its slow and ancient recession had left these water-smoothed cave walls painted in resources. A less artistic person may not have enjoyed the event as much as Eamon did – but nobody was more artistic than he. Nor benevolent for that matter. Yet it was his benevolence that eventually led to his downfall.</p><p></p><p>Early the next morning, Eamon rose from his slumber in the pre-dawn darkness, scratching the sleep from his eyes and running his other hand through his long tangled grey beard. Blinking rapidly in the blurred darkness, he felt around on his bedside table for his spectacles. Finding them, he placed them on his face and watched as the room slowly came into focus. It was a modest room, clothed only in his bed, a few trunks along the wall, a small wooden desk and chair near the door and a large hearth which made use of one of the many passages in the rock walls, allowing for smoke to rise up and out of the room. Noticing that a few embers still glowed among the ashes of the previous night’s fire, he exhaled deeply and rose to his feet. Crossing the room in a matter of steps, he picked up a small amount of kindling and wood shavings that lay in a few small piles by the door. Navigating across the room again, he lay the shavings down upon the ashes and blew gently. He watched as the new flames licked at the wood and over the next few minutes, he layered the kindling and had a fresh morning cooking fire. Placing a few stout logs upon the fire before leaving the room, Eamon paused only to gather up a small blanket from one of the trunks. He exited his room and started to walk up the same path he had the night before. He passed his workshop, which was directly across from his room, his kitchen, and then came to a left turn in the hall, which swung upward towards the main entrance. Immediately upon turning to his left, he spotted the large feline pacing, stopping only to sniff and claw at the space below a door. Hearing the old man hobble around the corner, the Tiger quickly lay down in a feeble attempt to appear innocent. Eamon merely smiled and patted his faithful pet upon the head. </p><p></p><p>“I thought I told you to stay away from the pigs you sneaky feline!” Eamon chided. “If I catch you sniffing and clawing around here again it’ll be back in cage for you Murphy!”</p><p></p><p>Oblivious to the fact that he was being chastened, Murphy merely licked the old man’s hand and stood up to follow him the rest of the way out of the cave. Eamon checked the lock on the door. It was still secure and the door’s structure had not been compromised. His final assurance came from hearing the small pigs running around in their pen on the other side of the door. Giving Murphy one final cutting glance, he began his march once again – the tiger close on his heels.</p><p></p><p>The sun was slowly ascending into the sky when Eamon plunged into the small pool just outside of his cave. Every morning the old man would wash himself in the crystal clear spring, removing the layers of dirt and dust accumulated from simply living in the hills. Surrounding the small pool lay a humble vegetable garden and a modest wheat field. Turnips, potatoes, carrots and other easily grown produce sat in the morning sun, still too young to be harvested. Living off these vegetables and the number of pigs he purchases and raises whenever he is in town, he is able to feed himself easily. Moreover, asides from using the wheat for flour with which to bake bread in his hearth, he saves a large number of the plant stalks for use in his art. For Eamon, art is a melding of agriculture and creativity, the fusion of man’s labour and artistic ability. Using wheat stalks he is able to create functional baskets and frames, as well as many decorative works. This summer he was already deep into a series of pieces with which he would then sell in town in the coming Autumn. Pulling himself out of the icy water and reaching for the blanket to dry himself off, he noticed that Murphy was pawing at something by the wheat field. Draping the blanket around his shoulders and running a hand through his slick, wet hair, he strolled over to the curious tiger. </p><p></p><p>“What have you got there?” he inquired.