tooth and claw; longclaw

[Longclaw]

Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry,
feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.

Had they known … had they only known that fate would laughingly bring them together in the same place, nearly the same manner that their respective parents had been drawn together once, it might shed new light on this encounter. But as it is, there’s only the soft dappling of a late sun to give them an air of hushed understanding. Longclaw has driven his quarry from her cover, tasted the salt of her flesh and found it tempting. She, in turn, had neither shied nor reprimanded him but all the same has culled a piece of his nature from the encounter and holds it now in examination - her humorless eyes speak volumes long before her question proves his assessment of her right.

They are not afraid, then, of each other; only afraid of what they yet can’t understand: that they are inherently the same: Hidden and forgotten.

Hers is an external ability; it cloaks her now and leaves her suspended, head and neck, above the forest floor. His is less apparent but still the same. “I’m cursed.” He tells her briskly, a bitter edge honing the phrase. How could she ever understand, how could he ever make her understand that the fire was him, but not him? The stallion she rounds on now is only another manifestation of what was once a much more innocent Longclaw.

But that Longclaw doesn’t matter anymore, he’s hidden and forgotten, if you remember.

“What’s your name anyways, little ghost-girl?” He pushes, the infliction of his tone giving the impression that nothing had ever gone unanswered for him. In the same manner his brutish desire, fueled by her earlier acceptance of his unwarranted ‘examination’, drives him to return to her side where he trails blue lips over an invisible body. She’s tangible, then; not truly gone as she would appear. Still mortal flesh, just cloaked in resplendent obscurity. Longclaw withdraws with mild satisfaction over this new discovery. “Or are you a nobody like me?”

With trepidation he swallows, tilts a handsomely shaped head back into her line of sight, and lets his ever-green eyes connect wholly with her own. “I … I want to kill you.” The iridescent shifter whispers - and though he hardly knows what he’s saying, truth reflects itself in every word. But his eyes, so pained and distorted with the disgusting irony of it all, say more: “I found you, little hidden thing, little forgotten thing. I found you and I want you for my own, if you truly have no fear.”

Longclaw

ooc: she is sparking hella muse