Our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow
CREVAN
The bitch could take a beating and come back for more, he’ll give her that. Sylva’s Hellraiser hadn’t been privy to the captive’s journey home, though he’d stuck as close to the rivers and waterways as he could should someone attempt to follow or intervene, so when they arrive on cue and in good time he’s already pacing by the water lord’s small haven in anticipation of their arrival.
He’s surprised she’s not dead yet, what with the amount of blood she’s lost and the time she’s spent without air. The Finisher was a talented creature indeed, and the shifter is nearly close to a compliment as the two touch dry land, but Muagrim seems to be in no real mood for things like compliments as Wound slowly comes to. The mottled green-and-lavender tinted stallion just watches her, torn from some internal debate that Crevan’s not interested in interrupting.
Whatever. They’ve each got their own quirks.
Wound’s sputtering, shaky return to consciousness takes time, enough that the wolf has settled onto his belly with both ears perked towards the sound of her shallow, ragged breaths. He can't help but admit that he enjoys the initial confusion in her glassy eyes, and he especially enjoys her attempt at rising while Maugrim forces her down again. The two would make a lovely couple, really. It’s only when realization hits her full-force that the wolf rises again, every ounce of wicked mirth or curiosity wiped clean from his face when at last, their prisoner speaks.
Hush. Maugrim’s voice answers first, clipped and tumultuous as the boiling water that suddenly springs to life around her. Being a predator himself, Crevan understands (perhaps not fully, but partially) the unsatisfied nagging of having bagged a successful kill and then being restricted from, well, killing it. Inhumane, a bit twisted, and no doubt infuriating. He lets the answer slide, and then he gives his own.
“We did exactly as we were requested to do. That’s all you need to know.” He tells her in a low voice. With a flick of his curled tail the shifter moves forward, wide paws silent through years of practise until he’s close enough to distinguish every angle and bruise on her lovely, sad face. “You’re not special, girl. No one heard your cry, no one came running after you. But if you start to forget that, start to think perhaps you might even be valued …” He says, slowing to a pause that sends his body into perfect stillness.
In the split second of a moment he lunges, letting his ragged teeth sink into a section of her exposed shoulder so that they might rip away a sizeable piece of her flesh. It happens without warning, and when he retracts his lips are rimmed with her warm blood and his cheeks are full of her body. The wolf spits Wound onto Sylvian earth, and then lifts his head once more to eye her pointedly.
“I’ll send this straight to Tephra so they’re reminded of just how expendable you are.”
@[wound]