☾ ill met by moonlight;

[ulfhrafnxa]

She’s quick in both pace and wit, leaping over creeks and bounding across plains of blood stained grass, the scent of life freshly taken, the sounds of panic in the distance, far too overwhelming to ignore. This territory is hers. This hold her home– and no man nor beast would threaten what she’d worked so hard to nurture.

Still this is not one of her own, that much she was certain of, and Lira was no fool, anything fueled by ferocity alone, that killed for the sake of sport rather than survival was no laughing matter, and approaching such a creature without caution would be unwise. It is for this reason and more that the shield maiden does not traverse the fields of Whiterun alone, Aela at the heel of the raven haired wolf, bow at the ready and a plan of attack soon to be set in motion. 

Slowing to a complete halt the moment the meadery is within sight she takes a knee, unsheathes her blade and summons a handful of embers. “ I will need you to drive the beast as far into the woods as you can. If this is to work, we can not have any interference. Keep a fair distance– no matter what happens.“ With an affectionate pat of her shield sister’s shoulder, she proceeds into mass hysteria. Beast blood boiling with the influence of her beloved moon, the thrill of battle shifting eyes once as vibrant as the greenery surrounding, to an unnatural shade of amber.

[tragicxmonster]

        Desperately, Sinding’s consciousness fights against the walls of the beast’s wild and ravenous mind. But he can’t deny the alluring strength of teeth and claws, the quick, powerful body with endless amounts of stamina. So he doesn’t change back into a man, and it’s not a bad decision, because he would have been killed right then and there.

        Some werewolves can control the gift, becoming one with the beast. The affliction is as erratic as his transformations. Some nights, he has more control over his own mind. He can enjoy shamelessly romping around, hunting and stalking. When he must feed, he’ll take the bandits over the innocent. He’ll devour the elk if it will suffice until the temptations push him towards other living flesh. Tonight isn’t one of those nights, and there’s more innocent blood on his hands than he wants. His mind is a confused mix of anger, hunger and fear.

        When the guards flee at the roar thundering through the air, the instinct to chase jerks in his gut. However, the beast’s feverish yellow eyes settle on movement further away. Two more warriors have sprinted towards the scene, perhaps to challenge the beast like those guards. The violent points of his ears stand up in alert as he catches familiar words, almost calling to the man within. Shaking free the anxiety, the wolf watches and waits.

        A superior nose scents the pheromone excitement of another wolf coming to face him, igniting his veins again. Lips curl back as hot, heavy breaths rumble in his barrel chest. Then, the wolf decides to leap into battle, snarling with each inhale and exhale, blood on the mind. Embers flicker from her hand, and though part of him wants to be wary of the potential burn, his blood is running hot, too violent to back down just yet. 

           Then, metal whistles and cuts the air as a barrage of arrows strike him from further away. His hide is tough, just like any werewolf’s, but it is not immune to the sharp points of arrows coming from several meters away. Barking and snarling in protest, he doesn’t have time to pick them or shake them free. These warriors are better armed than the petty guards, encouraging the wolf’s excitement for a good hunt. At the same time, it needs coverage if it wants to take them down. The slip-up will cost him, giving her more time to attack. Powerful thighs ripple as he stands on hind legs, fiercely swiping with clawed hands. At that instant, Sinding’s mind snaps into focus, and even if he’s attacked again, abruptly turns tail to flee into the forest, well aware of the she-wolf at his heels.

[tragicxmonster]

mineforged:

@tragicxmonster.

      ❛ WELL, well—- what’s this all ‘bout? ❜ Head tilted upwards towards the sky, Vunrr settles his gaze on the rather large stranger before him, arms crossed over a narrow chest. He’s not sure of what to do; not yet. Hands wander to the dagger and axe resting at his side, tempted to give them a spin or two. ❛ Say, friend, you doin’ alright? Not lookin’ too well. ❜

        It’s a life the former mercenary had grown accustomed to -- keeping to himself, living quietly. Sleeping at the inns whenever he’s in town, though briefly, and never staying for more than a couple nights. Camping out in the wilderness when the moons become fuller. He’s had to change his lifestyle, and he will always be ashamed of the powerful instincts accompanying the transformations. 

