- Pages:
- 1
- 2
| Roleplays | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 25 2011, 10:42 PM (172 Views) | |
| Audrey | Jan 25 2011, 10:42 PM Post #1 |
|
Administrator
|
Potential was never realized without a handful of failures to serve in heightening comprehension and effectiveness of the tools needed to reach it. Under cover of this night would Neriminda travel, graceful movements slowed by his charge, some dead weight of a silhouette dark and still and very much not okay he dragged like a downed elk across the valley, plowing up furrows of sand as he trekked, perfectly calm even as his jaws would flex and tighten to accommodate the hind leg they grasped so inexorably. Moonlight betrayed the mishap, subject canine and made small by malnourishment, retrieved by his own selection from the slave caverns with the promise of a nice hand-out... Little did it know that the Red Rose had no use, no mercy, no sympathy for a wolf incapable of fighting its fellow prisoners for its own meat. Hungry? he'd purred in a cloying voice, smiling enigmatically as it struggled to answer in the affirmative, wobbling on skeletal legs, eyes burning, jaws dripping. We'll have to take care of that, won't we? But first, you'll do something for me... And so he'd pushed the concoction of kochia scorpia and salvia divinorum toward the slave, who lunged with a desperate snap to eat it in a starved, stammering pique... What he'd wanted was a mixture that induced violent seizures in difficult captives, affliction eventually ceasing once the individual felt more inclined to be agreeable. But... something had gone wrong, for there was no cease, only a sudden blossoming of symptoms and horrific fever that tormented the subject for hours and had more than likely by now cooked his meager brain. Frustration might have colored the tactician's features, but he was used to trials and errors, and so jotted a mental note on possible amendments as he picked up the trash, set off to get rid of it. The acrid smell hit his sensitive nose long before they'd actually reach the tar pits, which burbled with less vigor now deprived of vindictive sun but no less danger, the incline steep past any hope of escape; surely if one were to peer closely enough, there would be a great many notches carved into the side by scrabbling, terrified canine claws as they burned and drowned. Neriminda released the slave, whose mouth had since begin to foam with a pasty yellow lather, back end limp and nerveless, sunken-in eyes rolling to white to match the pallid color of a swollen, protruding tongue. It produced gruesome noises, high and gurgling, as though attempting in its final shreds of consciousness to plead for its life. Like they always did. Like they knew best how to do. Serene smile did not waver or widen or twitch as he positioned the slave neatly near the edge, wiping away with one almost paternal paw the slobber smattering its face, and shoved it in with one even motion. Moving wisely back from said edge, Neriminda watched it topple almost bonelessly down into the muck and land on its side in a thick splat of black, incapable of the struggle necessary to stimulate the tar's digestive cycle, have it swallow his body faster. At this rate, the descending could take days! ... ah, unfortunate. Observation grew less attentive as even with another creature dying before him, the Red Rosa could not help but think of where he had flawed... Better luck next time. The behemoth reared her ugly snarled face to greet the moonlight glare. Lunar crescent was exiled to a corner of the sky with its cascading beams of light diluting inside shadows of the dark blue expanse. Her face remained wrinkled in distaste and her nostrils flared as though she had just caught a whiff of something most unpleasant. Rock bed quaked beneath her sheer size as she stood up on all fours into a powerful stance. She tossed her bristled and disheveled mane aggressively out of her eyes, but it still persistently fell in between them. The Yellow Rose made a mental note to get her seour to perform a grooming in the morning because she couldn’t bother herself with something as unimportant as fur maintenance. She began her decent into the valley her beefy paws plodding down from the council perch. Her steady flat steps imprinted a perfect echo of her signature. But no predator would be dull enough to follow the Rosa in her present wake. Nhu never had a designated direction that she chose to walk everyday. She liked to throw caution into the wind and abuse the fact that she was better than all else and even against her Rosa brethren she ate, slept and breathed greatness that neither one of them could compete with. Her body was a temple and a perfect example of what a God should truly look like. But tonight she was determined to find the smell that roused her from her slumber. She lifted her hefty chin so that her almond shaped jade eyes could squint through the darkness of the pack lands. Her nose was still flared when she caught the cooking fumes of fresh carcass, tar backwash, and one other smell. The snarl uncurled her lips and settled into a placid expression as she settled focused eyes on Neriminda. Eh, she thought. What the hell? Let’s have a tea party. Nhu’s confidence was like an exemplary engine in a smooth ride. She just set her mind on cruise control and let it carry her desires plowing down any obstacles that may present themselves. Nothing stopped the War Chief. “Red.” She stated after finally approaching him. The two roses didn’t have much alone time together without Enix. White was, afterall, Red’s chew toy or was it the other way around? Nhu didn’t really know and didn’t really give a shit. She just wanted to know why Neriminda was out in the middle of the night cooking slaves in the tar pits. It was hard not to live in Oukoku-Kai and not familiarize with the smell that came from broiling wolves. But the stench still pissed her off. “What the fuck are you doing?” Her potty mouth would come to no surprise to the Red Rose. She was like a stubborn teenager, all headstrong with no logic behind her choice of words. She paused. She looked from Neriminda to the bubbling tar pool, it glugged and spit up steam and whiplashes of slick black resin. “It’s not like you to smell like fresh cooked meat,” she added as an after thought in an attempt to be polite. Edited by Audrey, Feb 10 2011, 01:02 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Jan 25 2011, 10:43 PM Post #2 |
|
Administrator
|
It had become quite apparent, and swiftly so, that everyone in Alteron was missing a few nuts and bolts. For some individuals, chunks of meat had vanished over time, for others, bits of sanity. Some were, quite frankly, lacking souls. But whatever the case, no one remained unscathed for long. The forest always demands to be fed, and the denizens threw up their offerings with glee and hatred and cruel smiles and the forest devoured. It would be a false to say that Isaiah did not miss his eye. Isaiah was running, running, running because doing that could make him faster make him stronger make him better and Yaj the forest knew that he needed to be better. The boy that had once promised to be a rebel had almost become automaton in his mindless repetition. He worked as hard as the soldiers, moved as quietly as the spies. He probably knew more about the local plant life than the periodically absent head of his rank. But Isaiah was lacking in places, his health being one of them. No amount of intelligence or dedication would ever erase that. You couldn't tell him that, though. He would never submit. His broken face was set into a thoughtful calm as he ran. His rank was a joke, no one came to Isaiah to utilize his knowledge. It was understandable, really, considering the majority of wolves in his rank, Sybil included, knew frighteningly little about the greenery they worked with, their knowledge basic and full of gaps. But Isaiah knew much. The plants had been his friends when no one else had been. He'd killed dozens of birds and mice with them. Healed even more. Isaiah could relate to plants. They were quiet survivalists, fragile but always returning to regain their lost ground. If they kept their roots, they'd grow back and try again. But it didn't work the same way with eyes, huh. They didn't grow back. Sometimes your missing pieces were just missing forever and there was nothing you could do but hope that the machine that is your existence doesn't fall apart for lack of a bolt. Like its tendency to restrain movement, freezing rivers in winter, hardening the sap that oozed from trees, whittling its creatures down to enfeebled mockeries of their youthful selves, destroying said youth with special fervor as they would begin to blossom, it was a hallmark of nature to dissect as well, sampling the organisms it hosted in sharp bites, pitting them against one another in a voracious tango with no greater goal or preference policy. Alteron seized the law of eat or be eaten, corrupted it utterly, turned it senselessly up to eleven; it was not surprising once one observed this that so many of its talentless troupe would be sans an otherwise expected piece or two. What then was the disfigured wolfdog missing, assuming he was no real exception to this rule, assuming nature hadn't slipped up and given him too many pieces instead, or kept them all aligned but fitted them improperly? Depended on the individual asking, really. The genre-blind would say he lacked intelligence. Some might chortle he'd lost a bet in the womb, fallen out the ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down, and hence what he lacked was external charm alone, though certainly others might attest that nature had grown weary of poker-faced serpents and decided for once to give one of her creations an outside that matched the depraved inside. Chalk it up to another soulless jungle monstrosity and call it a day. Ask Jette and he'd say he lacked adventure. This town is too fucking small and I need a war to fight. Civilizations to raze. Men to kill, women to defile, children to devour. Dear Kiakime at his side. Peace sucks a hairy asshole, no doubt about it. He lounged on the zenith of a massive fallen log, eyes as gray and muddy as a city puddle half-closed while lying with his lower jaw against the bark would see oversized teeth grind and shove against calloused lips, twisting them into something resembling a lifeless grin, though internally he remained humorless. Was content to display such inaction in the midday heat, for he'd no reason not to, unlike the lumpy sack of bones approaching him full-tilt. Lazily he'd roll to observe Isaiah, who had likely faltered reflexively at this sudden road block, and had the other adolescent glanced up at the guttural slur addressing him now, his reward would be that unsettling visage leering down at him now for a nice round of pot-kettle-black. "Kin you see me, boyah?" Hideous grin broadened, perfectly genuine now, down to the inevitable foaming of saliva at the corners. One crude forepaw indicated the ghastly mess where a golden eye had once glimmered in passionate defiance. "What's wrong wit' yore face, eeh?" Out of nowhere popped what the youth could only assume was the ugliest bear cub to ever live. With a very startled grace, Isaiah skidded to a stop right before the log, putting him in much closer contact with the stranger than was really desired. Now that he was face to face with the black mass, Isaiah was finally able to verify that the creature was indeed a wolf. Now that he thought about it, the face was vaguely familiar (after all, who could forget it!). If size were an indicator of age, then Isaiah would not have realized that Jette had been at Shiva's puppy-meeting, but Isaiah knew that size was misleading. So this behemoth was...younger than him. Isaiah had learned to endure fangs, muscle spasms, fevers, losing sensory organs, blood loss, heart palpatations, insomnia, assasins out for his blood, and the constant paranoia of having your entire country ready to kill you in a moment's notice. But Isaiah had not yet learned how to deal with feeling like a loser. And getting called ugly by Jette wasn't exactly a confidence booster. The Raider's hot breath in his face forced him to control his gag reflex. "Kin you see me, boyah?" Of course he could, he had stopped before he hit the log, hadn't he? The missing eye was