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Crash Course
Even in springtide the bitter; Siberian chill of the northern realm lays as a sleeping beast, prominent in the umber of the night, teeth gleaming against the onyx and ivory dance of his hide, and though it stings and burns as pyre against his meager flesh it is welcomed with opened grasps for he is home and no longer shall he leave it for the endeavors of the world outside, for the taste of iron upon his tongue, for the almost metallic clang of bodies against avian filth and muddied, cruor mixed lineage, to ruin, to pillage and plunder the soiled mutations from the most pure of species, to lay waste to future generations of damnation upon the world of Loorien and bless them in the eternal goodwill of the only gods to be seen around these, anarchy ruled realms.
Unicorns.
A meandering slap of obsidian tresses against his hocks, beneath a milk laden moon and a dressing of icy stars in all their benevolent glorifications the incubus prowled— among melted snow and crushed needles, fir, hunger driven, a feast for the days to come in which more honor shall be brought upon them, the worthy, the righteous, and it is only when his nostrils quiver at the salient delicacy of blackberries that he pauses, roseate lips brushing forth to purloin one from the only home it had known all its life when the cries meet the horizon, haste speaks the urgent song of a Lady, and startled the brute pulls back, pausing for the most minuscule of seconds to listen with raised, flickering harks, before he embarks upon a rapid pace towards the source of the noises (is that someone singing? At this dreaded, freeze ridden hour?).
Flurries weave about his twirling hooves, lodge within the loping speed of his stride, within the tendrils of his mane, along the side of his sweltering sinew and form rivulets along his hide, sweat causing the muscles beneath to shiver and tremble in the severe temperatures of twilight, flashing cerulean spheres in the light of the Moon above and there, at the entrance of their great land, a trio of figurines and one upon the ground, ivory, crumbled and demolished, ruined, a dual couple of smaller frames that must be mere foals, a familiar tinge of salt and smoke settling in his lungs as ash, cruor and the fusible taste of battle, but it is the saccharine pinch of a aroma that causes the breath in his ship to billow out in a steam of humid air, blown away by the breeze, floating as a boat upon the salty brine.
A glint of gold, of aureate, another scent rising and tugging at his bosom, one of a Princess lost among the caverns, one whom had the odor of milk still clinging to her flesh, a memory, a shard, a dagger with the hilt towards his hand— that was why she had smelt familiar, and the horror of the realization is no match to the relief and anxieties that well within him now, the panic, the despair, the distress that wishes to enwrap and choke him as the tide, fright, yearning, infatuation, and as he begins again and canters down the slope towards the gathered and arrives in a wave of snow his sides swell with the ache of his heart, dome twisting to gaze down upon a doe with a fresh scar trailing betwixt her withers, to a young childe to whom he knows not's name, to a battered girl with a coat of caramel and cocoa, terracotta, beaten, torn, and the rumbling snarl that passes from his gritted teeth is one of a wild wolf more then a man, ire and possessive fury surging within the baritone of a voice that grates past his lips now— "Arah," rapture, relish in her presence, he's so sorry, he's so sorry but he doesn't have time for idle apologies because there are bones to be crushed and cruor to be smeared and drank as wine, a sanguine sunset to be painted in the claret of those whom would harm her or her— oh, it was a bitter taste upon his tongue, but he would not blame her, for he has been gone centuries and eons and let this happen to her—babes. He will see whomever dared to do such vile things strewn for the beasts on the ground, rage, he shall annihilate, exterminate, he shall obliterate and maim them as they have done to she, eradicate each lineage, he shall watch them suffer and he will begin with the babes, the elders, the young and foolish, they will pay dearly for the crimes in which they have committed, and he will see to it.
"What vile mongrel did this to you? To your babe— babes?" And then, swinging his scythe towards the one whom he presumes to be the Reaper Déodat had spoken of, Deimos; oh, he had heard his name from the Empress Psyche before, bloodlust boiling as flame within his veins, "How may I lend aid?"
In what way did he wish for him to skin them? He could start with the skull..
But from the hind pillars up, stomach to spine, withers to the latch of the throat, ripped harks and raw muscle lain barren to the harsh oxygen of the world, seemed so much more fun.
They would PAY the fine of their crimes in their own CRUOR.
And he would bathe in the reverence and satisfaction of their dead corpses.
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[O] Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain.