</p><p></p><p>Eamon was not a superstitious man, so one can imagine his surprise at what he saw at Murphy’s feet. Lying in a clump, clothed only in what appeared to be burlap rags, was a small red creature. He was devoid of hair and his crimson skin glowed in the sun. Emaciated and apparently unconscious, the small figure rocked lifelessly with the force of the Tiger’s prodding paws. Eamon’s heart stopped beating for a few moments when his brain finally registered the strange and monstrous figure that his eyes were falling upon. Whatever this thing was, it was obviously not human. Its ears were longer than a human’s and its bestial fang-like teeth protruded from under its lower lip. In one ear, a large metal ring pierced the flesh and hung from its dark red lobe. Its closed eyes appeared to be recessed into its skull, but upon closer inspection, Eamon identified that the skin surrounding them was merely black [pic 2]. With one hand gently upon his lips, the old man suddenly noticed that he was breathing heavily and despite being dry from the pool, lines of sweat began to roll down his temples and back. He was terrified. </p><p></p><p>The figure was no more than 3 and-a-half feet tall and could not have weighed more than fifty to seventy-five pounds. After gathering up enough courage, Eamon kneeled down and began to scoop up the figure into his large muscular arms. With some effort, the old man had the figure in his arms and he was standing up – visibly taxed. Looking down at his tiger, Murphy shot him a return glance of pure innocent curiosity.</p><p></p><p>“Im scared Murphy. I don’t know what this thing is but we can’t just leave him here to be picked at by birds or wolves. We’ll take him inside and clean him up a bit. Come now…” He explained as he slowly trudged up towards the cave, struggling with this new load upon his old legs.</p><p></p><p>Sprawled out on the old man’s bed, the small red figure stirred. Across the hall, Eamon worked diligently at this summer’s art project while he waited for the creature to regain consciousness. His cooking fire had been blazing brightly when he returned with his newly found cargo. Murphy, as usual, was tagging at his heels. After laying the burlap-clad humanoid onto his bed, he moved immediately to put a large black iron pot over the flames. Hanging it from a hook upon the hearth, Eamon began to fix a stew. Gathering some dried pork, vegetables and fresh water from his kitchen, he had combined the ingredients and left them to boil. It was the warmth of the room and the delicious smells of the cooking pot that roused the figure from his slumber.</p><p></p><p>Opening its eyes to a blurry alien environment, it rose slowly, clutching at its rags and bearing its teeth in a fearful grimace. Peering across the hall, the figure had its first view of its rescuers. Clothed in a striped red shirt and wearing strange shiny plates over his eyes, the bearded man was busy working at something. From its position, the figure became only more afraid. The sun, cascading down from the ceiling and into the room in which the man was standing, shone upon a strange many-stranded sphere, causing it to glow eerily [pic 3]. Unaware that this was merely a work of art, the small figure feared the worst and huddled towards the back of the bed. Noticing that it was awake, Murphy rose from his prone position at Eamon’s feet. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and a curl grew in his lip as he bent into a defensive posture. Feeling the tiger’s tension immediately, Eamon cast a glance into his bedroom across the hall and upon the red figure now huddled against the headboard. Placing a hand upon Murphy’s back, Eamon walked slowly out of his workshop and into the hall.</p><p></p><p>“Easy lad.” He assured Murphy. “Its alright.”</p><p></p><p>“Do you speak common?” Eamon inquired while moving across the hall and towards the doorframe of his bedroom. He held up his hands up innocently as he walked.</p><p></p><p>The figure merely gazed at him, wide-eyed, afraid and confused.</p><p></p><p>“Eat? Hungry?” Eamon asked as he mimed the action of eating from a bowl. “You need to eat something.”</p><p></p><p>Moving slowly over to the hearth, he gathered up a bowl and ladled some of the steaming stew into it. Smiling, Eamon raised the bowl to his nose and took a long breath in through his nose, smelling the stew and rubbing his stomach with his other hand.