        He’s been careful, but Sinding isn’t perfect. That’s why he blanches somewhat, when a local seizes his arm and confronts him on the murder of a little girl in Falkreath. “A man matching your description escaped from the prison”, he growls. His brows furrow slightly, trying to hide the pain. The man can’t know how much it bothers him to think about losing control like that; only an agonizing death would suit monsters like him. But the man also can’t prove anything, he isn’t willing to go back to prison. It seems like the best thing to do right now, is attempt to avert his attention, or flee again.

        Terrible timing is what it is, when another stranger passes them by, having overheard the confrontation. He looks like he’s anything but wet behind the ears regarding fighting, and Sinding’s eyes dart from the unarmed man, to the warrior. All of the tension has caused his heart to leap and bound. A bead of perspiration sits on his temple, rolling beneath the dirty blond hair.

        “You are mistaken,” he responds, trying to sound assertive rather than nervous. “There’s a dozen nords around here that look like me. This stranger’s right, I’ve been sick with rockjoint. I may look awful, but I’m no ... child-murderer.” Lord Hircine must be laughing at him, and Sinding almost hesitates, tempted to take it back and just come out with the truth. 

[tragicxmonster]

        When a traveler passes the great stone tower of a bandit camp, he isn’t expecting the hot, nauseating smell of sopping copper to invade his nose. It’s better to move quick without drawing attention and having to fight, he thinks. The smell fades as he puts more distance between himself and the camp, but the maimed and devoured bodies are hard to miss. It may just be a bunch of dead bandits, but whatever did this, isn’t man. And it’s too close to Whiterun. 

        By the next morning, all guards have been warned about a potential wild bear in the area. They grouse and joke about keeping an eye out, but superstitious people will always start rumors of something worse. The howling at night sends even the most vigilant guard into a cold chill, talking about werewolves swooping in to feed on the unwary. Within the next three days, word spreads to the Companions, but there’s no work for them when no one knows whether the beast is still around. 

        The following night reveals both moons in full, glimmering beauty. The night sky is quietly serene, until a blood-curdling cry shatters the peace.

        High panic to the northeast, just in front of Honningbrew Meadery. Three dead bandits and two guards slaughtered, armor shredded like paper. The beast, tremendous, larger than any bear, unleashes a warlike snarl at the group of guards running towards it. The wolf doesn’t care what it kills, as long as there are fresh hearts and hot blood to feast on. It’s instincts overpower the tiny, anxious fears of the inner man. He doesn’t have the control to turn and flee -- Hircine’s ring never helped anything, and he’s just interested in feeding.

@ulfhrafnx

[bulletsofbrutality-deactivated2]

When he heard a voice directed towards him, he hesitated with taking another sip of his drink. Slowly, he turned his head, his brown eyes narrowed at the disheveled looking stranger. However, from the types he had seen in the pub before, this man was actually in much better shape. Wondering if it was amnesia, since people didn’t just end up here with no recollection of where they were, Erron answered calmly, his eyes watching the other carefully. “Outworld.”  If the guy wanted the name of the bar, well, Erron couldn’t recall. He’d have to get up and go outside to view the sign. Hopefully, this man knew how to read, because Black didn’t feel like babysitting.  “Let me guess. You’re from Earthrealm?”

[tragicxmonster]

        Sinding can’t say he expected a friendlier reaction, especially when he must seem like an outsider and a lost stranger. The man wasn’t dressed like any warrior he’d seen. Heightened senses caught a faint whiff of what he could associate with smoke and metal. At least the man bothers to give him an answer, but the unfamiliar name left him more bewildered and worried. 

        Beginning to frown in confusion and disbelief, the nord’s brows furrowed.

