Rot (+18)

Perhaps the worst of it all was the sickly smell of decomposing leaves, Fletcher was never a fan of the Fall season for that very reason. Mist crept through the trees, crawling up their roots and wrapping around his legs as he made his way through the woods. He didn't mind the cold, he didn't mind the dark, those had become oh-so natural to him over the last few years. What truly bothered him was that smell, decay. The certainty that all things are one day to whither and rot. He halted by the edge of the treeline, gazing upon an old log cabin that rested in the middle of the clearing. Home. Humble, but he was not the type of stallion to ask for much. Silvery moonlight guided him towards the front door, which opened with naught but a simple push, allowing him passage into the dark interior. Not a lot of light made its way inside, not with the windows boarded up as they were, but he's been here for so long he might as well not even need light to transverse the room. Customary as ever, like a predetermined path, he walked straight down the short corridor, avoiding the broken glass of a shattered picture frame. This path led him to the kitchen, and there he would light the iron oven with the spark of a match, yesterday's soup being set to boil once more. Herbs, wild vegetables, a few potatoes he's managed to grow in the back of the house, all thrown into a cast iron pot with water. Once again, he was never one to ask for much, and this? Was a delicacy, certainly the highlight of the day. Fletcher sat down to enjoy his meal, each spoonful filled with love and delight. But even then, the smell of rot was still strong. She's starting to smell bad again. He looked up at his wife, and empty eye sockets stared back at him. She hasn't eaten anything in a very long time, and the knife he slipped into the back of her neck wasn't of much help. Well, they're out of perfume, looks like he'll have to go and visit the village by the morning's rise. Upon finishing his soup, he crawled to bed and under heavy blankets, only to be awoken in the middle of the night by another's presence. Half-awake, he could see a figure standing next to his bed, a creature whose existence was incomprehensible, its dull blue eyes gazing down upon his soul. Fletch tried to scream, but his vocal cords were ripped from his throat. He tried to flail, but his tendons were cut. He tried to cry, but his eyes were gouged out. Zerathur looked down upon the Equestrian as it failed to fight back against the vines and roots that tore its body apart. Harvesting spell materials wasn't something he took pleasure in, but he found amusing that one who so willingly took a life of their equal, as lowly of a species they may be, had naught the strength to struggle against even the weakest of his cantrips.