06-03-2018, 03:58 PM
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While they scheme and rape and steal and burn, she eats.
Her mouths still cannot grab ahold of their slippery language, although her mind might be able to understand it with time. She is intelligent under the armored planes of her body, despite how feral she is in nature. They can speak eloquently among one another, snatching children from their mothers to torture them like disposable ants, but she finds herself not so easily entertained with their talk.
Sometimes, it is as the saying goes: All bark and no bite.
She consists of the components of a bite and it’s shown in the unashamed way her mouths bury themselves in the ribcage of the doe. The meat is tender and warm, appeasing to her tongues and stomach, but when she hears the low snort of a Prey and the scent of him among the bitter tang of blood, her face draws away from her meal. Two dark eyes watch the emerald-Prey.
He is from the first day here.
He’d interested her, when she first slipped into the shade of the yellow-orange forest, and he interests her now. Dagger-sharp tail flicks against her heels in two quick swipes, curiosity almost tangible as a taste along her jawline, mingling with blood and bone and meat. She keeps quiet, offering no welcoming chitter, as he skirts around her to the shadow of a pine-tree.
Something is being made.
The moisture from the trees and ground pulls away from its resting place, winding through the air like a visible breeze. A soft exhale of air leaves her nostrils in quiet wonder and she takes two steps closer to the emerald-Prey, eyes focusing on the liquid as it moves to form a shape with a bitter point at the end. There is the sound of leaves scattering then, as the fawn opens it sleepy eyes to find danger poised above it.
The gurgling of the fawn’s attempts at water-invaded breaths finally draws a sound from her mouth. It’s pleased and somewhat awestruck, a complicated twitter that sounds half-bird and half-alien. Her intelligent eyes are trained on him now, not moving from his pearl-and-emerald face even as she steps closer.
Has he done this for you?
She stops within his personal space, armored crown tangling with the tree’s branches above their heads. She wonders, for a moment, if he will shy away from her close proximity. Her shoulder brushes against his own, inky dark armor sliding against splashed, soft hide. She’ll accept his offering, even though her belly is full from the feast of this young Prey’s mother. She buries the fawn, there below the pine tree it had just been sleeping beneath, and then turns toward the emerald-Prey with her knees muddied and her face bloodied.
Follow me.
Still in close contact, she touches the curve of his neck (the pulse of blood under his skin calls to the drive for a hunt within her; she can practically taste the sweetness of his life-force in her mouths) and turns to slip into the shadows. Whether he follows or not, she moves forward. The place she is going she will go to with or without him.
While the coolness of a cavern calls to the emerald-Prey, the darkness of a thicket calls to the Predator. She’s been raised among bramble and decomposition and natural fortification, thus her home is a large entanglement of such things set in a corner of Sylva’s autumn-forest. There’s a dark hole, large enough for her massive shape to slide through but hidden by features of dripping vines and the overhanging branches from a substantial weeping willow tree.
With another whispering tune, low and husky against the backdrop of the forest’s sounds, she disappears into the shadows. The interior of the thicket is wide and smells thickly of her (an acidic tang mingling with the bitterness of blood and the musk of forest), but when she slides out from the opening there will be plenty of room for the Prey to enter.
The floor is dark and earthy, yet pushed to one corner is a high pile of various decomposing skeletons. For the most part, their tissue and the fabric that used to cloak them has been stripped away, engulfed by her hunger, but some straggling pieces remain. There’s the slenderness of a fox nestled closely with the agility of a doe, but many species of Prey lie in the pile as well.
She thinks he will find the morbidity of her trophies enthralling. Her head twists toward him, intelligent eyes finding his own. Will he be the one to find her home interestingly addicting or entirely disgusting? Can he stomach her?
Her mouths still cannot grab ahold of their slippery language, although her mind might be able to understand it with time. She is intelligent under the armored planes of her body, despite how feral she is in nature. They can speak eloquently among one another, snatching children from their mothers to torture them like disposable ants, but she finds herself not so easily entertained with their talk.
Sometimes, it is as the saying goes: All bark and no bite.
She consists of the components of a bite and it’s shown in the unashamed way her mouths bury themselves in the ribcage of the doe. The meat is tender and warm, appeasing to her tongues and stomach, but when she hears the low snort of a Prey and the scent of him among the bitter tang of blood, her face draws away from her meal. Two dark eyes watch the emerald-Prey.
He is from the first day here.
He’d interested her, when she first slipped into the shade of the yellow-orange forest, and he interests her now. Dagger-sharp tail flicks against her heels in two quick swipes, curiosity almost tangible as a taste along her jawline, mingling with blood and bone and meat. She keeps quiet, offering no welcoming chitter, as he skirts around her to the shadow of a pine-tree.
Something is being made.
The moisture from the trees and ground pulls away from its resting place, winding through the air like a visible breeze. A soft exhale of air leaves her nostrils in quiet wonder and she takes two steps closer to the emerald-Prey, eyes focusing on the liquid as it moves to form a shape with a bitter point at the end. There is the sound of leaves scattering then, as the fawn opens it sleepy eyes to find danger poised above it.
The gurgling of the fawn’s attempts at water-invaded breaths finally draws a sound from her mouth. It’s pleased and somewhat awestruck, a complicated twitter that sounds half-bird and half-alien. Her intelligent eyes are trained on him now, not moving from his pearl-and-emerald face even as she steps closer.
Has he done this for you?
She stops within his personal space, armored crown tangling with the tree’s branches above their heads. She wonders, for a moment, if he will shy away from her close proximity. Her shoulder brushes against his own, inky dark armor sliding against splashed, soft hide. She’ll accept his offering, even though her belly is full from the feast of this young Prey’s mother. She buries the fawn, there below the pine tree it had just been sleeping beneath, and then turns toward the emerald-Prey with her knees muddied and her face bloodied.
Follow me.
Still in close contact, she touches the curve of his neck (the pulse of blood under his skin calls to the drive for a hunt within her; she can practically taste the sweetness of his life-force in her mouths) and turns to slip into the shadows. Whether he follows or not, she moves forward. The place she is going she will go to with or without him.
While the coolness of a cavern calls to the emerald-Prey, the darkness of a thicket calls to the Predator. She’s been raised among bramble and decomposition and natural fortification, thus her home is a large entanglement of such things set in a corner of Sylva’s autumn-forest. There’s a dark hole, large enough for her massive shape to slide through but hidden by features of dripping vines and the overhanging branches from a substantial weeping willow tree.
With another whispering tune, low and husky against the backdrop of the forest’s sounds, she disappears into the shadows. The interior of the thicket is wide and smells thickly of her (an acidic tang mingling with the bitterness of blood and the musk of forest), but when she slides out from the opening there will be plenty of room for the Prey to enter.
The floor is dark and earthy, yet pushed to one corner is a high pile of various decomposing skeletons. For the most part, their tissue and the fabric that used to cloak them has been stripped away, engulfed by her hunger, but some straggling pieces remain. There’s the slenderness of a fox nestled closely with the agility of a doe, but many species of Prey lie in the pile as well.
She thinks he will find the morbidity of her trophies enthralling. Her head twists toward him, intelligent eyes finding his own. Will he be the one to find her home interestingly addicting or entirely disgusting? Can he stomach her?
@[Maugrim]