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08-23-2012, 12:52 PM
He did not like her approach, yet he was captivated by it; she sneaked closer, wormed and wriggled, danced and swayed, fearless. It gave him the notion that she was hunting, in her own reckless, challenging manner. He knew there were only three things within this deep forest clearing. She, he, and a dead doe. The only thing with pumping blood that there was to hunt was he, and in protest to that notion his wings raised themselves slightly, as if to fend her off with their size. Shoulders strain, so unused to holding them as such, but he cannot think of that now - not when she made her approach, not when she eyed his prey with such hunger. It was his, and the hind paw upon her dead body pressed down harder, claws slipping too easily through her skin, sinking into flesh. Her words - by every right they should break the spell, they should tear the magic hanging in the air and reduce it to nothing but ashes and broken dreams. The cat, he shivered, not at all pleased with what he was hearing, yet only silence was his protest. He had no wish to die at her whim, to lie there with his belly split open and entrails lying upon the ground, liver-less and heart-less. No. Death was not for him. But then it moved, the thing he knew to be dead by every sense available, it moved beneath his heavy paw and, startled, Belial leaped forward, turning with an annoyed hiss to watch his meal stand up. As much as he'd wrecked around in her bowels the intestines fell out, trailing upon the ground yet her nimble feet avoided stepping on them. Wide-eyed, he watched for a moment as his dinner made its way closer to the strange mare, and her words went completely over his head. He did not hear them, and that was good. Instead, he found his short, stubby tail lashing, anger overcoming his fascination at last. Pure instinct it could be called; he did not hand over his food willingly to anyone. Another hiss was spat in her direction, wings flaring up once but he could feel the muscles protesting, atrophied and shriveled. "That's my doe," he growls gutturally at her, the first words he graced that otherworldly, beautifully dangerous mare. He did not want to be upset with her, did not want to be angry with her, but he couldn't be anything but it for so brazenly taking his food. Somehow that simple thing far overshadowed the fact that his dinner was walking again. |