certainly a sore spot, in more ways than one. The slave-son frowned. "What's wrong wit' yore face, eeh?" Oh, how he wanted to snarl and hurl insults back, wanted to question the origin's of Jette's own special appearance, but that wasn't the logical thing to do, and Isaiah hadn't survived as long as he had by letting his emotions override his common sense. He knew that he had to /harness/ the frustration and anger, rather than letting it harness him. And Jette was pretty big. He had to save his battles for someone else, had to pick his fights, reserving them for only two things, survival and Hartigan. "Got in a fight." He answered at last. Jette's huge ugly smile was countered as Isaiah pursed his lips into a small thin line. "And yes, I can see." Superficially, Jette reminded him of Crisis and that wasn't really a favorable first impression. The acolyte moved himself back on his toes, ready to dash if he suspected that this bully would decide it was time for a little beatdown. He could only hope that the other boy was in a good mood. If Isaiah had known that THIS was related to Caesar, the pretty girl who he'd had childish daydreams about since that meeting with Crossbones, he would have laughed. But then again, he was related to June, was he not? Despite some obvious differences, the two might have actually had some things in common. Both subverted the stereotypes expected of them, both loved their families, both of them liked pretty girls and winning fights, and both of them had morals drawn in shades of gray. But Isaiah could not know these things, only knew that Jette's breath stank, and so he would postpone a smile or growl until further information was gathered. He'd been called a lot of pejoratives in his time on this prehistoric earth, derogatory terms hurled at him like so much shit, freak and fatass and swine and monster and troll and what's-wrong-with-your-eyes and holy-fuck-look-at-his-teeth. They were so much noise nowadays, indicative of some other wolf's dislike of him, having not the slightest influence on his actions beyond an occasional mental coin flip to determine whether or not he'd chase those naughty little name-callers down or just let them believe didn't hear them because his spot was comfy and he didn't feel much like hurting anyone today. Isaiah however was of a politer breed, that type who tried to sniff and act stoic, not let their revulsion show up in their faces, or in his case what was left of said face. He'd screeched to a halt, ended up practically nose-to-nose with the wolfdog, the squirminess radiating from his delicate body only broadening that horrible smile more, steam gusting from between the cracks of crocodillian teeth to condense in the humid air and burn that remaining cornea. "Got in a fight. And yes, I can see." One vacant gray eye, noticeably far apart from its opposite, squinted into a close while the other one would meander about the length of this buckskin body, shamelessly sizing him up, observing the odd bumps and awkward angles of his build, and while there was nothing blatantly evil in the dead stare, its distinctly predatory glaze was still about as subtle as a mallet to the face. Perhaps he'd be pretty if his fur was longer, if the tones were not as gloomy, if his visage was not a puffy roadmap of scabs, because Jette liked pretty things, indiscriminately so... but eh. Still wouldn't rather fuck him than his sister. Brought him back to that interesting face, then. Reminded him of his mother, her network of scarring. Reminded him of Sirrus, that bad girl, disfiguring her face with Kiakime, playing tug-o'-war with her wriggling wailing body, those were the days. Had looked a bit like that once the two raiders were through with her. Just like that. Memories contemplatively swallowing up this new image of Isaiah dropping in on his lounge now, and he couldn't help it, it was like sticking your finger into an electrical socket... The illegal leaned back, the wolfwog leaned forward, and that repulsive pale tongue went out to the healing mutilation, attempting to taste this wound, maybe wriggle it around in the slit for a second, before Isaiah inevitably pulled back in horrified rejection and snapped the long strand of saliva likely to be connecting them. "Some fight." And Jette laughed then, a weird guttural chuckling, almost a gurgle, so potent with undiluted creepiness one might want to bash his head in to make him stop. Rounded his massive shoulders then, shifted as though to get down from his roost, get on this skinny kid's level. "What's it feel like? Hurt much? Momma ain't told me nothing 'bout hers. Saw Pallas's old man down one too, ate up by some nut, he ain't said shit either. You scream a lot when it happen, boyah?" Morbid fascination. Isaiah saw the tongue stretching forward, and for a moment he thought it was going to sweep up his face in an affectionate yet slobbery gesture of friendship, a lick across the muzzle like mom used to give back when he still had a mom. But why would the stranger do that, this was Alteron, not the place for niceties, strangers just don't greet you with kisses and- what the fuck. He did not know how to react, feeling the slime of this stranger's saliva swishing about in his most painful place. It was indignity, it was discomfort, and Isaiah felt almost more angry than disgusted. How dare this stranger lick his most poignant scars and sensitive handicaps and no no no no- "DON'T DO THAT." He shouted as he jerked away, shaking his head (and leftover drool out of his eyeball). "Please." The last word was sort of muttered, and while the former shout was a command, there was a softness about the addition. His good, unlicked eye narrowed. "Some fight." the boy said good naturedly. And laughed. Laughed a horribly, slimey, gurgly laugh that made Isaiah want to REMOVE that terrible tongue and those terrible vocal chords. Isaiah sort of knew where they were. He'd dissected that rat. And while Isaiah pondered the surgical removal of Jette's creepiness, the younger boy was climbing off the log, coming down to see...eye to eyes. "Some fight indeed," Isaiah answered, a little late. Hrfmmgmg. It was a good thing Isaiah inherited his mother's willpower, not his father's. "What's it feel like? Hurt much? Momma ain't told me nothing 'bout hers. Saw Pallas's old man down one too, ate up by some nut, he ain't said shit either. You scream a lot when it happen, boyah?" Isaiah sat. It was obvious that Jette wasn't gonna just let him walk away. Fine then. At least Jette wasn't asking him about his family, about Hartigan. The wounds Hartigan had caused were important to him, sensitive to him, and Jette had poked them, but at least he was not trying to pry open Isaiah's soul. Everyone else seemed so interested in doing that. "Feels dead. Like that part of me is made of dead leaves." He said. Isaiah /would/ give a plant analogy, wouldn't he. "Hurts sometimes, most of the time doesn't feel like anything." He paused, expression hollow except his gaze. "I screamed like a demon." No use lying about it or trying to make the truth less ugly. Isaiah had the eerie feeling that between choosing ugly or pretty, ugly might have been the way to go with this one. But it was interesting to know that Hartigan's father...shared his wound. Isaiah made a mental note. Meet Trent. The REAL irony was that Jette's mother had taken Isaiah's mother's eye, and neither of them knew. Maybe it was better that way. To just leave mothers out of it. Yeah. "But hurting can be dealt with." Isaiah said simply. And like the stubborn, life-loving passionate survivor that he was, he kept breathing. Moved on. "No use being a pussy about it. Screaming is an instinct, but you don't sit and mope afterwards." The hint of a smile curled about His tongue met that damaged eye only for a moment, but such an instant was enough to penetrate the slit rather nicely, the taste rather like the nest of avian eggs he'd devoured once as a child. Isaiah reeled backward in shocked outrage, that stoic exterior violated as his ruined pupil, snapping the viscous strand of saliva between them, and Jette was grinning again, the laugh back but somehow more discordant, quieter now, almost breathy, something more cough than chortle in his throat now -- "DON'T DO THAT." -- and there was more noise all of a sudden that silenced this dry non-snickering, an expulsion of rejection, not a request but a sharp demand, and this might have compelled the wolfdog to escalate his assault, a gleeful contradiction of YES to his protesting NO, because here was his dominance being called into play, but that YES soon vanished like so much dust sucked into a vent at that soft addition at the end. "Please." And surprisingly, Jette seemed to listen, staring unreadably through blank gray eyes at the illegal as he attempted to sit, collect himself, finish answering now. There was a static between the two wolves while the response was mulled over -- felt like it looked, not like it tasted, boyah screamed like demon with his little mouth, refused to puss out, would come back like one of the viruses haunting him since birth, would kill the bastard if he could -- and for a moment it was uncomfortably silent save for background noise before the wolfdog broke it several beats late with that slurring accent. "Got this. Say you be, eeh... mmm... yer... lucky." The words were odd, as though Jette could have been telling this to the air, or had intended it to remain a thought and found it spoken instead. Contorted his hideous muzzle into something meant to be a grimace that went wrong somewhere along the way and became a wet aggressive-looking sneer instead. This was not the right word, not the right explanation for the irrational little razor of jealousy donned by that restrained but psychotic part of his brain in charge of such carnal non-emotion, the one that bred obsessions and impulses made of sheer thoughtless heat, the one that whispered strong hymns into his scuzzy ears, convinced him that Isaiah's plight was enviable and would later insist that he rampage almost suicidally against the natives of Death Valley. He shook his massive black head, smile returning. "I like you, boyah," drawled Jette then, breath hissing through the jagged cracks of his teeth, and these words should have been comforting or even complementing but matching speech and creature together produced a thoroughly unsettling combination because that lifeless smile displayed my hatred is safer in saturated neon lights. Congrats, Isaiah: the scary drooling monstrosity is fond of you. "Mebbe I help y'get up, eeh y'know, take yore eye back an' all that." Out of total selflessness, of course. Altruism straight from the heart. Not simple hedonist's boredom. Hah. Of course not. No way. "You really ain't come at nobody yet? We need friends 'round here, everyone do." Loomed a few steps closer then; probably he was like this naturally, failing the personal boundaries rule, rather than interested in intimidating Isaiah at the moment. Just had a tendency to stand on peoples' toes, breathe their air. That this in itself was threatening was seemingly not a considered variable. "I could be a friend to you..." The air felt suddenly as humid as Jette's breath. The unpredictability of the future was as ethereal as physics and yet as tangible as gravity pulling the sky down on your head - the pressure was massive but you learn to thrive in it. The single narrowed eye still watched this bearlike stranger, was on his guard, always always always on his guard. "Got this. Say you be, eeh... mmm... yer... lucky." And that's when the Acolyte knew, unequivocally, that Jette was certifiably insane. Never in his life had Isaiah heard himself described as lucky, he had never considered himself lucky. There were times when his misfortunes slipped into the background, when he found himself so absorbed in his botany that he could forget the pain he was dealt, but those times were short lived, the fact of the matter was that every second Isaiah spent living was a second he was spending dying and the seconds he had spent dying where not pleasant ones. Yes, Jette was insane. "I like you, boyah," and this was the second-most-unpleasant of the potential responses (well, maybe the third) because Isaiah did not particularly desire Jette's approval, and certainly did not want his interest. Of course, these things were preferable to