| Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5 |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 9 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Mongrel :: Common Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
wanda |
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Metal jaws had locked shut around the she-wolf's paw. The steel was oh-so-cold on her dark fur, the bite so bold on the huntress, and scarlet blood wept from the paw that had carried her leagues and miles, crimson against the ebony. Yet it was not the trap, holding her with jaws of hungry steel, that hurt her heart the color of soot and charcoal- it was that her head had been bowed, forced down, muzzle swatted and a hand firm around her snarling, dripping maw. No matter how hard the she-wolf of her fractured mind fought against its binding hold, she could not free herself. But on occasion, a wolf will attempt to chew off his own paw, to escape traps. Not this wolf, however.
This wolf would wait to turn her terribly sharp teeth on the source of the pain.
Confutatis had fought hard, with the desperation of a bear protecting her cubs- her cubs being her freedom. The chaos-seeker well knew of what she tried to steal would eventually return to her, vengeance in their minds; she was no blind fool just born from a mother's womb. Oh, the mare of shadow and malice had tread carefully, little more than a skeleton with a threadbare skin, knowing how perilous even a short battle might be the death of her winter-weakened body- but it was inevitable that eventually the battle would come. On the day he had come, the night had been clouded, the bone white of the stars and moon hidden, their stark brightness gone from the ebon sky. From the shadows he came, his form glinting with shades of dull gray, just barely illuminated by the ghastly yellow of the lantern trees.
The sordid details came to her swiftly. Moonlit flowers crushed beneath her charcoal hooves. A gleam of gold on the river. Grass wet, glistening with dew. Rumblings of an angry sky. The fall of blessed rain, announcing the death of crisp white snowflakes. Sparkles of faded light, caught in a gleaming horn of polished glass.
It's difficult to breathe. Every breath rasps uncomfortably in her lungs; useless lumps of rocks in her chest. Lady Death's crown has slipped. In honesty, it has fallen, broken upon the ground, split into two golden pieces to be eaten by miss and decay. A cold. Her nostrils are clogged with white mucus, dripping from her muzzle most unpleasantly. a cough wracks her frail form, once muscular and full, lithe and graceful. Yet her eyes still burn with a flaming passion; ambition and aggression, a hunger and desire residing deep in her sooty soul reflected in that eye of amber. Blood marks her cheeks, a new bite wound beneath her good eye. A long, gruesome scrape curls down her right haunch, a deep testament to the battle she fought. The battle she lost.
She smoulders, she smokes, she is hot with contempt. For what has bested her but a unicorn, thin and weakly, hardly stronger than she; if only she had had more time to graze on the blossoming green grass and shining flowers, the petals crushed and sickly sweet on her tongue. If only. No matter how she despairs, she perseveres. Confutatis is confident in the knowledge she will, eventually, worm her way out of the stallion's precarious grip, to flee to a place safe, and put distance between herself and others so crude and disruptive. For now, however... the cougar is at the mercy of the hunter holding the rifle to her brazen skull.
When she wakes from the darkness of sleep to the darkness of eternal moonlight, she knows she is not alone.
"Come out, boy," she rasps, voice a hoarse growl in her throat. How she despises having fought, and lost.
"Gravedigger, why have you come to get me?"
Frost gleams on the grass. Though Birdsong has come, it is cold and still here in the forest. The trees sway and groan, bark cracking and moaning protest, sap glistening in thick ropes on weathered, wet bark. This place is unpleasantly soaked, with a cold that settles in the bones, but she shall not complain as she stands among the massive trees, for there is something compelling in the vast age of the trees and their enormous size. If only they could speak.
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 Kipp</style>
My demons and I are not compatible. We never have been and never will be.
Demonchild, sing to me, sing your sweet song and let me fall beneath the spell of your wicked toxic gaze. You killed your mother, little one, turned her to nothingness with a grin upon your lips and a lust within your eyes. Tell me little one, if you hated she who gave you life, do you despise life similarly?