        “I’ve never heard of Earthrealm. Or this place, for that matter. I must have ... lost track of how far I traveled. I had been in Falkreath, part of Skyrim.” There’s no way he could have possibly traveled out of Skyrim. Unless his lord had something to do with it. “Are you certain this isn’t a part of Hammerfell or Cyrodiil?”

[gubletoffire]

[tragicxmonster]

The prey is strong…

[tragicxmonster]

ofvolkihar:

@tragicxmonster:

Your muse roughly grabs my muse’s arm.

Whatever reason this stranger had for grabbing hold of him so roughly, Harkon certainly hoped it was a worthy one. 

❝What? If you wish to keep your hand, you will take if off of me.❞

        The reaction was instantaneous and entirely instinctive. Something within him trembled with hungry anticipation, recognizing the scent of a powerful vampire. In his travels, he had encountered a few in the wilderness. But this man was different. The affliction made him want to hunt at the worst times, such as now, for instance. It’s as though Hircine was encouraging him to take on bigger game; appease him.

        “I--am sorry,” he responded with some hesitation, dropping his grip and reluctantly backtracking. Every fiber of his being howled in protest. “I thought I recognized you.” A poor excuse. He doesn’t blame him for being offended and indignant, and if Sinding could have half a minute to retreat, he wouldn’t see his face again. However, the beast blood had different plans, as he started to look visibly uncomfortable; slightly wincing as his chest began to ache. 

[tragicxmonster]

Originally posted by rainydarksky

[bulletsofbrutality-deactivated2]

With his mask to the side, Erron brought a cup of bourbon to his lips, perched on the stool to the farthest side of the pub to decrease his chances of being spotted. He planned on getting tipsy, since he hadn’t been drunk in a while. He missed that feeling of carelessness. 

[tragicxmonster]

        There’s no telling how far he wandered and how long he’s been unconscious. To any passerby, he may appear as a homeless man slouched outside of the pub, wearing nothing but a pair of tattered pants. Sometimes the man’s consciousness doesn’t have enough control to seep into the feverish yellow eyes of the beast, to map out the landscape. It would rather register scent and sound, hungry for living prey. Vaguely, he can recall galloping through the thick forests of Falkreath, muscles trembling while sloshing into cold rivers. Hot, bittersweet blood pouring down his throat and soaking into his face. His body quivered in anticipation, despite having recently recovered. 

        For all he knows, lord Hircine could be playing games with him. Punishing him, even. Wiping the sweaty grime from his face, his body ached when he dragged himself to his feet. Petty, overworked human muscles. Beneath him, he didn’t recall seeing a trench coat. The specks of blood inside tell him the original owner was killed, possibly devoured. Pushing aside his sickened anguish and guilt, the nordic warrior tugged the leather coat around his shoulders and groped around the pockets for any sort of currency. 

        He may not visit the brothels too often, particularly with his affliction, but he recognizes the interior well enough. Somehow, it looks more extravagant and better equipped than any place he had seen around Falkreath. The realization he may possibly be somewhere farther across Skyrim, stresses him a little. Even on the full moon, he can at least make out where he is when he recovers. Hesitating, and not wanting to look too lost, he finally wandered towards the edge of the pub, searching for a place to sit. It’s by accident he finds a man silently sipping on his drink.

        “Excuse me,” he started, briefly thinking to himself whether he was making the right or wrong decision in picking out this stranger. “Might you be able to tell me where I am?”

[tragicxmonster]

                                      C O M E   T O   G A W K   A T

                                        THE MONSTER?

[s-ilverbloodarchive-blog]

“Should our paths cross again, I will remember your kindness.”

[tragicxmonster]

        The forests around Falkreath are dense with tall pine trees, smelling of damp wood and needles from the morning rain. More often than not, an overcast sky hangs down over everything, casting a dreary glow across the village. A bit further out, are the snow-capped mountains. Plenty of areas for the wild animals to be seeking refuge, or perhaps even lying in wait for feeble prey. 