Jette /disliking/ him but the point of the matter was that Isaiah now had a beast to deal with when he was rather preoccupied with a ghost already. "Mebbe I help y'get up, eeh y'know, take yore eye back an' all that." "You really ain't come at nobody yet? We need friends 'round here, everyone do." He came close, too close, TOO CLOSE. And Isaiah might have felt himself being intimidated but driven by those lovely teenage boy hormones he found himself more angry instead. Angry at Jette for touching his eye, for being too close. Angry at himself for not being able to do anything about it. If he had to have an ugly face, why could he not at least have had an ugly face attached to a powerful body, like this monstrosity. He did not move before the larger canine's girth. "I could be a friend to you..." At this Isaiah visibly twitched. "He's mine." There was nothing else in the forest that Isaiah would claim. He would not claim his family, could not, for he had none. To claim family was to claim death. Would not claim territory, not even the scraggly bush den he had made, had ceased caring much about rank once he had realized the pointlessness of it all so he wouldn't claim that either. Epee was a friend, but she was not his, did not belong to him, rather it was the reverse. But Hartigan...Hartigan had Isaiah's name scratched in him like pocketknife graffiti in a schooldesk. Would not share Hartigan's inevitable death with Jette, not with anyone. Because the whole point of it, the whole meaning of the thing, was that he had to do it alone. He clutched selfishly at his feeble, pointless goal like the shadow of a man clutching a golden ring...precious. What else did he have to live for now? Isaiah was not dumb though. "But...yes. We can be friends." Cautious gold surveyed the beast again. Did not understand his hedonistic motives quite yet because dammit Jim, he was a wolf not a mind-reader or one of those annoying metagaming folks. But you know, something about picking a fight with a guy twice your size and bulk didn't seem smart. "You're right, everyone needs them. You're wise." Better to have a friend than an enemy. He hoped. "I like you too...ally." Came after a hesitant moment...but it did come. "My name is Isaiah." Edited by Audrey, Feb 10 2011, 01:04 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Jan 25 2011, 10:44 PM Post #3 |
|
Administrator
|
When one predator approaches another like itself, these two apex beasts that kill to live, there is often a mutual loveless tension reverberating the instant their paths cross, a wary self-preserving reverence, each twitch a careful step upon the razor's edge as both satisfy their cold curiosities, instinctively trying to discover what they have in common. In this way, the blackblood was not a conformist, loath to be restrained by limitations, even those hardwired for millions of years into her biology, the hunger and the fear, the sex and the violence, the meager interactions of the wolf huddling in safe groupthink with its pack. The times her affect was not utterly and unnaturally flat, so much so that the animals who breathed and felt around her could have been inanimate objects, the dead things at her scarred paws, sticks and pebbles and dirt, were filled in by her disconcerting tendency to behave in a generalizing manner as though they were all prey, armed to the gums with teeth like her as they might have been. This scarcely mattered. Dragon emerged from the wilderness, a battered ghost blocking out the sun, a mass of dark fur and healing wounds that itched dully with every pace forward, studying as prep-method the signs of life that stirred within the man camp, borderlines of which were nearing closer, the thick reek of smoke heavy and strong in her nostrils. One of these mortal restraints had stricken her in her questionable health, body demanding further nourishment to convert into new tissue, and she'd broken away from her psychotic princess for the time being, leaving her with both Theron and whatever murderous urges this genre-savvy killer of kings surmised might be brewing for what such a sadistic and unbalanced mind could cease to view as friend and start to view as MORE. Objectively the renegade contemplated never returning to them at all, weighing with sociopathic meticulousness pros and cons, but... decided she would, in one mechanical swath of judgment. Beryl was easy enough to handle, and when they were together, they killed more, they killed faster, they killed with terrifying efficiency in every synchronized slash... I will come back, my pretty little youth. Because her word was her bond. A needling pang in her stomach was coldly refocusing, reminding Dragon with mathematical precision that it had been a week or so since she'd devoured Spiderdust, that if she did not find something else to eat soon, she could wither and die like the corpses both terrorists had left in the wake of their rampage, and this inane debate on whether or not to return would be entirely useless, a waste of time. A snarl, soundless and dripping, twisted her aging face then, both in hateful resentment of being made a marionette of by something so ugly and primal as well as the enticing scent of meat simmering over a fire somewhere inside the village finally penetrating the smog. Almost effortlessly, as though she'd done it thousand times before, the blackblood circled around, searching for the weakest spot in whatever defense this location may have had, prowling inexorably and with as much stealth as her size afforded toward that precious food. For once in a long time now, she didn't want any trouble, but she would not leave empty-handed, and lord save the lone pampered husky or hairless human that tried to be heroic today. She waited by the food. It was a test, Eris idly surmised; perhaps it had been devised by minds that thought themselves quite clever, or by hands that underestimated the roiling intelligence that stormed behind lupine eyes and lupine brains in this anthropomorphic distorted reality. In the hut next to her, a woman searing meat over a fire, turning it black and acrid and hot. They left her by the raw food storage with instructions to guard, and then they left her alone. And presumably she was to stand here and guard against the silence, and guard against herself -- to be tempted by the siren call of meat and offal to root around in the pile and guzzle down the pickings. Had she stumbled upon it on her own, had her mother's love not rested on these silly little paint-marks and the hula-hoops she needed to dance through to snap for the mammoth-bones and the ultimate prize (never the first prize, the first prize never mattered jack shit to her -- it was what Ruth Goldbergian-complex effects unlocked previously-shut doors with said prize as the key to the treasure) -- would she have stolen their food? IN A HEARTBEAT. And still. Eris was a brute, but Eris was not an idiot, and large did not mean stupid. Large meant dangerous. The stupid were those who would mistake the hunter for a dull cud-chewing cow over an amazonian anaconda, based on size and disinterested eyes alone. There was always that unsettling gleam in them, that spark that just needed the right...puff of breath.... Eris was not stupid, and therefore she left the meat untouched as if it were laced with arsenic. And so bored she waited, eyes smoldering coals in the direction of the outside world. Rhizome was elsewhere. Where, she had no idea, but trusted that his cunning would serve him well. Were he here, he might have pushed them to get distracted, tried to trick her into eating the food, made it interesting somehow... ...to miss Rhizome's presence was a fairly strange sensation. Trees, sky, grass, trees, sky, grass..more trees...more sky. Such deep excitement. Such foolish waste of muscle funneled into petty mind games. Did anyone really fall for this? Did any outsiders ever actually get past the guards? The tank drooled lazy strings of saliva, unabashedly smelling the food like a serpent at Eden's gates ogled apples. Probably not. Famous last words. The young bitch scent the other before she saw her -- a dusky, dark and bloody scent, hardly tinged with melodramatic fumes of rot and yet...not a friendly scent either. It was that faux-normal in the same timbre as the cool, dark voice of the beast when she called them friend and they were not friends and nobody who calls strangers 'friend' has benevolent intentions. The grey Blackblood stood a little lower, even as head lifted -- weight dropped instinctively into forelegs, balanced in the frame of haunches as tail curled behind her to arc high, a detached intimidation paired with bristling hackles less out of any true emotion than to simply attempt to frighten the other creature away for whatever reason. Jaw jutted forward, the better to imply that devil-may-care, the better to strain eyes to catch what she scented. Not a dog. And perhaps somewhere in the electric neuron-firings buried in the brain of the powerful pup, Eris felt it -- sensed it -- that tugging, that innate tingle spurring heightened alertness even in the solution of apathy and condescension towards the 'test' she'd been given -- danger. charlie. out there. just beyond sight. This meat was the golden fleece to her now -- the skeleton key to the skeleton key to mama's little green heart; guarding it was the most important object in Eris's life right now, negated only by Snapdragon herself walking to the borders and enticing her daughter away back into maternal arms. Were that to happen, the worthless post would be readily abandoned. But a random intruder trying to steal...? It made no difference to the chaos daughter whether the older distorted mirror had killed beggars, kings or apostles; dead was dead, and guard was guard, and if Dragon didn't want "trouble", she had picked the wrong store to raid. Dragon faltered, not a startled stumbling at the sudden interruption thrown into her path, denying force grasping the figurative string that connected her from here to meat, but a smoother transition, raised paw set slowly down as she stopped just before invading that invisible wall surrounding most dangerous creatures that no genre-savvy stranger must breach. Like an android void of affect, or a corpse propped aesthetically up to appear lifelike, those acidic green eyes would never change, panes of glass to reflect the beast bristling defensively at her, and while suffering her stare for an extended period was like being swallowed up by a wasteland, there was no anger or malevolence to trigger an attack, all that might have lurked within guarded expertly. Had she possessed the ability to open up that skull and somehow fish around in the little area that bred thought and motivation and memory, Dragon would not have held Eris at fault for her reaction, this viewing of the rogue as more obstacle than fellow wolf. Would have understood, in her own way. Her entire universe was made up of tools and barriers and targets; the goal was the singular beacon of life here, the defining everything. Eris was a breathing blockade to the food Dragon wanted, Dragon was a posed threat to that one right tool, and all was well, infinitely less alien than the dogs that loved and respected and valued one another. Judging said blockage on her usual terms would be foolish. It could perhaps have been eliminated, this thing of equal size but enormously less experience, but the renegade was not in her prime and thus too conquerable, and this was not a small pampered husky or a twitching half-starved mutt or even a sans-club human approaching her. Just a neophyte tank with something to prove. The risk was not worth it. This required a different approach. She could still go "home" alive and full-bellied; there was not necessarily a deal-breaker here. "Tattoos," mused a surprisingly soft voice, touched with the delicate frost of hoarseness, definitely not the tones expected to emit from such a battered old brute. Silence built a few seconds' worth of discomfort before shattering once more in another laconic slew of words, and her body language was neutralized, difficult to read but not aggressive or troubling. "What do they signify, to the exiles? What do they mean now?" Perhaps she even cared what the answer would be. They faced off like mirrors. Counterparts, reflections woven into sheets of water and viewed through time -- perhaps