All his life he'd despised her, the sickly grin of her jowls, the cruel clamp of her teeth. Bitch of birth. One might wonder, why had the demonchild done this? Why did he gaze upon the broken, sickly body of a disgusting mare far too weak to go against him, all in the name of blood and loyalty? Had he not spilt the blood of his dam upon the searing stones of the Heart, so fitting as she had never had one herself? Did he not despise that same blood bearer once upon a time? Why change how he felt now?
There is a darkness to his gaze, despite the beautiful glow the color used to be. Summer pastures and comforting boughs, ivy and emerald. Now, he does not show that side. Shows it only in the company of those he loved, the few he did, those he trusted. He is a son of Mandrake. A devil, a demon, a murderer. The same tainted blood that had corroded her veins now shore his to tatters similarly. Like acid it burns him, sears him, destroys him. And at the center of it all? What pumps that acid to his living hollow confines? A heart, one that holds a dwindling amount of emotion, for it has been shredded into bits that he watches fade and grow and fade and grow with little interest or care.
It had been a simple fight, though she had fought with the fury of a thousand angry badgers. The demonchild, however, was not a fool. Had tracked her like a wolf an injured elk. Watched as her health declined, as winter made her form sickly and gaunt, as illness hollowed her cheeks and sank her eyes into hollows. Underhanded? Oh of course, but Kipp was a devil in a lamb's skin, one he'd ripped from the innocent naive animal himself. Drake sons didn't play fair. Though he had emerged bitten and bruised, aching and beaten in a few areas, it was she who had fallen.
And in her sleep he bent his crown, a wicked dagger upon his brow, and hissed into her ears. "If you touch him again...I will kill you, slowly and painfully, and dance in your blood."
Nobody touched his brothers.
Isn't it funny how it's usually the devil who wears the angel's face?
She awakens, mucus sloughing from her nose, and she croaks a growl into the air. Princely, he stands collected and passive away from her, orbs half-lidded as he watches her silently. Beckons him. Dead leaves and moist earth silence his already light steps, emerging into the platinum moonlight, letting it shine upon his features. Watching her as a scientist might a specimen. Gravedigger? A quirk twitches his lips, barely noticeable. Hmmm. He had not the respect nor the time for digging the resting places of his victims but he supposed it was a fitting title. Not only in general but in her sickly mind as well.
Why, why why. They always asked such foolish questions. Poor little things, how weak and lost they were. Was Kipp not doing them a favor by ending their agony?
From his throat, a soft velvet voice purrs, at odds with the personality he wears like a mask. A demon, and a child, he is caught between the two. For now, he is content to show her only the demon. It is a calming sound, his lyrics, for he'd been silent the entirety of their battle. Much like an earthly fae, wise and fatherly. Oh how the devil loves to play tricks with those he clasps within his paws. "I come for you, lupus, because you have wandered too far from your den. Come too close to ah...something that is mine." A kindly smile is mocking upon his lips, eyes squinted as his crown tilts to the side, deceivingly happy. Slowly he rights it once more, face sliding into nothingness, eyes a cold toxic green. "You attempted to steal away my brother, lupus." His voice is low, a rumble of threat, of anger, a storm waiting to be unleashed. She had weathered it once already, surely she knew just how violent and all-consuming it could be.
"Nobody harms my brother." His chest vibrates with a canine-esque growl more befitting the title he has given her in return, teeth flashing in the pale light. Then he shifts again, like moonlight through tangled boughs, and his visage is cool and calm once again. "I do not wish you physical harm, yet. Let us keep it that way. I have stolen you away out of love and loyalty, lupus. Do not turn this into a personal grudge match. You will follow me to the lands of my brother. He shall decide your fate." No muscle moves, nothing so much as twitches, an archangel frozen into stone as the feathers of his freedom flyers burned from the fires of hell that reached up hungrily to consume him. Toxic gaze continued to glow beneath the moonbeams, awaiting her own words.
Gravedigger and Lupus.
He wondered where this mingling of paths would take them.
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image credit to Graham Ballantyne @ flickr.com
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