The fear radiating off of her frame hit his wide nostrils and propelled his outrage, he himself endowed with a fearlessness that the cry of his God's calling had filled him with; the sound of Ricochet's hooves striking the black mare's limb drew a grimacing smirk to his lips, his ears pinned savagely to his crown as he drove towards his prey. She fled before them, and the wave of power that he felt in the wake of her panic was inebriating, the savage pounding of his heart an undulation of drunken stupor that propelled his movements and bit back the sickening sensation that build in the pit of his belly as his hooves met with plush, ebony feathers.

The noise that filled the air was cryptically satisfying, the disgusting crunch of delicate wing bones and the shrill, feminine scream that split the air meeting the boy’s ears so pleasantly that he felt his flesh shudder along his entire length. Ricochet’s call of encouragement was lost to the lust that thudded like hammers in his brain, though his voice is a faint stimulate on the water-soaked air.

Her teeth closed down hard and savage on his neck, but the pain was almost as delightful as the noises that had come from her breaking body. The pressure of his blood pounding through his temples was dizzying, electrifying as the energy that swept through the sky in white hot light, the new ache in his sinew driving him deeper under the wake of his simple rage. He had almost forgotten why it was that he had been assaulting her in the first place – until her southward path turned north, towards the gleaming glass wall that he had assisted in forming, her lamed wing ravaging the leaves strewn along the floor of the grove as she dashed away from them.

He gathers himself and follows her, outrage building towards the sneaky woman with each hoof fall, the rain water buffeting his face as he follows after the lamed mare with a ferocity that he has never experienced in himself. "Where do you think you’re going, bitch?" his deep vocals cry after her, the sky’s tears leaking into his mouth with a sweet innocence that was lost in his state of rancor; it blends with the salt of his sweat, which has accumulated in the pulsing of his heart, the dark excitement that this moment brought to him on pitch black wings.

He cannot allow her to reach the misty forest; they will learn of his betrayal, of his failure to change into the perfect man that Mirage wished him to be.

He literally leaps from the earth as soon as he thinks her haunches are near enough to send his weight crashing into her, the thuds of his war-brother’s hooves alongside him drive his motions. She cannot outrun them, limping and flightless as she is now, and subconsciously he knows this; but the fear of discovery maddens his normally calm and thoughtful state, makes irrational assumptions that he must maim her to save the slender foundations of his life.

His fore-hooves are tucked to his frame in the beginning stages of his bulk rising towards her exposed ass, but extend to reach out and over her spine if she is not tricky enough to escape his deranged assault, maw gaping and wide in his fervor; he wants to pin her down to the wet earth, smear that inky black coat with grey mud and fallen willow leaves. He wants to rip her tongue from her mouth, crush her skull, and obliterate the unsightly image of her wings rising awkwardly from her would-be beautiful body.

He should be humiliated by his actions, his murderous intent; he really should.

The sky weeps down it’s shame for him.


Dragomir</style>
falling asleep in chalk outlines -falling asleep inside the chapel</style>