06-28-2018, 02:23 PM
it was a blood-soaked feast
that never ceased
that never ceased
Crevan’s advances cause the Finisher’s nostrils to flutter interestedly. The algae and pearl stallion treks a bit closer to their captive - somehow feeling almost protective over her wellbeing (in the most unkind sense of the word) - but at the same time, curious to see what the wolf is capable of. He had already seen the agility and skill the predator has when it came to the chase and is rather pleased that Crevan is more than capable of making Sylva’s thoughts known in such an eloquent way. Maugrim had always been bad with words, feigning charm and wit when needed and abandoning those traits the moment they became useless to him. Like now, when the victim is powerless and with no plausible way to escape, and the deepest darkness within his soul trickles to the surface, manifesting itself in the blackness of his roving eyes and the delectable twitching of his damp, two-toned flesh.
The flash of teeth and the immediate scent of blood on the air pulls a smile onto the stallion’s pale lips, the skin cracking from the sudden movement. Her screams riddle the forest, luscious and sweet as they give way to moans of burning pain, her blood trickling like water into the now completely still lake that keeps her pinned to the ground, the water level rising slightly to kiss at her shoulder and flank, lipping generously at the now visible muscle and tendon that Crevan so maliciously exposed. Maugrim doesn’t make them bleed - he doesn’t enjoy getting their blood on him, but watching it unfold before him was a truly succulent spectacle. A shiver runs down his spine as he steps forward, his forelegs dragging across the water as his dark gaze roving the wound with a hungry and sadistic smile.
Of course, she ruins it. They always ruin it.
Her voice comes slippery from her throat, somehow still full of pride and arrogance with each sound. Maugrim grimaces, his lips rippling unpleasantly as the smile fades, ears falling against the smooth curve of his muscled neck. Her threats are empty (rubbish, useless - can’t she see?) and even with a chunk of her shoulder missing she is still in complete denial of her current situation. It’s pathetic and Maugrim had no sympathy for those who cannot understand the reality of their circumstances. He closes his eyes as they roll upwards in exasperation, inhaling deeply to command the water to rise ever higher, reaching her neck and throat to pin her to the bank even more. The water progresses across the part of her face that is in the mud, lapping teasingly at the part of her mouth that is still exposed. “Such confidence - ” he manages with a terrible voice, dark and slow as it leaves his mouth in vexation, “such confidence will not matter if you are dead.”
When you are dead.
“Perhaps you should take the tongue next, Crevan?” Maugrim’s head tilts at his own question, a quizzical snort leaving his nostrils.
The flash of teeth and the immediate scent of blood on the air pulls a smile onto the stallion’s pale lips, the skin cracking from the sudden movement. Her screams riddle the forest, luscious and sweet as they give way to moans of burning pain, her blood trickling like water into the now completely still lake that keeps her pinned to the ground, the water level rising slightly to kiss at her shoulder and flank, lipping generously at the now visible muscle and tendon that Crevan so maliciously exposed. Maugrim doesn’t make them bleed - he doesn’t enjoy getting their blood on him, but watching it unfold before him was a truly succulent spectacle. A shiver runs down his spine as he steps forward, his forelegs dragging across the water as his dark gaze roving the wound with a hungry and sadistic smile.
Of course, she ruins it. They always ruin it.
Her voice comes slippery from her throat, somehow still full of pride and arrogance with each sound. Maugrim grimaces, his lips rippling unpleasantly as the smile fades, ears falling against the smooth curve of his muscled neck. Her threats are empty (rubbish, useless - can’t she see?) and even with a chunk of her shoulder missing she is still in complete denial of her current situation. It’s pathetic and Maugrim had no sympathy for those who cannot understand the reality of their circumstances. He closes his eyes as they roll upwards in exasperation, inhaling deeply to command the water to rise ever higher, reaching her neck and throat to pin her to the bank even more. The water progresses across the part of her face that is in the mud, lapping teasingly at the part of her mouth that is still exposed. “Such confidence - ” he manages with a terrible voice, dark and slow as it leaves his mouth in vexation, “such confidence will not matter if you are dead.”
When you are dead.
“Perhaps you should take the tongue next, Crevan?” Maugrim’s head tilts at his own question, a quizzical snort leaving his nostrils.
m a u g r i m.
@[Crevan] @[wound]