deerkult

note: as you can probably tell by the date and by, you know, looking at it, this was originally inspired by some very early noodling around with generated art. the period didn't last long before the myriad of downsides with current implementation of tech and other concerns reared their head (and in all honesty I was liable to hack up whatever it spit out anyway), but in any case, the other graphics on this site (like the "chapter" headings) are not AI; that's me collaging and pushing pixels/my head until I have a sufficiently aesthetic migraine inducer in front of me. with all that said I include it for transparency/context without encouraging the method)

"Do they carve 'em?"

They paused mid-sip, nostrils flaring at the smoke of the liquor but lips missing the burn. "I'm sorry?"

"Those." He spread one black wing towards the turbines in the distance, shining bone thorns pricking their way through the high sunset. "Some folks say you just run across 'em sometimes, if you're the right kind of wanderer in the right kind of wood. One that knows how to cut 'em; turn them, sculpt 'em. Maybe even forge 'em."

"White iron, huh." A tongue licked at bite-cratered lips in disappointment, before bringing the bottle back up to sip. "Here I thought they came from the highway. Saw three of 'em coming back in last time."

"You got jokes now. See what the highway brings next." It was out there, out in the distance. The same place it always was, somehow, with the lazy red blink from the top of the windmills beginning to appear in the ombre sky above what must surely be cars. On M's part it was something to stare at as his talons broke into a nervous rhythm. "Sorry. Bit much."

"Sage reminder." The bottle came back to their lips, this time succeeding in wetting them and the mouth beyond, even if the brushfire belch that followed spoke of warmer elements. "What else do folks say?"

The tapping slowed, the corvid croaking a low hum of relief. "One other tale: that they grow 'em out there."

Their eyebrow raised. "This is some corn shit, isn't it."

"It can't all be corn shit."

"Depends entirely on the amount of corn we're talking about."

"Or not talking about. Y'know, as one usually advises."

"Not in this family. Bullshit, though." V leaned back, setting down the mezcal and pointing at much smaller shadows in the distance. A small herd was watching the cars as well, meandering around the base of one of the stalks like a small, mobile thicket of antler. "They got their own reproductive skills, and you don't need a farm. Which is convenient, as I've never seen a damn one out there."

The raven nodded, before hopping to V's shoulder and settling in near the crook. "They get weird. Spooks people."

"Seen worse. But fair."

"Yeah." M's eyes closed then, "I know who you see in there."

V didn't reply, but the night did, as did the tiny bird's fatigue. With a sigh they picked him off of their shoulder, and placed him in the hood of their sweatshirt. "End of bedtime stories. Night, little bro."

It was M's turn to be unresponsive, but one last, mumbled question came from the abyss of cotton and feathers now directly behind V's head. "So where do they come from?"

"Oh. I'm so glad you asked." V grinned, and turned back to watch the last gasps of sunset above the field.

"They hunt them."