</p><p></p><p>“Mmmmmm.” The sound reverberated off the old man’s lips. “Its good. Here eat.” Eamon had moved over to the bed and was now holding out the bowl to the frightened creature. Overcome by hunger and the tempting smells of the bowl, it snatched the bowl from his hands in the blink of an eye. The figure began to slurp at the stew quite noisily. </p><p></p><p>“Careful its hot!” Eamon warned, but the figure apparently paid no attention to the temperature of the meal. Murphy stood at the doorway, still locked in his feral pose. </p><p></p><p>When it had finished consuming the stew, the figure appeared to be more at ease, releasing his death-grip upon his burlap rags and relaxing the tooth-filled grimace which filled his face during his opening moments of cognizance of being in Eamon’s home. Now, his lips rested naturally, although now covered in a layer of broth. Smiling gently, Eamon backed up and away from the bed, allowing the figure to relax even further. Closing the door behind him, Eamon walked back into his workshop and was soon working to the sounds of the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping creature in the next room. The old man smiled. </p><p></p><p>He never did manage to teach the creature to speak, either because he was too poor a teacher or his student was just never capable of learning. After five years of existence under Eamon’s care, Wolf, for that is what the old man came to call him, had grown larger than his new father and had large patches of charcoal black hair growing along his body. His red skin, long ears and black fur made the creature appear to be a crimson wolf-man of some infernal origins. Moreover, Wolf’s behaviour and instincts began to become as feral and savage as his cosmetic appearance. Despite Eamon’s incredible benevolence in saving the poor wretch, ensuring it was fed and clothed, Wolf would randomly explode into rages, tipping over furniture or rampaging through the kitchens without disregard. For Wolf, his feral, demonic or otherworldly origins were too much for him to control. </p><p></p><p>One evening, becoming fearful of these destructive acts, Eamon was driven to bar the locked door into the pig farm so that Wolf’s rage would not lead him in there one day. However, much to Eamon’s horror and Murphy’s satisfaction, Wolf’s strength and bulk allowed him to easily bash through the pig farm’s door one afternoon while the old man was out picking vegetables. Upon his return, Eamon stared blankly at the shards of wood and twisted beams of metal that lay on the dusty floor by the shattered doorway into the pig pen. Dropping his load of fresh vegetables onto the floor, he hobbled forward, dodging the rolling produce as it raced down the slanted hallway. Peering into the pen, his heart jumped into his throat. Lying on his side, Murphy, bloated with consumed pig-flesh could barely move. The pigs, oblivious to what had just recently occurred, crowded around and even over top of the gluttonous feline [pic 4]. It was his satiated hunger and successful consumption of the pigs which he had longed for that had induced the Tiger’s snoring, audible even as Eamon walked on down the hallway.</p><p></p><p>The old man found Wolf in his workshop, continuing his rampage in there. With wide- eyed shock, Eamon screamed for the creature to desist. Blinded and deafened by rage, the creature smashed through his father’s works of art, showering every surface with wheat stalks. Enraged by witnessing his life’s passion torn to shreds, Eamon leapt forward with the speed of a man half his age. Bounding over a barrel which had been tipped aside by one of Wolf’s mighty sweeps of the hand, Eamon approached the still-oblivious creature. Gripping him by his furry shoulders, now coated in a fine layer of wheat dust, Eamon pulled with all his might, easily tossing the beast to the ground as years of farming had made him stronger than he appeared. Landing with a crash, Wolf roared with pain as his massive form smashed through a wooden box of carving tools that broke his fall. Stunned by what he had just done, Eamon knelt beside his son and reached a hand out towards him, his heart pounding in remorse. However, Wolf’s feral rage had reached its pinnacle. His massive red hand closed over a chisel found among the remnants of the tool-box and he spun around towards Eamon. As fast as one could blink, Wolf was upon his father, driving the chisel deep into his chest. Grabbing hold of Wolf’s hand, Eamon gazed into his eyes, tears welling up and blurring his sight, his son’s dark red façade rippling away into a watery visage. He coughed and a spray of human blood cascaded onto Wolf’s skin where it was barely visible against its red tone. Moaning in pain and heart-wrenching sadness, the old man rolled off of his knees and onto his side. Whatever humanity existed within Wolf, acquired from his years spent living with Eamon, came to life. Pulling his hand away and slouching back against a work desk, he lowered his head towards the ground as a child would after being chidden. Raising his eyes slightly, he gazed at his dying father. The old man’s life force dripped down his chest and the line that ran down his chin expanded further with a few wet blood-soaked coughs. Roaring in frustration and fear, Wolf leapt towards the door and bounded up the hallways, wailing in lamentation as he fled the caves.