space. Eris was unmarred, and Dragon was aged, and one had lived as a vagabond, and one was starved for filial love -- the differences were vast, even if the cranial processes bore a striking likeness burrowed into the grey matter. Their world view, of objects, and tools, and literal interpretation, of efficiency and warlike power wielded like a mace. That was invisible to the eye -- and yet they knew. Somehow they knew. Maybe it was those eyes. Shibito eyes, eyes for dead men, distorted vision manifesting in the lack of wasted energy on expression and sparkle. Nearly-vacuous brown to android green, and did they both stop short for a heartbeat? And did they know each other, in the ways of predators, in that un-biased assessment of mano a mano, or, in this case, diente a diente? Eris did not move. This wolf was older, more experienced, a tale told not of scar but of muscle and mien. If they fought, she would probably be killed, and this was understood without any change of posture or eye or consideration. Tail curled high, pelt bristled, weight square, each action and motion hollow in a way -- without any true inflection. It was not a smile or a frown but a signpost. Aggressive only in the way of an electrified chain-link fence. Chaos always played its part, you see, and she was willing to trust in logic failing -- and if it didn't? And if this one rushed, and they warred, and she fell to bleed out arterial life-force? The loss was not feared. Bravery did not occur to her, no puff of courage or foolhardy hope. It simply was, and was without bravado or fear. She knew that she could win, perhaps. She knew that she could lose, probably. Running away was no option -- there was no sense of duty to the humans, only greed for a meal ticket to maternal affection, and the desire for that affection was a malignant tumor that could prove terminal. Idly the hunter hoped that it wouldn't come to blows, but if it did -- "Tattoos," ears pricked at the sound, cupped curiously to hold it. A hair's-breadth tip of muzzle, to stare at the would-be trespasser. "What do they signify, to the exiles? What do they mean now?" It was gravel on the ocean and for a few heartbeats she simply devoured the words. Digested them. Thought about them, though she did not search for an answer -- because she had thought about that answer long before she thought about the tattoos. It was the question that had led her here. "A way home," and her voice was hoarse, almost masculine, precisely the timbre that one would expect from the precocious tank. Powerful, muscled through punishment of body that would serve her well and cripple her in later years. And yet there was something almost wistful in the words -- no emotion attached to the inflection but there all the same, lingering in the silences. "I will return...and be worth something." No matter the cost. Edited by Audrey, Feb 10 2011, 01:04 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Feb 3 2011, 09:52 AM Post #4 |
|
Administrator
|
All I see turns to brown As the sun burns the ground And my eyes fill with sand As I scan this wasted land Trying to find Trying to find Where I've been There was nothing particularly extravagant about this sunrise, red-oranges and black-purples flirting at their respective edges, yet much like oil and water, never intermingling, the skyline overcast in shade as morning conquered twilight in a natural battle waged high above their despondent little heads filled with so much repair and accusatory politicking. What he observed on this hour was truly nothing special, and yet here he sat poised upon a jutting rock face, marveling impassively at the glistening light show, yellow eyes at a daydreamer's foggy half-mast as he seemed to come away with them somewhere beyond this world, which was turned off now save for its inescapable sea of smells. The jackal-dire was nigh impossible to sneak up on even in his deepest immersions into whatever universe had blinked to life inside his head long ago and continued evolving since then, some abstract idealistic shangri-la painted in muted pastels where the landscapes were idyllic in their strange absence of commotion and clamoring and chaos, a rip in time Kashmir could wriggle into and lie suspended safely within for as long as it took to come down. Inevitably he would recognize someone approaching him now no matter how he drifted, a distant unfitting pinpointing like waking reality interfering with a dream, yet... there was no issue here. Let them watch the cycle with him if they wished. They were good people. He would be good to them. Kashmir relaxed beneath the rising sun, letting its descend past pelt and into skin, where it warmed away the sensation of grime and blood that lingered no matter how fervently he washed, the reddish dust of the neutral mountains shaken like molting feathers from his body. For a moment in time, with the invaders vanished, with the thin scummy remnant of the renegades scraped from their violated borderline, a few skulking rats maimed or murdered in his own wake, injured and traumatized packmates tended to, survivors mobilized, recruits accepted into Inaria with eyes troubled and sober at the carnage... for one moment in time... the world felt okay again. And so the vigilante watched the sun rise, bringing with it light and a new day. they had taken him. they had taken him and the sunrise was a moment of peace in time, but to the sentinel it was the peace of nuclear fallout, the air still because the birds were dead and could not sing. she didn't know completely where she was, or where she was headed to, only that Peregrine and Rune had been stashed with their godmother and Acheron was grasped in the jaws of the young mother as if she meant for him to stay there forever. everything else was irrelevant. let them kill another king, let them fall prey to another plague, let the Inarians gasp and reel and pity themselves because the worst that could happen was to lose a leader they'd never met when he'c been in one piece....right? "Maaawm, ow!" Mechanically loosened her grip slightly at the baby cry of protest, incarnadine eyes distant, and perhaps the shell-shock was what made the black and yellow child silent even though it still hurt him, flattening small ears to his skull and wordlessly making a face that she wouldn't be able to see. He didn't completely understand what had happened with the ambush, with his brother -- but something innate told him that it had gone badly, that he was safe now, that they had survived but they had not won. That those had been bad wolves and he had growled at them but -- but in truth, had been terrified. Rather than voicing this the green-eyed pup swallowed it down, his own trauma a bezoar and not one more element for his mother to deal with; perhaps in that curiously-perceptive way of children, he understood the fragility of the sentinel and tried to protect her at the expense of himself. There were wolves sitting. Anateri might have joined them, a few months ago -- perhaps even weeks before. Now the tricolor merely stood and watched with all the flightiness of a hind in the heather. Squinted eyes, muscles primed to grasp her son tighter and turn on a dime if needed, whirl to escape in the blink of an eye and outrun these strangers, might they be threats and not pack members. Vaguely, she considered that she was thinking of them as Inarians and not...fellow Inarians. When had that happened? It was a subtle shift, but it was the subtlety of the temperature dropping a few degrees and spurring the melt of thousand-year icecaps. And what aftermath floated in the fall-out of the sunrise, then? And where did they go from here? Edited by Audrey, Feb 10 2011, 01:04 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Feb 3 2011, 09:52 AM Post #5 |
|
Administrator
|
Light burst in tiny supernovas before his vision; Neriminda calmly ignored them. Celebrations were over now, yet the effects lingered in that horrid day-after phase. Each step was carefully measured as to prevent any disastrous stumbles, a mindset so efficiently advanced now tainted and clumsily regarding the landscape not with its usual smooth navigation but as though it moved, horizons blurred into ill-defined fuzz and smells confusing in their sheer foreign suggestiveness, like someone had fabricated an obsessively exact replica of his home but left out one or two crucial details. There lurked imperfection in Rosa Chinensis now, a specific disorientation corrupting what was otherwise an immaculate if expressionless ice sculpture, eternally the eye of the storm as chaos would rage around him, inexorable and quiet whether it be inhuman screaming or shameless debauchery or living creatures mutilated and tarred for the amusement of his children he'd bear frequent witness to for the past week or so. He was not entirely sure how he'd managed to find the pitts in this seething, pulsing mass of nonsense and delicious colors, but suddenly he was coming back from the several moments he'd lost and there it was in all its crackled glory, occupied this eve by a bulky black ashigaru and a mottled bondless presumably on the defensive. Neri nestled upon the edge, slightly shaky on his paws, eyes lowering in a thousand-yard stare at nothing, mouth trying to smile congenially down upon them, such a reflex by now, affable even while his insides were a joyless muddled herb-induced haze. Most notably, his face seemed to be bleeding, deep furrows in the skin matted and clotting, though worse were his forelegs, battered and gouged with purpose as though someone had methodically peeled away layers of skin with their teeth. Better not to ask. Neriminda watched distantly as the ashigaru pinned its opponent, ripping wildly at a yelping face, though the Red Rose's interest seemed thin at best as he tried in his slow, drug-addled, stupid frame of mind to assess the entire situation. It disturbed him, the sheer lack of memory he possessed now, all the events he in his omniscience could not account for. So much damage control was required. Slaves dismembered and eaten during the party. A fight upon the borders as heathens invaded, tried to steal a female, killed two officers, were not themselves killed. The ridiculous wishes he might have granted. The injuries his dear subjects had sustained. And Gigantea... they'd... ... My, what a lovely night, isn't it? Not a cloud in the sky. Cold blue eyes watched as the girl observed the scene, caught only a second’s moment in the day as she wondered with her useless complaints – wanting to actually get somewhere and to be something when she had yet to put in the same effort physically as she did mentally. Locked in a war with herself and, even more so silently, her own homeland as she regarded and even more so despised her current rank and her current social standing – knowing deep within her heart that she deserved much better than that and ultimately boiling with an undying hatred anytime she could detect someone not Oukoku born, especially if even they had seemed competent enough to raise their paws and climb higher within her own social latter. No. She wouldn’t settle for this, yet again she was only caught bickering in her own head about it as her feet worked across the ground. Wondering, she managed to walk far around the land – seeing from some time when the sun was just raising itself, to now when the night seemed to sizzle her flesh for her. Too long had she been up, way too much wrapped and stuck in thoughts for herself – what could she find use of herself that would get her where she needed and fast? The young girl, Render, was hardly a patient beast and she was losing it by the second – readying herself to rip open the nearest piece of flesh that dared to pass by her the longer she sat there and contemplated over her uselessness and the usefulness she knew that she had locked away into her. But if only she would tap into that fountain and prove it to them. However what would she make of her use, and where would it lead her to? Her lips would form a mock snarl, feet managing to pull her away from the seemingly dead trees that were humoring her gaze for far too long, murky depths of death and blackness to soon come within her reach and her vision. She didn’t seem too keen on pulling herself out of her moment until the oh-too familiar sounds graced her ears – snapping her out on her moment. And in an instance she had