VVINTER; Violent Vultures:
Soaring across the sky, their wicked flapping of wings and sick laughter echoing over the land; serving as a warning for those unlucky enough to see or hear.
The committe of death, as they were called for reasons clear enough, were also the servants of suffering. Shamelessly, they hunted, they hunted together, greed and gluttony narrating their instincts.
Any unfortunate to encounter could not live to tell the tale although their agony was quite clear. The committee would grip, and pull, and tear, feeding off of both flesh and fear.
As sadistic as they may be, they were not evil at first, eating what they could, consuming what they had to. Competition was few, not like others could eat the rotting. Yet they got bored and wished to hunt for the thrill of hunting. As the terror continued the prey hid fearing for both their lives and the lives of their young. Knowing death was a guarantee they died alone, hidden from the vultures' sights. Those who have once believed that they could overrule nature or outsmart an intelligent creator, have now dug their own graves.
Weeks have passed since the taste of flesh, days have passed since the refreshment of blood, and the vultures were in no good shape to hunt.
Gliding across the sky with their last push of strenght, praying for a meal, even if it was nothing more than a carcass. Thus, one by one being failed by their own bodies, plummited to the ground. Dying upon impact, necks twisted and bons showing and blood spilling and the ground drowning.
As the last vulture fell, its life crossing its mind reflecting on everthing it did and feeling immense pride. It hit the ground, a loud thud echoing, its lifeless eyes capturing an image of another committee.
It all turned black, it all turned dark, but light was at the end of the tunnel and then, a child woke, prideful of its accomplishments.