        Just outside of the village, meandering uphill alongside the dirt road, is a man who looks like he makes his living begging people to give up a septim or two. With dirty blond strands caked to his face, only wearing a pair of tattered pants with questionable brown stains. He glances at the only other traveler, realizing he has caught their gaze.

        “You ought to find a room, it’s not a good day for traveling.”

[skyrimtourist]

[tragicxmonster]

HOWL

Ima make a deal with the bad wolf so the bad wolf don’t bite no more

Ima make a deal with the bad wolf so the bad wolf don’t bite no more

[tragicxmonster]

❖ fumes.

[all-the-muse-blog]

For Baiken, moments of rest had always been requisites to the lifestyle; short-lived, but routinely practiced, like the necessary charge time of a spent battery.  They were a deliberate, meditative, regularly enforced practice — to force herself to lay down the blade and rest her over-zealous bones for, say, one day — to insist upon one solid, uninterrupted day of relative calm, in the midst of living like a wildfire.  And so she had taken them, like doses of sobering medicine, with the pensive gravity of a day of remembrance, dwelt on little more than the preservation of her sanity, and then, punctually, moved on again.

But it had been a long time since she had felt relaxed without the forceful hand of fatigue or a sickening amount of alcohol to facilitate the process.

Hidan had sulked at first, like a peevish child not allowed to play outside.  But she had begun to learn to differentiate the moods of his which would pass if ignored from those which would build, and had found that, stubbornly tolerated but never humored, this one had passed. And, lulled by the lazy loops of smoke from the kiseru, the scent of the hair-fine tobacco, eventually, Hidan too had fallen beneath the spell of relaxation.

She had heard it said that to take a lover was to have them always on one’s mind. Never a day, never a waking moment but that their face came to one’s mind.  But for Baiken, it was moments like this, in which the weight of his head in her lap, his arm about her legs, caused hardly a batting of the lash, hardly the realization that anything other than a part of her own body had touched her — so much, that she was almost surprised to look down and see his face — that meant to her the most.  The click of metal between his teeth.  The taste of tobacco moist in her mouth and dry in the air. She couldn’t help but feel the satisfaction of being partners in crime, the security felt in the languid moment amplified by the dangerous that waited beyond their locked door.

Fingers drifted languidly through his hair.  A vaguely tender feeling. Her gaze returned to the glowing bar of light slanting across the wooden floors as twirling plumes of smoke tickled her skin.  With half a smile, she looked down at him, carefully removing the kiseru from his mouth, half-convinced he really had drifted off to sleep. “Don’t drop ashes on yourself…”

With a chuckle, she drew a breath from the pipe, and pushed the ring of smoke past her lips with a roll of the tongue, before returning to stroking his hair, the pipe resting between her teeth.

[tragicxmonster]

He also felt relieved that neither of them had to explain why they were lulled into this serenity. What mattered was the welcome, comfortable warmth rather than rejection. It wasn't the tobacco, though he was ready to blame that if she commented on his affectionate gentleness. Voicing emotions, especially when they were related to feeling so sedated by this, was never his forte. And by now, he realized that it didn't matter.

Breath gradually hissed between parted teeth, faint plumes of smoke rolling from his mouth and nostrils. A shiver of pleasure tingled from his scalp and down his spine at the sensation of fingers gently combing through his hair. Usually, it was him toying with her faint plum locks. Silky when washed, matted with sweat and blood when they had a long day. There was a guttural noise that was too faint; an attempt to chuckle at the meaning of her words. Ashes burned for a second, then they could be brushed off. 

"Yeah right," he murmured drowsily. 

When the kiseru seemed to gently drift away like the layer of smoke sitting in the room, he turned his head with a grunt. Skin bristled. "Nnh. Oi, Baiken, you can really be gentle when you try, y'know?" He taunted, the highly amused grin evident in his tone. His lips were rough and chapped, and pressed a dry kiss to the smoothness of her skin.