it. Eyes burned upon the pelts of both wolves – the black beast, massive enough in frame and stature, towering over the other and tearing at the pathetic body. She knew little beyond that and only managed to catch that piece along. Enough, though. She promptly sat her happy ass right there on the ground, her tail straightening out and lying across the ground, yet stiff in its same right as she watched. Nails raked the ground uselessly – making a pointless fight with dirt and sand as she regarded the moment before her – wails, growls, and many sounds coming from the victim and from the successor of the fight. Nothing was lost to Render, only more notes to make inside the puny brain that harbored within her skull. Many note, scrawled out to detail, though vague as well for now, only forming more and more now. If she were better than those Heathens, she would prove it. Surely if a few went missing here and there – if she could work hard and diligent to uncover the flaws that she absolutely knew that they had, prove their weakness to someone that was even higher than any Heathen she was able to unmask and prove the real identity of, then she would in turn gain the very thing that she sought after most. And what did she seek the most? A rank, and a status? To be loved, or possibly feared? It was just a tad darker than that for this female. She knew she was of the highest worth, she just hadn’t showed the others where her worth truly lay. In the end, this girl desired powered. Raw, untapped power that she could bend and mold underneath her own feet. For you see, that power would bring her everything else. Love, respect. Fear, status. Whatever else her heart could set its goals upon. She mused the moment to be lost within the need, the search of simply a high rank. Where her thirst would stop, who knew. If only I can get what I crave. I need to be granted my need. She thought – wanting to rise beyond the uselessness of “Kyuu”. Unlike the fellow God, the Pathos had eaten something rancid during the party, threw up, and fell asleep and stayed asleep the remainder of the night. It wasnt like her, to do such things and she'd been actually.. disappointed when she awoke and found she'd missed all the awkward tense fun. There was something about watching the oh so mighty, stumble around babbling and slurring words that excited her and though she should be frightened. Cause they were much more dangerous then they normally were, or just cautious. She'd wanted to flirt at the borderline with danger. Somehow, among the fray invaders had jumped into it all and heathens ran across the borders from some shit smelling pack and Pathos was more than upset she hadnt been there to tear them down. But what a perfect time to attack. It might have been a accident, but if it was strategy the judge was sourly impressed with these outsiders - and intimidated with their tactics. To the judge the outside were just.. the outside and it was something about these wolves taking foot in her home to taint it that still made her.. bristle with rage. But also reminded her that the rough heathens could be much more organized then she thought and that maybe the demons in Death valley werent the only demons she would have to conquer. It was a peculiar thought. One outlined with violence that brought her to the pits instinctively, where she ran across the tearing of some bondless and the outline of a massive wolf which subsequently, detailed into a rose. And somewhere near a youth laying firmly in the dirt. As she'd been promoted by Neriminda she was not as .. jittery as she might have been around the other alpha's. She was still quite nervous however, to her they were gods, and lowly females should not approach them unless necessary but there was something about Neriminda's stance that echoed quiet, confusion, and drew the Patho's closer to observe. Head lowered in respect, tail kept at a awkward .. hidden level to pull up beside the god and sit a bit further from the ledge and too - look over with a plastic smile. Although they were both miles away. "Hail and salutations." Didnt know what to say, so respect might have been the smart thing to do first before starting a conversation. A unhealthy pause in-between. "Today is sluggish, isnt it." Not a question, just a general saying. Suddenly aware of the blood that pelted the Rose and debating on saying something about this .. but deciding of course that Neriminda only knew and it might come off as insulting if she suggested someone or something. Instead, returning her gaze to the tar to watch with perked ears the ashigaru down below ripping the bondless apart. It was fun. It was called entertainment in the weirdest and most barbarian fashion possible. She loved it. Well as long as it didn’t involve or drag her into it she loved to watch others fight. At first she hadn’t really paid attention to it, hadn’t really seen them. She had no idea how she had ended up here in the first place, just woke up by the edge, blurred mind, and a lost memory. Didn’t matter. Had probably passed out up here either way, nothing to tell or hide. So with blurred and dizzy mind she had gotten up and quickly down again. The world was spinning and turning around itself and she closed her eyes. Then a far away sound. Her eyes opened and found an argument ahead (or down) she lived up. Entertainment after the party. Why miss it? She smiled and crawled toward the edge, letting her paws hang out over the edge to watch the show. Cheering for the mindless little bondless for some reason. Maybe just to show some kick-ass to a warrior. And then the sound and smell. Her head lifted and the red rosa was coming toward her. His legs seemed as unstable as hers. He was no god after all. She turned her gaze down wanted to grin loudly (didn’t). So the gods felt the effects too, they were mortal as her and everyone else. Weaklings after all? Either way. Alphas. Strong alphas that she served. She didn’t hate them no; no she respected them in her own weird way. What she didn’t understand though was their need to be gods. Why? She didn’t get it. Was it a way to force upon others their points of being strong? It seemed silly to her though, why would anyone want to tempt the evil to test their “divine power” calling themselves gods merely seemed as a temptation. To those less lazy maybe. He sat there. Her eyes flickered to him, soft and smothering she looked at him. Then smiled. ”Pure entertainment, aren’t they?” I know who you are. And I don’t feel like greeting you by your paws to lick off the blood off your legs. However it got there wasn’t her point to make. It was there and she was pretty sure he already knew. She stretched her legs out in the open air and sighed. "Hail and salutations." to the alpha. "Today is sluggish, isnt it." Not a question. Carefully she looked toward the wolf. She had no idea whatever or not this person would be under or over her, but honestly she was starting not to fucking care. She wasn’t gonna do anything special either way, at least not today. Just lying there was good enough. Though she replied to acknowledge. ”A day either way.” Didn’t matter if it was – good or bad. It was just a day. Her eyes returned to the verbal fight that turned into a physical action filled battle. Teeth over the bondless. No the rankless were going to loose again today, too bad she was losing her own game then. She had wanted to see something different, a kind of change to the world. Not today. At any other day like yesterday. Everything was more awesome when you were stoned off your ass. Chelinka grinned vaguely as she ambled through the general scene of the party's after-affects. It was wearing off, though not..completely. The ground bucked like a rowdy bronco and it was the spotted's challenge to stay astride. Might have growled at it a time or two. Flicked her tail and carried on, stepping gingerly to make her place to...where was she going again? Oh right. The scent. Hungry in that oral-fixation 'some snacks would be marvelous' way, skull aching slightly, sore and favoring one hind leg slightly. A long scratch down the side of her muzzle. A...well, not anymore, but waking up with someone's intestines around your neck like the Oukoku Kai party version of a daisy chain had been pretty special. Whee. Naturally, she ate it, and then moved on. Caught a scent. Knew that scent, one she hadn't encountered for a while, and so she moved to hunt him down, with the quiet understanding that if a god didn't want to be found, he would not be found. There you are, Neri. ((just typo'd Nerki. brb calling him this forever and ever.)) The High Priestess saw the blood on his face and smiled a disconcertingly serene smile. Ahh, someone else had taken their amusement from the festivities, no? A quick scan for the others. Some Oukoku-born yearling, a judge who did nothing of any interest, and...someone whose scent gave Chelinka pause. What was....huh....loljk, attention span currently nil. "Chinensis," little more than an exhale as the High Priestess moved to sit by his flank and observe the tar pits. Hm. An idle lift of head to see better, regarding the warring wolves with an innocent curiosity. She might have said something more interesting in greeting, but the timber was...not exactly at the height of her faculties. At least she didn't....think she'd...celebrating the party with...uh....anyone else. And with a certain inevitability they gathered around him like third-world children weary from a long day's work beneath the vindictive sun but kept awake still by eagerness to be regaled with a bedtime story. He knew them, knew all of them here, from the proudly savage captains to the lowliest of cringing slaves, no matter how covert and protected one thought either their exploits or their meager yet somehow still individually precious lives. It was him who they feared the least and it was him to whom they flocked, the worshippers of the entire Chinensis philosophy rivaling now the previously disproportionate number of ones who preferred Gigantea, and he was not above a mite of quiet favoritism (god's preogative) that was displayed in the imperceptably broader notch his addled grin would stretch as both Pathos and High Priestess showed up to lounge beside him compared to Render (whose being flashed a bright and blatant yellow) and Unagi (who he distrusted still on religious if admittedly irrational grounds). "Today is sluggish, isn't it?" quipped one conversationally, immediately answered by a glib if obvious, "A day either way." "We were reckless, and there came heathens willing to take advantage of our tradition, snaking in through the section of forest maze still returning from the Red Dragon's destruction months back. They attempted to carry away a slave woman for their own depraved purposes and therefore solidified themselves as its minions. Neutralized... yet not eliminated. "I am hardly fearmongering. United and prepared we can kill whatever unenlightened tripe threatens Oukoku-Kai. But I do account for any mobile band they may belong to The Warden described them Edited by Audrey, Mar 10 2011, 01:20 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Feb 3 2011, 09:53 AM Post #6 |
|
Administrator
|
