@throned continuation of this
There is a wolf. A girl. Find the line between.
Raw excitement fills his skull. The air is gore-thick and red misted. His face twitches. Lips pull back, and bare white, white teeth. A meal, still steaming, hangs from the claws of his best-beloved. Mercenary dogs skitter around them, warmblooded beasts his best has convinced him are not prey. Yet.
Picky eaters. They are not a threat to the feast, so he pays them no mind. Four lungs fill deep with the rich warm stench of innards rent open. It will feed a hunger.
The gore falls from the claw, and a bright joy overtakes -- Tiris, yes. Here is a chickenscratch delineation. Tactile and practical; the wolf cares little for suffering, and all for meat. He is on the corpse before it hits the ground. Muzzle-deep in its chest, chasing the body heat. Warmth soaks him to the bone. A rib cracks between his jaws.
A face deep in gore; another, fixed on their best. Mograine.
( his heart in your jaws, his gore clotting your teeth. him, yours. are you in love or hunger? )
Zoen blinks hard as he settles back into his own skin. He is grinning -- cannot stop if he tries (you do). Tiris’ happiness covers him like a haze. It lightens his step as he saunters around the wreckage. Her Highlord and his pathetic little matchstick entourage are a messy bunch.
“ Why, the salvation of all mankind, of course! ” she proclaims when she remembers the shape of words. She flips her hair regally, and catches a champion’s gaze. “ Barring a few specimens, here and there. ”
Brave little bug -- it holds her gaze with a glare of its own. Zoen’s smile grows pointed, and she looks away. There in the mud -- a diamond. The head of a man’ari lay some feet from the rest of its corpse, the body ravaged by plague and frost. But its horns are unbroken, and she can see scratched onto them the sigil Grimm told her about.
" And if in the process I get to lord my successes over... oh the list goes on... why, that's just economical. "
She plucks the head from the dross, beaming at its slack face. Tiris approaches Mograine with a bone, daring him to try to wrest it from his mighty jaws. It hardly matters where the joy originates -- it is theirs, all of them, as all good things should be.
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