There is sickness that lingers within this fleshy body, and yet it seems to flourish outside it as well. They are tense, a mob of killers and puppets that are tired of having their strings pulled. Anxious, yet still. Watching the hand that feeds, keeping lips over fangs despite desire to sink them into that unkind monster. Like wolves they circle, yet legs do not move. Lions roar for vengeance and for blood, and yet only stoic, kind words escape their still maws. A circle of bloodied, tainted, guilty figures and in the middle? The empress of them all. Yet she is unaware that her throne has been on shaky ground for years now, and her servants are ready to turn and topple her forever. At her side is the only innocent among them, a single raindrop on an inflamed throat, an ivory lily petal in a sea of black. He shall be spared.

Dark sapphire irises stare intently at this scene, aware of his similarly infused sibling's concerned expression. Let them watch. Let them fear, and wonder. Only lately have the ghosts stopped haunting him, the colors of the world exploding in fierce bursts and sparks of outrageous neon. Following it comes the dark, the cold. Eyes of a killer instead of a joyful wanderer. There is a sharpness to his features, a vibration along his spine that draws attention to the rigid pose he assumes. This is not Kipp, son of Mandrake, brother of many. This is a demon, just as much a removed and improperly placed soul as the ones that seize Knox's hollow bones.

Words mean little to this beast, and so he tunes them out. Only when one voice roars above the rest, demanding the attention of the brother at his side, does the twisted creature raise its crown and look forth in awareness. He has not forgotten the encounter a season earlier, where they had muttered in inflamed tones that the sick creature that had given most of them life must bleed and suffer beneath their hooves. Vapid expression morphs into something far more gruesome, a sick and twisted mix of a sneer and a devilish grin that belonged on the maw of a creature that had just delighted in another kill. Blood does not stain the pearls of his teeth, and yet they shall be painted in time. Roan body stands tall, pale alabaster tail flickering at a speed that shows his anxiousness.

It was Knox who moved first, and with that the restraints were snapped. A shrill whinny of fury and bloodlust echoed around him, a trumpet that heralded death. Let Darwin become the victim of Tajheri's punishing blows. Kipp had a score to settle with the bitch in his sights, and lean legs were in motion. The pack had scented weakness, and the warriors and ruthless killers she had raised would bring her down in her final moments.

Archibald thunders in similarly, but Kipp will not be cast aside. Where the Dauntless is large, Kipp is slender and swift. Like liquid he caresses the side of his mountainous brother. Before he has even reached her, he can taste the warm iron taste of blood on his palette. Feel the spurt of it lurching into his mouth, hear the shriek of her fury and agony as it ricochets through his audits like a choir of angels. A lunge, aiming for the tender belly that has just slimmed from the birth of his younger brother. Flanks that are starting to hollow with age. A bellow of triumph, a strike of hoof against flesh, as hard and as sharp as force and strength could allow. He tears, plunders, slices. When earth is felt once more beneath his weight, there is no pause.

Teeth ravage easily, tearing ribbons from the hide he knew so well from a waking nightmare he was only now able to surface from. Like nectar from the gods her life force stains his teeth and maw, and like a whirlwind he never loses momentum and never stops. Again he rises, the avenging angel whose wings have been torn, a wicked spear upon his brow, and he aims his hooves to crash down upon her spine. She will fall, and he shall celebrate her death and dance in the puddles of her blood, dance across the earth and pattern it in carmine hoofprints that only his brothers shall see the beauty of.