</p><p></p><p>Eamon dragged his failing blood soaked form up the smooth stone hallway, his matted clothes covered in wheat stalks stuck among the congealed blood. Coughing involuntarily, he moved slowly past the pig farm, offering a quick glimpse at his still-bloated pet, banishing the thought that if he had not been such a greedy cat he might have been on hand and helped him restrain his son. Clutching at the chisel which still remained embedded in his chest with one hand, he braced himself with his free hand against the wall. Arriving at the utmost hallway, at the peak of sunset, he slouched to the floor exhausted and defeated. Gazing out onto the valley in hopes of spotting his confused bestial son, Eamon experienced his summer phenomenon one last time. Blanketed in reds, purples and golds, he managed a smile as his eyes closed and he felt the warmth of his last Summer’s sunlight. </p><p> </p><p>Illustrations:</p><p>[pic 1] – the coloured caves</p><p>[pic 2] – the red bestial face</p><p>[pic 3] – the old artisan and his art</p><p>[pic 4] – the tiger and the pigs</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Gregor, post: 938772, member: 11751"] [b]Here is my entry for Round 1[/b] [B]The Price of Kindness[/B] The day ended as it usually did. The sun slowly dipped into the horizon and with its descent, cast its deep amber light across the valley. Long shadows slowly spread from the field of trees which blanketed the vale like dark narrow fingers, spreading their grip and claiming this territory for the night. As the evening blanket of shadow crept up towards the rocky hills which skirted the valley, Eamon MacCumhail moved as fast as his weathered form would allow. Up through the narrow stone halls and rooms in which he had made a home for himself over the years, he pressed on, limping occasionally and bracing himself with one hand on the wall. Feeling the smooth stone run along his fingers as he moved, a smile permeated itself upon his face for he knew what was to come this evening – a special treat that only the deep light of sunset during the summer months could produce. Panting slightly, he reached the uppermost hall, which progressively opened up into the wide valley below him. Continuing to brace himself against the nearest wall, his smile grew to a grin. He was not too late. Above, beside and all around him, the stone walls shone and glittered with a myriad of colours and shades as the various minerals and metals which still clung to the stone reflected the light. Pouring in from the many holes and crevasses in the upper most portions of the hallway, the sunlight bathed the walls in its warm farewell [pic 1]. Eamon did not blink an eye, for his admiration of this natural wonder was absolute. Deep reds, gold and purples bathed him in their presence and he closed his old eyes, feeling the warmth of the light against his skin. Despite the fact that he had lived in these caves for more than thirty years and had seen this phenomenon hundreds of times, he never grew tired of it. Eamon knew that these caves, the whole valley in fact, had once been deep under the oceans and in its slow and ancient recession had left these water-smoothed cave walls painted in resources. A less artistic person may not have enjoyed the event as much as Eamon did – but nobody was more artistic than he. Nor benevolent for that matter. Yet it was his benevolence that eventually led to his downfall. Early the next morning, Eamon rose from his slumber in the pre-dawn darkness, scratching the sleep from his eyes and running his other hand through his long tangled grey beard. Blinking rapidly in the blurred darkness, he felt around on his bedside table for his spectacles. Finding them, he placed them on his face and watched as the room slowly came into focus. It was a modest room, clothed only in his bed, a few trunks along the wall, a small wooden desk and chair near the door and a large hearth which made use of one of the many passages in the rock walls, allowing for smoke to rise up and out of the room. Noticing that a few embers still glowed among the ashes of the previous night’s fire, he exhaled deeply and rose to his feet. Crossing the room in a matter of steps, he picked up a small amount of kindling and