forget all the names we used to know
He bleeds; chokes. The sound of bubbling air gasping through the holes she rips fresh into his neck are sickening, until she presses the gaping wounds closed with a stifling paw. One black foot maims him, indents him until he thinks his larynx might snap but as the black edges of his vision close in, Crevan hears her mock him.
“I could be your mama.” Thana croons.
“Oh fuck no.” He thinks. With a surge of frightening power Crevan shifts, trembling as he expands and grows in height and weight. Gryffen’s dame has forced him into this corner - he hadn’t wanted it, wished instead that they might have found their differences more aligned but this … this was too sickening for him to handle in his weakened state. Fleshed out, Crevan jerks upright; the stream of blood from his open wounds painting bright, crimson strokes along the convex tilt of his thick neck. He cares little if his reaction has upended Thana, he only wishes to be far away from the devil she harbors in her black soul.
He can only think to turn a wide-jaw head in her direction, open his mouth and sputter coughing flame to keep her from nearing him again. “Don’t you -” He starts, dribbling bloody matter and small sparks from his downturned lips as he struggles to move backwards.
Again, he opens his mouth. Again he pours liquid flame from his throat, arcing it to try and create a physical barrier between them. The wind howls, Thana’s creation whirls in a tempest storm of dark earth and rock, and Crevan is frantic in his wish to simply cut the two of them apart by force and fire. Thana, (damn her, DAMN her!) has succeeded in using his own tactic against him.
He hates the prick of that damn needle. Hates the word she throws so mockingly at him. Hates her.
Blinking, Crevan turns and makes for the darkened heart of his homeland with only his eyes to guide him as his ears fall back to where he leaves her. The Nightmother, he thinks, won’t hunt him. She’s won.
She’s won.
revan