The hand holding the dagger begins to sweat and grow tenser. The temperature under that sheep’s skin grows hotter. As the hiss of a whisper slithers into his ear the mask cracks, and the hark slides away. The monster was so close. So blind. Yet the golden holds. He has to.

Swaying to the side the rosen girl looks to the laughing beast. Her weariness and confused looks mingling with pain. It was not quite right, he should have adapted it more, but the golden’s powers were slipping. The frustrations in his breast was growing, and getting harder to contain. It was well for someone injured to surrender to insults, fear, and pain, but the strong youthful golden chaffed at it. To not return a throw, or taunt back was like grinding glass into his blood. He might hold the final trick card, but he was still the vain golden son.

It was so strange though. Had he not just suffered and wasted under the prolonged restraint in the mountains? Was his escape from there not celebrated and cherished. Then why did it empower him to stop into the very act he did now which only returned that feeling? What was this which drove him to so readily accept another burden? Was it the same which caused him to nearly call back to the rosen figure? Yet in all that, here he was, holding himself on the cliff edge, letting fate foolish believe she had him in her grasp.

His shield of invincibility was about to be shattered though. A loosen stone was to fall under his feet into the abyss and remind him of the danger walking on the edge could bring.

The monster surges forward and it takes his whole will to steel himself against it. He was expecting another shove, but the tiger was not playing nicely. Teeth cut into his flesh, scraping and sinking in deep. Body shivers, freezing, and breath hitches in the rosen’s throat. The pain this time did not have to be faked, but the anger glaring cold in those earthen eyes was hard to hide. The skin at his withers trembles and shakes as it feels the hot blood run down the lines of his shoulders. The golden wolf was so absorbed by contolling himself, and keeping submissive, that he nearly missed the tiger’s words….

Whoring yourself out again, hm?

Whoring? Again? The golden was lost in his mind for a moment…Hotaru had a child. It did not look like this creature, but did it need to? His thoughts were racing, her voice cutting in. You will come back The monster is moving about him, but the golden’s mind was racing to make connections. She was a whore? Well all around here had a little fun, but if he was feeling….and she was still….You’re mine. An anger rushed in his breast again, and at last the cold calm flame roars to life, bursting into a full blaze. He was not hers. He was not a whore’s. A whisper behind the iron doors to his heart struggles in the blaze to speak. That is the monster talking. He is trying to get you, her. He lies. They are lies. She loves you. But the anger was too deep. Too hot.

Perhaps it was his anger at bowing before the blows which had built. Perhaps it was the tension of the moment. Yet more than likely it was his final realization that something was happening inside him which hadn’t happened in many a years. Something was awakening in him uncalled. Something stirring in the darkness of his soul. And it was happening for a whore. A tramp who took no value in it. He was falling for someone who knew no bounds, no loyalties. Making him nothing more than a common fool. Teeth grind together.

Rosen head rises slightly, the tissue papers of the mask falling away as the monster spits in her face. The fire rising in those hot eyes. He was done with this. Done with playing her fool. The golden was free, and powerful. He would not yield to her whims. He would see this deed done, and then he would remind her that he was not to be toyed with. Not another customer for her whims. He was the golden son, the thief, and those feelings she awoke, that she called on, he would prove in this moment to be dead as this tiger. The monster rises to strike, and the golden thief could no longer hold back. Who would want her? “Your nightmare.” Breath slips, and illusion falls away under the tiger’s very nose. But the golden was not waiting. Hinds shove him forward, head low tilts up as horns reappear, ready to rip into the underside of the beast. A paw falls heavy on his neck, cutting deep and hot, but the anger of the golden was hotter and he surged on forward. Shoving and digging in the soft earth.

He might be rallying against the rosen figurine, but this bastard had dared call her whore, and damaged. Whatever might be going on between the gold and the rosen, he would ensure this bastard had no further say in it. It made no sense how the anger burned in hatred of the rosen, yet attacked the beast with vengeance. It made no sense that he would now lock himself in combat to secure her safety, while wanting to destroy his connections with her. It made no sense. But then again, love rarely does.


OOC ::
"Speech"