wood shavings that lay in a few small piles by the door. Navigating across the room again, he lay the shavings down upon the ashes and blew gently. He watched as the new flames licked at the wood and over the next few minutes, he layered the kindling and had a fresh morning cooking fire. Placing a few stout logs upon the fire before leaving the room, Eamon paused only to gather up a small blanket from one of the trunks. He exited his room and started to walk up the same path he had the night before. He passed his workshop, which was directly across from his room, his kitchen, and then came to a left turn in the hall, which swung upward towards the main entrance. Immediately upon turning to his left, he spotted the large feline pacing, stopping only to sniff and claw at the space below a door. Hearing the old man hobble around the corner, the Tiger quickly lay down in a feeble attempt to appear innocent. Eamon merely smiled and patted his faithful pet upon the head. “I thought I told you to stay away from the pigs you sneaky feline!” Eamon chided. “If I catch you sniffing and clawing around here again it’ll be back in cage for you Murphy!” Oblivious to the fact that he was being chastened, Murphy merely licked the old man’s hand and stood up to follow him the rest of the way out of the cave. Eamon checked the lock on the door. It was still secure and the door’s structure had not been compromised. His final assurance came from hearing the small pigs running around in their pen on the other side of the door. Giving Murphy one final cutting glance, he began his march once again – the tiger close on his heels. The sun was slowly ascending into the sky when Eamon plunged into the small pool just outside of his cave. Every morning the old man would wash himself in the crystal clear spring, removing the layers of dirt and dust accumulated from simply living in the hills. Surrounding the small pool lay a humble vegetable garden and a modest wheat field. Turnips, potatoes, carrots and other easily grown produce sat in the morning sun, still too young to be harvested. Living off these vegetables and the number of pigs he purchases and raises whenever he is in town, he is able to feed himself easily. Moreover, asides from using the wheat for flour with which to bake bread in his hearth, he saves a large number of the plant stalks for use in his art. For Eamon, art is a melding of agriculture and creativity, the fusion of man’s labour and artistic ability. Using wheat stalks he is able to create functional baskets and frames, as well as many decorative works. This summer he was already deep into a series of pieces with which he would then sell in town in the coming Autumn. Pulling himself out of the icy water and reaching for the blanket to dry himself off, he noticed that Murphy was pawing at something by the wheat field. Draping the blanket around his shoulders and running a hand through his slick, wet hair, he strolled over to the curious tiger. “What have you got there?” he inquired. Eamon was not a superstitious man, so one can imagine his surprise at what he saw at Murphy’s feet. Lying in a clump, clothed only in what appeared to be burlap rags, was a small red creature. He was devoid of hair and his crimson skin glowed in the sun. Emaciated and apparently unconscious, the small figure rocked lifelessly with the force of the Tiger’s prodding paws. Eamon’s heart stopped beating for a few moments when his brain finally registered the strange and monstrous figure that his eyes were falling upon. Whatever this thing was, it was obviously not human. Its ears were longer than a human’s and its bestial fang-like teeth protruded from under its lower lip. In one ear, a large metal ring pierced the flesh and hung from its dark red lobe. Its closed eyes appeared to be recessed into its skull, but upon closer inspection, Eamon identified that the skin surrounding them was merely black [pic 2]. With one hand gently upon his lips, the old man suddenly noticed that he was breathing heavily and despite being dry from the pool, lines of sweat began to roll down his temples and back. He was terrified. The figure was no more than 3 and-a-half feet tall and could not have weighed more than fifty to seventy-five pounds. After gathering up enough courage, Eamon kneeled down and began to scoop up the figure into his large muscular arms. With some effort, the old man had the figure in his arms and he was standing up – visibly taxed. Looking down at his tiger, Murphy shot him a return glance of pure innocent curiosity. “Im scared