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11-12-2013, 08:42 PM
"Perhaps you're just not playing it correctly, dear sister," comes a disembodied voice from somewhere just behind her, an acerbic lilt clinging to each rasped syllable as they seep past jagged rows of teeth. He is her shadow, the dappled shade of the conifers coiled tightly 'round the pale silver of his skin, dutifully tracing her every step as they navigate through unfamiliar territory. And this game she speaks of, have they not played it many times before- she going forth to lure in those unfortunate enough to take pity on her and they, a duo, diminishing them to a pile of gore?
The very thought makes him hungry, salmon tongue darting from between his lips to clean off imaginary blood, the sweet and sickly taste of which he remembers all too well.
Helleborr withdraws from his homely copse of darkness and exposes himself to a dim shower of midsummer light, the sun deafened as a rather large cloud passes in front of it. Crisp leaves crackle softly beneath split hooves as he comes to stand at his twin's flank, wiry limbs bending and lifting in an almost spidery manner. Idly he traces the sunken grooves of her poked-out ribs as they slide beneath her pallid hide with each breath of air, admiring, yet regretful she should be so frail. "And here I thought you enjoyed playing games," he quips as he cranes his neck a bit, filed teeth seeking out the harlequin's ear with a nibble. His tattered lips contort into a sorry imitation of a smile, beads of slobber dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
You're mine.
He cocks his head to the side in suspicious observance of the forest, so alike and so yet very different from the woodlands of their birth, infested with foreign scents that assault his nostrils as he inhales deeply. The sun expels its gilded fingers over the palisade of trees as it reemerges from behind the cloud, spilling onto his ashen skin in a most uncomfortable way, a film of humidity hanging thick in the air.
An animalistic growl brews in his throat, boiling up his trachea to spill from a mouth reminiscent of a jackal's in a displeased croak. He speaks, and his voice is like a violin in need of tuning: "This place has nothing to offer us, Hecate. Why are we here?"