Keroberus... I have a job for you... Something both magnetic and mechanical drew him seamlessly across the valley beneath the cover of this vapid night void of wind or beauty, backdrop fading dangerously into an undefined blur untarnished by any inane musing his brain might otherwise spew out as he'd hunt behind a mask of serenity flawed only by the sickening pops his jaw would give nearly of its own accord. Little cracks in the joints now, tiny bursts of fluid somewhere inside him, harmonized with the suggestive click of his plaque-ridden teeth, a strangely feline display as though in this area lingered a songbird he'd like to squeeze between them and devour, pulverized toothpick-bones and all. Rebellion was in his wild nature, for defiance was the quintessential expression of life, and Crow was an attack dog directed upon a target not by idolized psychopathic master, whose mad hunger for violence rivaled his own, but by a smiling Red stranger, a friend of hers but never one of his. He would take the desirable treat from the tactician's hand, coldly and suspiciously, an entire world between the two wolves neither intended to bridge, but he would interpret it through his own volition, invite... a friend along for the ride. Yes, somewhere behind him, a little piece of the monster, borne of his genetic code and branded with his wrath; the little tapeworm would show, would follow daddy's capricious whims, or risk said daddy biting his face until the healing scars bubbled with a disfiguring, lethal infection. He approached a tunnel carved into the base of a hill just adjacent to the Pitts, stripped of all incriminating body language as he'd curl over the lip of the entrance, beckoning coolly into the den. "Come out, brother." The urge toward a hateful sneer spiked then and was resisted; this deformed corpse was no kindred of his. Then, as an afterthought: "Ink wants you." The lie came eerily natural, effortless as breathing, so short and sweet as to be impossible to penetrate, for no duty-bound boy would question an order from his Captain. How especially eerie it was given how unpredictably the coin could flip, sinewy calculating black beast with expressionless yellow eyes morphing into an unholy shrieking monster who gouges out eyes and bites off genitals and helps himself to the perished target's beloved family and will attack long, long after the body has fallen. Ah, if only this yearling had children, had sons to disembowel, daughters to drag away... but he'd have to make do. Another pop of that jaw, then silence. There's blood upon the streets tonight. . . Korangar's eyes snapped open as a crunch sounded outside the den mouth and he was on his feet in an instant even before the voice he had heard only once before echoed within it's depths. It called, it beckoned and the boy would perhaps answer, but the way. The way was an unconventional one. He licked over the yellowed and clean skull before grabbing it by the eye holes and moving sinuously and soundlessly out into the night. His eyes snapping in an unstable way, the way that lightning streaks from cloud to cloud without warning or direction. Lips curled up in a soundless grin as with a flick of his head he tossed the skull far from him, watching it fly through the air until it came down and exploded into fragments upon a hard chunk of stone that rose from the ground, white powder and shards scattering in the breeze. A shortened tongue came up to lick his nose as he turned to face Crow, no fear, no subservience, nothing but perhaps the tinge of respect that a nod of the head towards him conveyed. He was free. The ties once bound upon him, torn apart as a rolling laugh came up his throat. The boy was no longer all there, easily seen by the way he stood easily about two yards away from the Keroberus. Underneath the calm exterior there was the expectation for something of a rather violent nature to happen, this one had proven his tendency to it. After all, he had torn out Reddawn's stomach and ripped upon Cimmeran's face to the point it caused the latter's death and the former to have his throat ripped open. A black and white tail flicked as he regarded the head of his house and spoke, a half-believing tone to his voice, "Now really?" He laughed, an insane edge to it that would set a normal person's fur upon it's end. "Didn't take you to be her messenger, rather aren't you supposed to be ordering her around? Being Shogun and all." A mocking look crossed his face for a split second, too fast for Crow to notice but Korangar's eyes danced with a fever. Korangar looked at the Keroberus, gauging his reaction as he poked and prodded at the wolf who was likely many years his senior. Korangar no longer cared, no longer gave a fucking shit about anything. Nothing mattered to him, his rank? Ha, a cloak, a mask and a slot he simply filled to him now, life no longer as clear cut as it had once been. So long since that day he had been a normal boy, so long since he cared. Lips stayed curved in that trademark grin of his, tongue licking across his fangs as he watched the one he might have otherwise obeyed. Ears flicked as he thought of the mistress he had once served and had disobeyed not too long ago. "As your Blackout knows, I no longer answer." A treasonous statement. Oh yes. Let the wildfire burn. He had debated on whether or not to obey his father's summons. Technically, it would have been easy - simply staying where he was, perhaps taking a nap and then going hunting should have required no effort at all. But as always, there was a complication...Charon could not bring himself to say that he wanted to go with Crow; rather, he acknowledged the fact that he wasn't necessarily against the idea. It made coping with the thought of following his father to such a horrible event much easier. Circling about situations in an attempt to rationalize was becoming a favorite technique of his, one that most would file under "denial." That was nonsense, though, of course. He wasn't denying anything. Just...rephrasing. Today's event would be a learning experience, something that he needed to do in order to make himself into a better person, not something that he was looking forward to and expecting to enjoy. If he'd bothered to explain his reasoning to someone else, it would have been quite obvious to them that he was either delusional or trying to force himself to be. There were wolves who claimed to be manipulative, envisioning themselves weaving great spiderwebs around those that they took advantage of and used as pawns. Charon had woven a spiderweb in his own brain, and he was not even aware of its existence. The Ethos had followed his father, for reasons that were too convoluted to ever be fully understood, and as he slunk along he did say anything at all - now was not the time for snark. He did not want to hear Crow's retaliation, because some part of him knew that it would be true and the truth would hurt. Finally arriving at their destination was a relief; no more time to contemplate his own motivations. The scrawny wolf stood a short distance away from Korangar and Crow, partly for the simple reason that he wanted his father to take the brunt of the attack if the white wolf exploded, and partly because he simply did not want to draw attention to himself. Didn't want Korangar to talk to him, to perhaps dig up any emotional connection that would make the upcoming job difficult. And yet, staying silent was difficult. Korangar's words irritated him; not because he was indignant at the disrespect, but because he could not understand how this wolf did not appreciate the dire nature of the meeting he was presently involved in. Does he realize...? Would it have even mattered? There was no tact at all from the Blackblood, and Charon hated him for it. It was mildly surprising that he could feel such a burning dislike toward someone he barely knew - an emotion comparable to the one he felt toward the Keroberus, who had made his life hell since his birth. Am I really that petty? He stared at the grin on Korangar's face, eyes narrowing with distaste, not realizing that he'd made a similar expression on many occasions. No. He's asking for it. His demeanor was confusing and touchy, displaying some insulting lip service that suggested vague reverence for the keroberus, then cycling quickly into contempt so aggressive it was challenging, defiance plain in the scarred features. Outrage was belayed, one tapered ear instead lifting almost lazily to home in on the unnatural garble tainting Kor's speech now, words guttural in his throat and lacking the hardness of their consonants, the area surrounding his generously-fanged maw noticeably inflamed and troubled... Weakness, a part of him missing and crippled, and it was an alarm in that overactive prey drive portion of his deranged brain, a siren that triggered in crowds of exposed throats and soft bellies and whenever wolves crossed paths to avoid him on their way and every time he'd shove Night much too roughly to the ground or sink his teeth into his Fenrir's pretty serpentine flesh and it was worth living and dying for and it was eternally all he could do to control himself in a world so bloated with delicious conquerable lives. To be disrespected so blatantly by one's bond in Oukoku-Kai might have sent another shogun into a brick-shitting rage, but Crow was seemingly deaf to these indiscretions, content even to lean back on his haunches as Kor emerged from the den, eyes shark-like and unyielding despite their coal-bright heat, appearing all the more penetrating for the circle of cream beneath them as they sized the blackblood up in a distinctively predatory way usually reserved for herbivores stalked by carnivores, a violating stare almost lascivious in its murderous intent, observing with unsettling intimacy as the kid yammered on every groove of meat coated protectively in coarse white. Such a hideous, evil, maddening color in its spotlessness and sterility. Better to see it stained and sticky and hanging sickeningly loose from a mutilated body. Steps behind him, hesitant voyeur steps, mincing in close as though the thin executioner might provide a decent shield against the mutant they accosted, and Crow whirled with startling sharpness, angled snout looming much too close to a face so strong in likeness he might as well have been grinning now into a mirror, eyes piercing gold into silver and jarringly psychotic before the shade slipped back on, chilly breath condensing on the fresh scar tissue while his lips peeled back from plaque-stained fangs as they'd part to hiss -- "Kill with me." -- because he'd decided not to set his favorite pet on fire and opted to enlighten him instead for the ghosts screaming caprice and delusion into his thoughts needed him to be enlightened and banish the vapid image of sinking day-old dead rabbits from his mind and be exactly like me, a narcissistic monument of the highest quality. Before Korangar would have to chance to wonder precisely what this crazy shit was about, what Crow had purred with some frightening passionate violent hate-love non-emotion to his son, the keroberus was flying toward the white wolf like a shadowy missile lined in needles and mania, aiming to tear savagely into his swollen face, potentially laying it open to the skull or popping clear blue eyes into gooey devastation. Perhaps momentum would see the traitor's head bashed in on the rocks if he fell, but either way did Crow intend to pull the fight out from under his paws, uninhibitedly fast as he tried to quite literally cut his bond into a more submissive, manageable chunk of meat. It wouldn't end here, not like this. The tenseness with which he had carried himself into this situation ensured that his father's sudden lurch toward him caused Charon to flinch, a subtle move that felt much more dramatic to him than it actually looked. A sharp lance of shame spiked through him; weakness was not allowed, not when he was being tested like this... He could not allow his father the satisfaction of being right about his cowardice (or was he trying not to disappoint Crow?), could not let Koranger see someone higher ranked than himself, someone who had been sent to end him acting like a frightened pup, could not let himself see his true nature, whatever that was - he wasn't sure anymore (had he ever been sure?) "Kill with me." The Judge stood still, staring into the Keroberus' blazing eyes yet somehow beyond them, able to meet that gaze only in a detached manner. He watched as the beast swung around yet again and attacked the hapless boy that Charon found he was completely unable to pity. He wasn't even completely sure what Korangar's crimes had been; he couldn't remember if he'd been told. Didn't care. The white wolf crashed to the ground with a thud that seemed much too heavy for a living, conscious creature. It was the same sound that prey made - lowly animals that wolves gave no thought to killing. Some would argue that it was alright to kill for food, that it served a purpose. Charon looked down at his fallen comrade and felt nothing but purpose. He swept forward lightly, extending one paw forward and bringing it to rest over Korangar's muzzle, stretching out his toes as if he were walking in sand. Dull claws left no real mark against flesh, but it did not matter. The physical contact was all he needed. Proof. This was real. Tail shot up into the air, grey eyes suddenly went ablaze with a hunger that he had never before been given the opportunity to satisfy. He realized vaguely that he was grinning; it was not a charming expression nor