"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
11-14-2018, 02:47 AM (This post was last modified: 11-14-2018, 02:08 PM by Niklas.)
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
What is it they say about the devil’s tools? He is bored. It is a sentiment that he finds rather disagreeable; it crawls beneath his skin like some feral creature wild for release. The darkness hums at his hooves, an adoring pet, running long, black fingers up stick-like limbs, across the gaunt flanks and protruding ribs, a sinister lover. Like the ice on the lake’s surface the night of the first freeze, it seeps into the whites of his eyes, coaxing them into the back of his head …
When he opens his eyes again, the lanky stallion is stepping from the shadows in a strange land, insolent beneath the midday sun. It dapples his dark hide with sunlight for the briefest of moments; before the light is swallowed and the darkness prevails.
The forest, brilliant with reds and yellows, is quiet here, save for the occasional burst of birdsong and the flutter of feathers. He tilts his head, thin nostrils flared wide against unfamiliar scents. There is water nearby and this mortal body thirsts. The snow crunches underfoot, small black creatures scurrying ahead and alongside him as he slips in between the densely packed trunks, their rough bark drug against his dull coat. Ducking a snow-laden bough, he swings northeast, keeping to the shadows out of habit. His breath rises in steady clouds of vapor, bits of frost forming on the ends of his hair.
When the water source is due west, he abruptly leaves the treeline, his small black companions dispersing, their yellow eyes wide and eager. There is already a path to the shoreline and he assumes it, thin skull slung low, muzzle brushing the snow with every few steps. Someone’s been here recently – he pauses a moment to sort through the scents, before breaking the thin film of ice and drinking his fill. The darkness whispers and his head swings up and around, water dripping from his chin.
Not even the crown of the autumn forest could keep the hunger at bay. It demands to finally be fed, no longer accepting to be pushed aside by silly processes and procedures it does not understand. A king he may be now, but the instinct of a predator would always be his calling.
He was a monster with an appetite. A hunter that does not deny the joys of a hunt, whether the prey is small and big. The challenge of buckling the prey down with his limbs and body, watching it struggle with all its strength and cry out for help was worth it all. When he tastes the fresh flesh and crushed the bone between his teeth, it was sweet victory.
It was an addiction.
Any predator could not deny it.
It never could be denied.
So, he hunts.
The plague left the lands silent of prey—even the smallest of the ones would have been pleasing. Winter made it even harder to find them, buried beneath the frozen land, huddling away in holes and caves for hibernation. However, it seemed something else was to be offered onto a platter to him. So willing, so freely, in the very confinement of his forest, his kingdom.
He watches carefully from the shadows of the autumn forest. Red-yellow, hollowed eyes watching the dark creature make its way here and there with black companions (creatures of the night). The scent of a stranger brought him quickly to investigate what was happening. A stranger within his land would never go unnoticed. It was his territory and by right he would throw anyone out if he must.
When the dark stallion finally has his fill, he steps forward. Dark paws crunch against the snowy forest floor, making his appearance firmly known to the stranger from behind him. The black stallion turns, and he meets his gaze with his red-yellow eyes. His ears perk forward, curiously, and waits for a moment. A stoic expression fills his hard-chiseled canine features.
“And you are?” He growls, finally breaking the silence between them.
Sinner
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
When he turns to look up, his tongue is stuck between his lips, water dripping from his chin in time with each swallow. There’s a cloudy film that creeps over the otherwise black pit of his eyes as he finishes his drink and meets the red-yellow ones. His dark ears twisting forward, back, and then forward again. His tongue suddenly retreats. He had not called the hellhound recently. A frown skips over his brow – why was it here, in a form he does not recognize? The snow crunches underfoot when he shifts his weight, his muzzle wrinkling, sorting the questioning creature’s scent out from the surrounding wood and its residents. It is unfamiliar, but only in the sense that Niklas does not know this particular hellhound. Old blood and flesh reign supreme but there is the underlying smell, one that clings to the soul and defies all attempts to distance oneself from it. Niklas’ hazy-appearing gaze shifts over the charcoal-black fur, admiring the strength of bone, the menace, the vigor. A predator of the highest order; Niklas wonders who might be powerful enough here to control this, Hell’s (nearly) apex predators.
There is no caution in him when he slinks closer. No attention paid to the question posed, despite the unyielding growl that accompanies it. Death is an old friend; Agony, Torture, and Nightmares a truly delectable threesome. The film retreats, eyes gone brown and dull as they flick to their surroundings and back again. Still, he does not answer.
And you are? he had asked and Niklas contemplates his answer, his breath steady in his lungs, as if he had all the time in the world. The shadows leave their vegetative havens, creeping across the snow toward the duo like smoke on water. They cannot resist his magnetic pull. In their voids they leave the woods stark, naked and exposed in the waning light. They pool around his hooves, coiling and turning over one another, devoted companions.
“Niklas,” he finally answers in an unexpectedly refined voice. The name will mean nothing, most likely. He emphasizes this with a roll of his shoulders and a click of his tongue. It is not the notorious one, the one that he bore in the underworld. There, his name is well known, but that was several lifetimes ago. He drops his head - elegant, just square enough to remain masculine – to nose at the shadows twisting at his feet. “No one of particular importance.” He looks up now. “Just passing through.”
The dark hound watches the black stallion, but he does no show his attention to care so easily. He is more curious the way the black stallion looks at him. A frown of question flickers through the stallion’s features, enquiring exactly something he cannot quite point out just yet.
Perhaps this was the first time the stallion has ever seen someone like him. A creature of the darkness, from hell itself. It was not common to see such a beast. The hound has only ever known himself to be one that roams freely across Beqanna. At one time he had met a pack of hellhounds, but they were commanded by the dark-god Carnage. Servants to the darkness, chained against their own free-will.
But he was not.
He was his own master.
The silence continues to fill the air between them, but he does not fall from it. His stance is firmly held, echoing his strength within his form, but also initiating that the stallion is within his land. A leader does not fall away so easily, not when he is the shadow king of this forest.
In the corner of his eye, he catches the movement of shadows. A curious smile breaks his stoic expression; however, his new expression barely raises his lip up fully though. He will not deny his curiosity to the stranger. There was more though, something deeper than the eye could see with the dark stallion.
The shadows then turn and twist, into companions.
Sinner licks his lips with silent distaste.
Servants to the darkness, they were.
Which only meant one or two things now with this stranger, he decided. Hell has finally come to reclaim him back into the underworld, or this dark stallion was something different. But he does not press his chances to find out just yet.
His question has been finally answered.
“Niklas,” he tastes the name. It’s almost as if he should know it. The familiarity it should ring within him, to strike fear and servanthood. But it doesn’t resonate with him. He is no longer a servant to them, but a master of his own. Always.
The hound watches the way the shadows twist and turn. Answering the call of the dark-wielder. His claws dig deeper into the snow beneath his paws. “But you are something. The question is what are you exactly.” His tone is light when he speaks, but he does not leave his gaze from the other when he looks up from his shadows.
Sinner
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