[tragicxmonster]

❖ fumes.

A golden hue with undertones of crimson stretched a vertical line across the room. It crawled over the sleek floorboards and up the jade wall, giving a faint glow to the cheap Japanese painting hanging there. The curtains were slightly drawn, the way they had been upon paying for the room. Autumn afternoon had begun to approach. Blankets rustled and trailed a short distance to the floor. There was a low, contented murmur and he crawled down to recline in her lap. He stretched, winced in satisfaction, and slid an arm under her bare thighs. Looped under, his hand rested against the smooth skin and his head nestled against them like a pillow.

Serenity had only been accomplished by an hour or two of religious meditation, unless dead to the world by sleep. Otherwise they didn't have the opportunity to relax like this very often, with the sweet fumes of pipe tobacco lingering, so alluring. It was like how he would imagine yoga. Though yoga was a bunch of pansy bullshit, a practice for old people. His muscles still felt like sandbags, nonetheless; couldn't sit up and he didn't have the desire to. The vapor of smoke that streamed from his parted lips was languid and formless in comparison to the rings Baiken could make. He watched it delicately crash against the ceiling, billows uncurling and dissolving into the thin layer of fog that lingered in the room. Then his half-lidded eyes flicked to the face above him. This was a welcome change from little squabbles. Even Hidan could enjoy a calm silence, despite how much more he enjoyed his blood boiling and running out onto the ground.

He had never been an alcoholic, wary about earning Jashin's wrath if he started averting his attention from human sacrifices and a pious way of living. Being intoxicated by these moments, though, he wouldn't mind if it happened more often. His head turned against her lap, cheek pressed into taut muscles. Today had been another day of traveling. They found a traditional Japanese colony and she explained it to him while they passed some familiar architecture and statues. He understood she had grown up in one before that man killed her family. If it was Jashin's will; spreading the word where ever he went and slaughtering the heretics, then he didn't care where they went.

Except there wouldn't be any killing today, unless a threat happened by. He was disappointed and had brooded a bit, displaying his displeasure until he forgot about it and now here they were. But being a masochist, though perhaps he didn't realize it, he pushed his impulses to the limit; charming a few naive young people, dabbling with the idea of just slicing their throats open then and there. Baiken wouldn't have forgiven him for a while, then they would be fighting and sulking at each other for a week. He decided the sacrifices could wait.

The kiseru clicked between his teeth as his jaw slowly worked against the metal, tasting the sweet tobacco with each gradual rise and fall of his chest. His eyes drifted shut.

[tragicxmonster]

☠ anger song: four initials. @mockingbird

[reflexiions-blog]

Two days had passed so far.

Where was he? 

Ohhh, where was he?

The sound of footsteps echoed through the empty halls as Toto explored. Ganta had gone missing after the incident that had left his fellow Deadmen broken and useless. The others were being taken out one by one. It was a pity but in his state he could do nothing! Despite himself, his lover’s vow wasn’t strong enough to put an end this. Ah, not that it mattered. Really, the fallen Deadmen were of no use to him anyway… Their Branches of Sin were already preserved. And so! For now, Toto was simply searching for where the Deadman who probably caused all of this.

Ganta Igarashi. 

“… ☆”

His search currently had no leads. That Shiro… She was clever, wasn’t she? Had she known the boy was in danger? Did she hide him? Silly girl.. Hiding a traitor like that. Not that Toto thought such things, of course.

If anything, he was quite fascinated by what had happened.

“Hmm…?”

It seemed that his fascination would have to wait awhile. Eventually, the Deadman came across something interesting. He’d just been passing by… Chances are, he would have just continued without showing any interest in this particular room. But something caught his attention! Well.. Not something. 

Someone.

“Aha! ☆ Crow!”