an especially 'evil' one. Instead, it was the strained smile of a child who realizes that no amount of mommy's compliments will make his picture look good in the yearbook; a dispassionate skull expression so uncharacteristic of him that the sight of it reflected in a puddle likely would have sent him spiraling into madness. Fire coursed through his veins, set his entire body alight with (dare he even think it?) excitement - suddenly, he felt that he understood... Charon had not suspected that such closeness to his father would ever feel so right. Removing his paw from Korangar's muzzle, the Judge snaked his head forward, latched onto the nape of the other's neck, and dragged him bodily onto his feet only to apparently change his mind halfway through and drop him back onto the ground again. It could have been a silly, motherly gesture if not for the excessive use of teeth (not to mention the crazed look in the black wolf's eyes). Just as he was not aware of the horrifying grin, Charon did not notice the fact that he was shaking as one who has not eaten for a long period of time and just realized how starving they are shakes; weakness and the lightning charged energy of someone who needs to get something now. Strained voice finally spoke, "He's so...," he paused for a long time then, unable to search through his mind for an appropriate word. His brain had gone completely blank except for what he supposed was a dull humming. His tongue lolled out of his mouth but was brought back quickly; he wasn't that far gone yet. Besides, the word had finally come to him. "Precious." Lunging at Korangar with the frightening speed known only by those who truly had no inhibitions, Crow drove him hard into the rock of his own den with an audible crack as something fractured inside that white head, his own massive weight used skillfully against him. Sharp carnivorous fangs then ripped paralyzingly deep into his face before he in his disorientation could move to defend it from the keroberus, whose mouth was instantly coated with the coppery-iron taste of blood and then gel as those gouging fangs found an eyeball and burst it in its socket. The body fell when he leaped clear, knocked half senseless, and so Crow moved to grip it by the hind leg, pulling and adjusting with some measure of sanity, splaying it out like a slab of meat, dragging it closer to Charon, who lifted an unsteady forepaw to step meaningfully on its gushing face. "He's so... precious," mused the voyeur experimentally. Yellow eyes glistened luminously at this, psychological instability raging beyond the corneas as though someone had splashed the previously cold, dead little gems with gasoline and set them aflame, a complete and characteristic one-eighty from what by this day had been another archetype of quiet, disdainful black widows, speaking to nobody and spoken to even less by the sanction of this hive genre-savvy enough to avoid him. He smiled at Charon, a slow curling of lips that was both shark-like and showed teeth but no happiness. "They all are," he crooned, pressing nearer to the boy now to observe him play, so close his sticky breath would condense on Charon's hackles. Precious indeed, if ultimately just sad mewling sacks unsatisfying to hurt or kill, though... perhaps this was the effect too much exposure had on him? Collectively they were all one of many crossed boundaries and had Crow been the introspective type, he might have wondered if there were any more, or if he was doomed to be a junkie forever chasing the euphoria of that first injection, reanimation the needle he sought and held always just out of his grasp. Perhaps metaphorically he had extinguished these receptive nerve endings all together. Such was the curse of his own deep psychopathy. And yet... to see his son, his son, this creature that belonged to him, with his mirror face morphed into a grin as he manhandled the bleeding body at their mercies... Crow watched every movement religiously, every twitch of tendon beneath the shaking skin, searched his oddly hysterical visage for comprehension, and what he found provoked something terrible in the father, some deformed inbred shut-in cousin of love for this black wolf whose thin face he'd once mauled and almost wanted now with indecent excitement to maul again. It was an emotion far worse than any rage he was capable of conjuring up and made his hatred seem a safe, familiar, welcome relief by comparison. "In real executions," said Crow indifferently, and here was a chilling stroke of déjà vu, "the culprit needs to hurt because this saves them from hell. Suffering absolves them of their sins." Said this recited little theme-park version of every passionate sermon the priests had ever spewed with a voice derisive in its sheer boredom. "But we know better, me and you. There's nothing after this for him." Korangar meanwhile convulsed and bled, hypovolemic shock inexorable in his near future. His breathing had started to make a horrible sound, rapid and full of primal agony, that gurgled with volume enough to cut Crow off mid-ramble, who lashed out punishingly with a bite that reduced an ear to shreds. Don't fucking interrupt. "Now... break his legs." Nothing could fly away with clipped wings, now could they? It would be irritating to have the mutilated wolf escape on the way to the tar pits, but more than that... Crow wanted to see Charon do it. "The front ones." This time, as Crow approached him, the boy did not flinch. Oddly, it seemed that total loss of control made dealing with his father much easier...or was that odd? Charon glanced at the executioner and he might have felt some sort of apprehension, doubted his actions just a bit if he hadn't been enjoying this in some regard. Perhaps that was where the real shift in mentality had taken place; at the present moment, he was not living for or against his father. For once, he was not considering what his father would approve of (and then doing the opposite)... for once, he was mindlessly following what he believed to be instincts. Was this how all the wolves in Death Valley felt? What it felt like to have a god that could take all the blame for your actions? (I can condemn them to death for committing crimes Is this what it feels like to be righteous? the gods determine what is considered a crime) (I could be a god) This was something he had known all along, and yet the sudden realization struck him like a blow to the head. All it took to start a religion was some nobody calling themselves a god. The idea, rather than tempting him to try it himself in some far distant land...disgusted him. He had thought this pack was full of idiots. Only the thought that the world beyond the borders, though strange and unknown to him, could be better, freer kept him going sometimes - every time he saw a child blindly stumbling into the pack's belief (or, more often, being shoved forcefully into it), every time he heard the word sin, every time... The rest of the world could easily be just like this place. A Rosa by any other name would corrupt just as sweetly. His rage fueled by hopelessness, Charon stared down at Korangar, who had been further ravaged by his father. The Judge was no longer smiling. Instead, he had readopted his usual impassive face, grey eyes narrowed with unmistakable loathing. His entire body seemed to droop suddenly, as if the sudden high had drained all his energy. He turned to stare at Crow, who he knew was enjoying this in his own twisted way, and felt a surprising lack of hatred. The depressing thought train had washed away the murderous mania he'd been in seconds before, yet he felt no disgust toward his actions. There was merely a dull, resigned sort of acceptance. This was who he was. And it was much better than being one of them. "But we know better, me and you. There's nothing after this for him." "I hate them," he said to his father in a strangely calm voice, "I hate them all." Korangar's breathing was disruptive and rightfully silenced. Observing the disgraced wolf with the air of an overworked mother watching a pot of water begin to boil simply because the sight is easier on the eyes than ungrateful children and a lazy husband, Charon remained silent. He knew what the final goal of this meeting was, but he also wanted to make sure that Korangar was good and absolved before he moved on to the wondrous land of Tar-Heaven. "Now... break his legs. The front ones." There was no hesitation now; almost lazily, he placed one paw on Korangar's muzzle and leaned the majority of his weight on it. He didn't want to risk the wolf getting any sudden heroic ideas and attempting to snap at his throat while he was going to work. Lowering his muzzle slowly, he grabbed the left foreleg between his jaws almost gently, placed his other paw on Korangar's ankle. With a savage growl muffled by a full mouth, he snapped his jaws together with incredible force, wrenching his head upward in the same mouth. Even this sound could not cover the brutal cracking of bones, and his hold on the victim's muzzle could not quite stifle the strangled cry of agony that escaped the wolf. Charon noted, with vague interest, that this sound was not quite as disturbing as the dying shriek of a rabbit - but perhaps that was because the rabbit was actually dying. Korangar hadn't quite reached that point yet; he supposed he would be able to compare the two sounds more accurately when they arrived there. He moved on to the right leg now, keeping a firm hold on Korangar's snout. There was another explosion of noise, and another limb hung uselessly and unnaturally bent. It had been surprisingly easy. This is where following gets you. Where are your gods now? Edited by Audrey, Feb 10 2011, 01:07 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Feb 3 2011, 09:53 AM Post #7 |
|
Administrator
|
The raise of the vibrant sun broke through the darkened leaves warming the acidic soils that accompanied the trickling stream. The waters were broken from the ever violent river with a steady flow that kept the low liquid from drying. Light eyes gazed into the stream watching his ever steady reflection. The water rushed around his ankles leaping up to lick at his knees every so often. Several moments passed without a single twitch from the Prince. He stood motionless simply gazing at his own image. His expression was hard. It lacked the traces of vanity many assumed were Blade's greatest vice. Unfortunately, his corruption ran far deeper then the simple sin of narcissism. He was the spawn of Hell. The true Prince of Darkness and the only offspring to audaciously claim that title. What he would do with it was still unknown. Blade lowered his muzzle to the waters surface. It gleamed red with the stains of his midday meal. His nostrils flared as he took in the leftover scent of coper. The scent of the dead. He held his breath and dipped his mug into the chilled stream. The blood washed from his fur lingering on the surface for only a moment before blending with the clear rushing water. By the time he took his next breath all traces of the life he took had disappeared. The stream had consumed his carnage creating a fresh slate for the remaining afternoon. A smirk formed on Blade's lips as he stole one last glance at the stream. In Alteron, there was no need to wash away the blood of a kill. It was inspiring to say the least. Lives were forgotten daily. Keep up or be devoured by the starvation of Alteron. She'll suck in the weak to provide milk within her bosoms for the growing generations within her womb for those worthy of the Alteronian title. Blade lowered to his haunches a few feet from the stream. The raise of sunlight that leaked through the canopy fell upon his back demanding a certain amount of contentment from the Prince. He reluctantly obliged. He lowered himself once more, now parallel with the Earth, as he placed his heavy head upon his paws. The image of harmony was a lie. Blade leaned forward with agape jowls, snatching what appeared to be a femur bone, one that he had obviously dragged with him from his last meal. He raised a single paw only to smash it down upon the end of the bone, steadying it. His teeth lazily gnawed at the opposite side of the femur shattering the still silence with every sickening crunch. The Black Prince had been bred to obey - to follow orders. In all honestly, he wasn't that different from the many soldiers that stalked the state. It was the rare solitary moments he possessed that fulfilled a bland desire within Blade. Memories. Moments of snapping bone within his jaws, lacerating the flesh of an enemy, or simply charming a virgin to his den. Recollections of decent moments inspired such obedience. He was immoral but his duties and loyalties to the monarchy granted him such freedoms. Without them, he would have been punished for his sadistic pleasures. A soldier to the Queen - to his mother if only for his own gain. In the Queen's stead, which was growing far more frequent, Blade tended to the empire. An action shocking to most. With watchful eyes, a trait many assumed the Prince lacked, he's secured at least some new confidence within his future role. Truth be told, he would carry his youthful flaws well into his adult years. Still, his imperfections would not lead to a faulty monarchy. He was slowly beginning to prove his worth. It was about time he began securing his own loyalties if he was ever to take the throne. Such thoughts regulated within Blade's mind often. Another snap of bone tore Blade's attention from the future. A soft breeze carried lingering scents of possible drifting Alteronians. His ears pushed forward resuming their alert state. He did loath unannounced entrances. Still, was it strange for those that dwelled within to venture outward towards the small useless stream? Perhaps not. Perhaps Blade had miscalculated it's popularity. Either way, a social exchange could benefit his new found cause. Edited by Audrey, Feb 10 2011, 01:02 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Mar 18 2011, 12:08 AM Post #8 |