Murphy. I don’t know what this thing is but we can’t just leave him here to be picked at by birds or wolves. We’ll take him inside and clean him up a bit. Come now…” He explained as he slowly trudged up towards the cave, struggling with this new load upon his old legs. Sprawled out on the old man’s bed, the small red figure stirred. Across the hall, Eamon worked diligently at this summer’s art project while he waited for the creature to regain consciousness. His cooking fire had been blazing brightly when he returned with his newly found cargo. Murphy, as usual, was tagging at his heels. After laying the burlap-clad humanoid onto his bed, he moved immediately to put a large black iron pot over the flames. Hanging it from a hook upon the hearth, Eamon began to fix a stew. Gathering some dried pork, vegetables and fresh water from his kitchen, he had combined the ingredients and left them to boil. It was the warmth of the room and the delicious smells of the cooking pot that roused the figure from his slumber. Opening its eyes to a blurry alien environment, it rose slowly, clutching at its rags and bearing its teeth in a fearful grimace. Peering across the hall, the figure had its first view of its rescuers. Clothed in a striped red shirt and wearing strange shiny plates over his eyes, the bearded man was busy working at something. From its position, the figure became only more afraid. The sun, cascading down from the ceiling and into the room in which the man was standing, shone upon a strange many-stranded sphere, causing it to glow eerily [pic 3]. Unaware that this was merely a work of art, the small figure feared the worst and huddled towards the back of the bed. Noticing that it was awake, Murphy rose from his prone position at Eamon’s feet. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and a curl grew in his lip as he bent into a defensive posture. Feeling the tiger’s tension immediately, Eamon cast a glance into his bedroom across the hall and upon the red figure now huddled against the headboard. Placing a hand upon Murphy’s back, Eamon walked slowly out of his workshop and into the hall. “Easy lad.” He assured Murphy. “Its alright.” “Do you speak common?” Eamon inquired while moving across the hall and towards the doorframe of his bedroom. He held up his hands up innocently as he walked. The figure merely gazed at him, wide-eyed, afraid and confused. “Eat? Hungry?” Eamon asked as he mimed the action of eating from a bowl. “You need to eat something.” Moving slowly over to the hearth, he gathered up a bowl and ladled some of the steaming stew into it. Smiling, Eamon raised the bowl to his nose and took a long breath in through his nose, smelling the stew and rubbing his stomach with his other hand. “Mmmmmm.” The sound reverberated off the old man’s lips. “Its good. Here eat.” Eamon had moved over to the bed and was now holding out the bowl to the frightened creature. Overcome by hunger and the tempting smells of the bowl, it snatched the bowl from his hands in the blink of an eye. The figure began to slurp at the stew quite noisily. “Careful its hot!” Eamon warned, but the figure apparently paid no attention to the temperature of the meal. Murphy stood at the doorway, still locked in his feral pose. When it had finished consuming the stew, the figure appeared to be more at ease, releasing his death-grip upon his burlap rags and relaxing the tooth-filled grimace which filled his face during his opening moments of cognizance of being in Eamon’s home. Now, his lips rested naturally, although now covered in a layer of broth. Smiling gently, Eamon backed up and away from the bed, allowing the figure to relax even further. Closing the door behind him, Eamon walked back into his workshop and was soon working to the sounds of the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping creature in the next room. The old man smiled. He never did manage to teach the creature to speak, either because he was too poor a teacher or his student was just never capable of learning. After five years of existence under Eamon’s care, Wolf, for that is what the old man came to call him, had grown larger than his new father and had large patches of charcoal black hair growing along his body. His red skin, long ears and black fur made the creature appear to be a crimson wolf-man of some infernal origins. Moreover, Wolf’s behaviour and instincts began to become as feral and savage as his cosmetic appearance. Despite Eamon’s incredible benevolence in saving the poor wretch, ensuring it was fed and clothed, Wolf would