Senji was greeted with nothing less than the brightest of smiles. Oh wait… Whoops, was this a bad time? Senji seemed rather.. Angry. Which was to be expected.. Probably. A trusted friend almost had him killed, after all! Relationships were a funny thing, huh? Why put so much trust into another person? Ah, well… Perhaps Senji could be useful somehow. Even if he proved to be amusing for awhile to distract Toto from the discouraging feeling the came with not being able to locate a silly girl and her friend. 

Toto skipped into the room, taking a simple precaution by keeping his distance for the time being. Generally, no precaution should be necessary. Unlike the other, Toto was fast. Fast enough to avoid a broken Deadman. Curious eyes wandered over the other man, a grin replacing the false smile. 

“Ahh… Ne, Crow? You look so beat up! And yet here you are… Impressive! Haha. ♪”

[tragicxmonster]

With his gaze broodingly fixed on the wall across from him, his mind continued to gradually reach a state between anger and stoicism. He couldn't be completely calm or collected, not until he grasped what had happened and why. It wasn't really Senji's thing, anyway. He liked his blood hot; ready for a fight, a challenge. But there was a difference between excited for battle, and incensed, nearly rage-blind, wanting to demand answers.

His good arm lifted a 60lb dumbbell and the only sounds in the room were metal weights clinking together and his deep, controlled breathing. Until someone approached the door with a familiar spring in their step. They always brought with them a flamboyant aura and somewhat irritating narcissism. But Senji was always confident in himself, too. The Mockingbird may be quick with several advantages in battle, and Senji saw that as a worthy challenge.

"Beat up?" He turned, grinning with a half-loathing and challenging expression. "I don't need two arms to fuck up anyone and have myself an exciting fight." A short, guttural laugh that sounded more like a growl when he lifted the weight again. "My bones may break, but I don't." He deadpanned. "You here to get your ass kicked for stealing my Branch of Sin?"

[tragicxmonster]

☠ anger song: four initials. @mockingbird

Still roiling over the latest events of Carnival Corpse, Senji could be found at his usual haunt, the weight room. Working himself into a state of exhaustion was the only way to calm down, otherwise he might go find that kid and cleave through his stupid little head. Though, the brat went MIA anyway; whoever moved him while he recovered was smart. Ganta was too oblivious to go into hiding by himself, and Senji suspected he wouldn't try.

No, despite the impending, murderous rage of several Deadmen, Ganta would want to apologize or somehow atone for the shit he pulled. Senji didn't think he could spare forgiveness this time around. He had been soft enough. A lot of Deadmen were calling the Woodpecker a traitor, he wasn't sure if the kid even had the heart to betray them like that. Anger fogged his reasoning right now. 

Seeing that Ninben mask with the hateful little poem written just to provoke him into killing, coming so close to slicing up every last one of those bastards, and then seeing Ganta's spontaneous blast tear up the arena and nearly kill all of them, was a combination for distrust and grudges.

Crow, Crow and his Branch of Sin--

His fist punched the bag hard enough to make the chains squeak in protest as the powerful shock wave rippled through it. If the janitor hadn't reinforced the material, it would have burst like it did a couple times before, covering the tiles with sand. Then what? He would have dissolved into a fit of fury, slicing thick gashes up the walls and throwing weights around. It wouldn't have been the first time the weight room took damage from his frustration. 

He kept himself in check for now. Until he found Ganta again. 

"Kgh! ... hup!"

The person's head must have resembled a rotting, beaten fruit by now. He didn't know whose head he wanted it to be: Ganta or the Ninben. Then he decided it didn't matter, he just wanted to beat his anger away on this sandbag until he decided to lift weights with his good arm. After the blast, that fucking Ganbaru gun, his right arm had been crushed by chunks of concrete, broken in a couple places. 

Nearly killed us! For what, that forgery?! What--What the hell?

What the hell?!

What the hell?!

Furious, he punched the bag until he was staring at a long tear and sand slowly leaking out onto his boots. Time to switch to the dumbbell.