|
Administrator
|
OOC: Mostly for knights, but other high ranks can PM me to join. This is by no means a mandatory meeting, so if you don't have the time/muse, just pass this by. He had watched the brutal beating with large vacuous eyes, their indigo depths muddled and desensitized if hidden constantly as though to spare his peers their thoroughly creepy effect. A year ago they might have betrayed a harsh twinge as dozens of teeth mauled the traitor's flesh because he as a social animal was still then attuned to the sufferings of other wolves, might have caused the breath in his chest to quicken as he relived the smoky remnants of a terrible memory, one inexorably powerful force destroying another too weak to do anything but squeal and wriggle (something I can never be, I will never die like this, I will NEVER -) but now they could observe the soldiers have their sadistic, woefully unorganized fun with an almost bovine mildness. Accident relied on the judgment of his king and queen; the smile on Rapier's wicked old face had been genuinely fulfilled as she too took in the spectacle and if she was content, he would be content as well. What empathy he'd felt as a child for the mite-infested rabble surrounding him was gone, replaced by this connection instead, a loyal orbit of the sun that was the center of his universe, the one that gave him stability and life and purpose in this mad world. Step by trudging graceless step, he moved through the forest he'd never once seen beyond, not that this was any issue of his. What was an issue was the awful startle coming up in the next ten seconds; among the vines (the vines that he tried to ignore, the vines that angered him irrationally because they looked like the ropey coil of intestines even though they weren't, didn't like to be lied to) hanging down loosely from the massive trees scattered everywhere across the territory was a rather large tree boa. A terrible grating sound that was not quite a yelp or a scream ripped itself from his throat at the sight, Accident lunging violently backward just before actually walking into the creature, the freakish noise giving way to an upset snarling that was still strangely high-pitched, every cobalt hair on end as he snapped uncontrollably, spit frothing around canine lips. It was only when he temporarily regained a fraction of his calm that wolf realized snake was in fact dead, having apparently died in the canopy and fallen only to get tangled in the branches before hitting the ground, leaving it dangling there like some sad cut rope. Fish-like eyes blinked sluggishly, nerves shot and tingling, but soon Acc began hesitantly to move closer, insanely cautious as if this were just a trick and the thing would spring back and... touch him. Growing boldness led to a slow pulsating burn of ugly outrage for the heart attack or perhaps just for it daring to exist, and those jaws came out in an unexpected crack of brutality, seizing the dead snake by the head and tugging it viciously down. No sooner had it collapsed in a heap did he escalate into a brief frenzy, sharp teeth shredding the corpse with no intention of eating it; the knight only pulled it apart with a panicky violence unnerving to behold, the last determined strands of sinew just beneath the scales snapping to let the inner mess of viscera belch onto the dirt, onto his banded paws. Once the reptile was so much bloody pulp and separate pieces, Accident flung the remains away and shook his entire body as though trying in revulsion to dislodge what stuck to him, breathing hard and slow as he stared empty eyes enormous at the carnage as though it still had the power to somehow reanimate and take revenge on him. Healthy. Edited by Audrey, Mar 18 2011, 03:43 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Mar 18 2011, 04:42 AM Post #9 |
|
Administrator
|
OOC: HI TSU PLEASE PRETEND THIS POST DID NOT TAKE FOREVER K THNX It had been almost a year since she'd last seen her family. Baby sisters were not counted among this, for they shared her blood but had not been there when she'd snuggled blindly up to some other warmth body in a den they were not permitted to leave, when being a nuisance had cost her a normal wolf tail and christened her instead with this hairless protrusion with unlovely scabs like scales, when she and little brothers alike had been chased from said den with the scent of mother's milk just barely absent from their breath. In so many ways was she still a child, still that puppy who chased and pounced and didn't understand when no meant no, her orientation to the world for all her terrible brutality and sleek adult form still astonishingly simplistic and sometimes painfully naive. It did not occur to Lilith that her brothers never said hello because she was fucking crazy and embarrassing and they mostly liked to pretend in public that they'd never met her before (excluding Abaddon, who was equally nuts if not dead somewhere for his blasphemy, something else on the long list of shit Lil would never quite grasp) rather than only busy with their little jobs or only being... a little mean to her. A little thoughtless. And so as she ambled without aim across the territory on this day, waiting for a caprice to blast away all of the teeny clamoring whims in her head that did nothing but continually cancel each other out, Jezebeth was given that oblivious benefit of the doubt when he became that force, his scent sweet and nostalgic on the breeze. If he had not detected the foreboding prowl she assumed to reach him as he mused on priesthood, or more importantly if he had not moved, Lilith would lunge from her cover and pin him heavily on the ground, jaws snapping down with horrid familiarity to snatch up his mane and teethe on it, no care given to spare him potential drool. Just like when they were kids, awwww, not that he'd likely find anything "awwww" about it. Whether she sat atop him now, was kicked away, missed him altogether, she'd smile big for him, crooning a gleeful "Jezeeeeeee~" right before the inevitable "Gosh, you're all ugly now. Where'd your face go? Who's your girlie friend?" Asked together, as if those two questions were completely equal and related. She turned to Virra with pursed lips, curious and momentarily confused, nostrils flaring as she took in the other female's scent. The subsequent recognition that came next was nightmarish, her carnivorous grin stretching grotesquely wide, orange eyes brightening with the excited raptness of an irredeemable maniac. Lilith rounded on her suddenly, drawing closer, that face a mask of pure glee. "Someone help meeeeeee," she whined in a reedy voice through her giggles. The mimicry was not entirely accurate; Mirra had never said this and perhaps most horrifying of all would be the very possible idea that Lilith was mixing up her victims. "Shall we meet up again, friend? I hope you DIE HORRIBLY." And she reeled back then, laughing like a goddamn hyena. Edited by Audrey, Mar 18 2011, 04:50 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| Audrey | Mar 23 2011, 08:39 PM Post #10 |
|
Administrator
|
All at once, she was there. It would be anyone's hypothesis as to when (and why) she'd arrived at this despotic display, standing hunched into a burdened sort of bow near the back of the crowd amongst the tension and the sycophants as though she belonged there with them, rheumy hazel eyes empty and unmoving, burned like holes into her terrible striped face, massive jaw slightly agape as she appeared to watch the show. There was blood in the air, the choking reek of violence mingled with a drop of fear in the bucket, which had ascended from the collective wellspring sloshing with brackish semisolid fluid filmed in a layer of slime that beckoned her like a solar eclipse blocking out the rising sun. A little female, who once the monster had known all too intimately, who was lost now to the black void that replaced a normal archive of memories to another sentient beast, sprang at a grounded writhing wolf and tore out its eyes. Fish-like gaze observed and nothing more, taking it all, giving nothing back. One of the pseudowielders was speaking, but they were political sounds, meaningless sounds, and they did not influence the slow path she trudged toward the front now, closer to the victim, smacking a mouth smattered in saliva and drainage from some other body that had long since turned dark brown, sank among each bristly individual gray hair. A resting fly scuttled down from the warm interior of her ear onto the lid of one eye, disturbed by the motion; Kotake did not seem to notice. These tiny things, these things that were alive and vital and unbearable, they parted like the sea for her or perhaps she just nudged them aside as one would an inanimate object. It could not be stopped, could not be ordered by the smug lips of something that had declared itself king of the muck and degradation, she who was far more fixture than she was member of Alteron, she who while not entirely above the law had trampled on it time and time again -- the monstrous dire lunged close-range for Cue, accompanied by the other soldiers or no. Oblivious to the distressed jerk given by cobalt knight Accident at her erratic entrance, Kotake aimed for his front leg, the one with shoulder marred by Kia's spiteful strike. It would latch on just above the joint, teeth sinking inexorably in mid-thigh, and wrench horribly, brutally, with thrashing force that would almost certainly break the bone beyond repair, splintering and twisting, shearing through muscle and tendon and ligament and nerves despite how it strained valiantly to defy the attack. And nor would it end; the beast was chewing him now, chewing as though he were a meal to be devoured, the wet crunch and squelch emitted as each bite bore down deeper into tissue telltale of this as well; only when she reached what remained intact of the bone in this mangled limb would she actually... began to pull. Kotake would amputate that leg of his. She'd carry it away like a prize, to the back and then far away from the gathering, back to whatever abandoned den she could salvage. She would eat it as it still twitched and nothing Cue could do now, overwhelmed at he was, could stop it from happening. Hypovolemic shock would kill him within moment in another setting, but here... it had been lived through before. If the existence of a blind crippled omega inside Alteron could be considered "living." Musing on none of this at all, she retreated with the same swift, terrible surreality with which she'd come. Edited by Audrey, Mar 23 2011, 09:14 PM.
|
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| Go to Next Page | |
| « Previous Topic · General Discussion · Next Topic » |
- Pages:
- 1
- 2







2:35 PM Jul 11