randomly explode into rages, tipping over furniture or rampaging through the kitchens without disregard. For Wolf, his feral, demonic or otherworldly origins were too much for him to control. One evening, becoming fearful of these destructive acts, Eamon was driven to bar the locked door into the pig farm so that Wolf’s rage would not lead him in there one day. However, much to Eamon’s horror and Murphy’s satisfaction, Wolf’s strength and bulk allowed him to easily bash through the pig farm’s door one afternoon while the old man was out picking vegetables. Upon his return, Eamon stared blankly at the shards of wood and twisted beams of metal that lay on the dusty floor by the shattered doorway into the pig pen. Dropping his load of fresh vegetables onto the floor, he hobbled forward, dodging the rolling produce as it raced down the slanted hallway. Peering into the pen, his heart jumped into his throat. Lying on his side, Murphy, bloated with consumed pig-flesh could barely move. The pigs, oblivious to what had just recently occurred, crowded around and even over top of the gluttonous feline [pic 4]. It was his satiated hunger and successful consumption of the pigs which he had longed for that had induced the Tiger’s snoring, audible even as Eamon walked on down the hallway. The old man found Wolf in his workshop, continuing his rampage in there. With wide- eyed shock, Eamon screamed for the creature to desist. Blinded and deafened by rage, the creature smashed through his father’s works of art, showering every surface with wheat stalks. Enraged by witnessing his life’s passion torn to shreds, Eamon leapt forward with the speed of a man half his age. Bounding over a barrel which had been tipped aside by one of Wolf’s mighty sweeps of the hand, Eamon approached the still-oblivious creature. Gripping him by his furry shoulders, now coated in a fine layer of wheat dust, Eamon pulled with all his might, easily tossing the beast to the ground as years of farming had made him stronger than he appeared. Landing with a crash, Wolf roared with pain as his massive form smashed through a wooden box of carving tools that broke his fall. Stunned by what he had just done, Eamon knelt beside his son and reached a hand out towards him, his heart pounding in remorse. However, Wolf’s feral rage had reached its pinnacle. His massive red hand closed over a chisel found among the remnants of the tool-box and he spun around towards Eamon. As fast as one could blink, Wolf was upon his father, driving the chisel deep into his chest. Grabbing hold of Wolf’s hand, Eamon gazed into his eyes, tears welling up and blurring his sight, his son’s dark red façade rippling away into a watery visage. He coughed and a spray of human blood cascaded onto Wolf’s skin where it was barely visible against its red tone. Moaning in pain and heart-wrenching sadness, the old man rolled off of his knees and onto his side. Whatever humanity existed within Wolf, acquired from his years spent living with Eamon, came to life. Pulling his hand away and slouching back against a work desk, he lowered his head towards the ground as a child would after being chidden. Raising his eyes slightly, he gazed at his dying father. The old man’s life force dripped down his chest and the line that ran down his chin expanded further with a few wet blood-soaked coughs. Roaring in frustration and fear, Wolf leapt towards the door and bounded up the hallways, wailing in lamentation as he fled the caves. Eamon dragged his failing blood soaked form up the smooth stone hallway, his matted clothes covered in wheat stalks stuck among the congealed blood. Coughing involuntarily, he moved slowly past the pig farm, offering a quick glimpse at his still-bloated pet, banishing the thought that if he had not been such a greedy cat he might have been on hand and helped him restrain his son. Clutching at the chisel which still remained embedded in his chest with one hand, he braced himself with his free hand against the wall. Arriving at the utmost hallway, at the peak of sunset, he slouched to the floor exhausted and defeated. Gazing out onto the valley in hopes of spotting his confused bestial son, Eamon experienced his summer phenomenon one last time. Blanketed in reds, purples and golds, he managed a smile as his eyes closed and he felt the warmth of his last Summer’s sunlight. Illustrations: [pic 1] – the coloured caves [pic 2] – the red bestial face [pic 3] – the old artisan and his art [pic 4] – the tiger and the pigs [/QUOTE]
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