Rasalgethi
The Feed is not a definite article preceding an imperative: The Feed is unstoppable. It knows no fear, no hunger, no pain: It knows only supply. In its wake it leaves spoiling excess. It crushes cities. It acknowledges no bounds.
Muck is already oozing from between the bricks of the watchtower as Rasalgethi crests the hill, whip in one hand, saddle in the other. Before him, on black plains once green, The Feed advances.
Rasalgethi lowers his visor, checks his whip’s barb one last time. The sun goes behind a cloud and the sky goes dark.
The Feed screams; Rasalgethi leaps.
 | Where there's a will (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small} where_theres_a) wrote, |
This is almost fanfiction.
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