It's so....quick.

When she thinks of death, she thinks of her own bleeding face, her blood staining the earth, her agony a howling lament into the night sky. It would have taken her hours to die, the life slowly oozing from her ruined face, her body paralyzed by pain....and yet this, this is swift. This is merciful. It is both confusing and terrifying to think that she could be stood grazing, minding her own business, and the next minute she could be Dead, without a single warning as to the threat in the bushes, the snake in the grass.

But this mare, this prey, got off lightly. She did not have her face ripped in two. She was not tortured, ruined until death became a blessing rather than a curse, until agony became life and blackness became the ultimate desire. The gargoyle is somewhat disappointed, but the kill has been made and there is little to be done but watch as the body is....devoured.

Except it isn't. She's half-eaten, but the throat, the throat is still intact, and with a serpentine command her father suddenly bends the corpse so the tender, delicate throat is proffered like a birthday gift to his daughters.

Oizys looks to Enyo, her heart pounding - what do we do, what do we do? But there is only one answer. The kill has been made, but the throat-blood must be spilt to water the lands below; the gargoyle's heightened emotions are so intense that Ker topples off her back in a fit of shuddering excitement, twitching happily on the ground as her bonded prowls forth.

She doesn't know if Sister would want to do this, if she should let her twin have first blood. That would be the selfless thing to do, to give her sibling the glory and Father's blessing. But her limbs move independent from her body and her mind, and her instincts grip her like a vice. She is a robot, a puppet to her desires, to the kill-lust that burns through her blood, from Father's genes, from his wickedness.

She grabs the dagger, her fingers caressing the hilt, her breaths ragged and haggard and thrilled as she dives forwards, head lowered - her triple horns slash across the tender throat, and the sound is wet.

Her face is suddenly damp with blood, but not her own this time - no, she's done it, she's wearing the blood of her first victim (so what if the spirit was already long gone when she landed the blow, it still counts.) She steps back, painted red, and looks to Father out of eyes glimmering with hope and pride, eyes normally so cold that are warmed by the thrill of the hunt.