- Construct -
Every day I walk by the heavy cross and I hear the creatures call at me - begging for me to give them just an ounce of what I have.
Their bodies accented with orange and fluorescent yellow - some say that when the sun god hits their flourescent skin and it catches your eyes, you will spend one hundred years blinded. As I quietly trace my feet along the ground, I try not to make a sound. My eyes gazed past them, I can hear them panting and scowling with thirst and desire for blood they have not tasted in centuries. Placing their claws upon their smooth skull that protrudes with a mass bone at the frontal crown, they hiss and salivate when they see my kind trot by. Trapped, they are confined by the cross that does not let them pass - bounded to the grounds in which they hope one of us will be daring to enter. The longer they have not fed, the more their skin begins to expand to a shape no human has seen before. But with a curious eye, every so often a child of my kind dares to cross these creatures' paths beyond the cross. Without an ounce of remorse, they feed for days and restore their youth - shrinking in size and gaunt as they were the day they were born from the ground.