THANA.

(as black as your soul)

  The echo of his cry reverberates throughout the dense and dimly lit forest, stirring her thrumming heart into a powerful, hammering frenzy. Adrenaline surges through her veins as the taut muscle sheathing her bone structure is raw with tension, roiling with each sweeping movement of her lithe and agile limbs. She does not remain still – the anticipation, the enthrallment has all but consumed her, leaving her giddy and laden with glee at the sheer power and force of what the breaking dawn had wrought. Deep within, there was a yearning for bloodshed that was never quite sated, never entirely quenched – she would hunger for it long after the carnage; she would always thirst for it.

  It had nothing to do with the wolf that had emerged from within her (the wolf, instead, yearned for something far different than she had ever known - comraderie, a pack; but she had always been far better off alone and on her own than she had tethered to another). She had always been an outsider, with an unwavering bloodlust and a vision of destruction, and oh, how the wraith had captured her wry and shriveled heart with a vision of his very own. She would follow him to whatever end, and she would never tire of his dark and blackened soul touching her own, drawing her nearer, keeping her closer.

  Quietly, her lissome body weaves through the woodland, hiding within the dim shadow where the sunlight could not hope to find it ways through – the ground is moist and pliable beneath her claws with each raking step; it is just as she had always preferred it. Dark, and serene – but there is an echo, a declaration booming with authority, and her wraith King had come to take what his blackened heart had always longed to have for his own. A wry and wicked smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, baring the sharp teeth behind soft and supple canine lips – and as another howl rises into the hollow of her throat, her attention is drawn away and causing her heartbeat to stammer.

  Her long and languid limbs churn forth powerfully, running with a deft swiftness that could only come from the sheer energy and force of the predator that lurked within the darkness of her sinful heart. Her gaze, an abysmal black iris beside a dreary gray, stares ahead while her pulsating heart pushes her forward with voracious and incensed need. She can hear the faint echo of Raxa, and her foul tongue, lashing out at the only one that had ever held any semblance of meaning to her – she would not stand for it, she would tear her apart, to dare stand in Gryffen’s way.

  As the distant howl of one Crevan intertwines with the wayward wind, a shiver seeps into the very marrow of her bones and traverses along the slope of her spine, as the wild and unwieldy wolf inside of her spills forth with a gaping snarl, her maw parted, her teeth bared – to assist in a hunt she had never known she craved; to protect another of her kind with claw and teeth both.

  ”YOU FOOL!” she cries at the sight of Crevan being crushed beneath Raxa, leaping forth from the overgrowth with her forelimbs splayed. Her claws are outstretched, elongated with rage, seeking to tear into the delicate underbelly of the mare so imprudently and recklessly exposing her most tantalizing and supple weakness. 

   Her teeth gnash and lash out, striving to tear her apart, to dig into her soft and pliable flesh – to spill the blood pounding so quickly through the delicate caudal epigastric artery. Should Raxa be able to draw her massive weight onto her spindly and awkward legs sooner than the predator can make its mark, despite the immense effort it would take, her teeth snap and lash again at the flattened end of her hindleg closest to her hoof, aiming to tear the tendons that lay under the roaned skin. Though it is in all possibility that she could give her less than a scratch, she is seeking to leave her with a lasting reminder of what a foolish stand could cost her.

THANA.

(as black as your soul)

  How at ease the heavily weighted and quixotically agile equine is as it maneuvers itself into a more favorable position – the rage is evident within her crystalline glare, but she cares not! Her anger is only a weakness; a vulnerability that would inevitably lead to her downfall if she were not careful. Her teeth, bared with a wry, insidious grin, are stained with her blood – only a small taste to whet the appetite, stirring a deep and voracious hunger for her demise and imminent destruction. 

   Her teeth barely scrape the underside of her belly – how she had been able to transition from prone to upright with such deft refinement is beyond her, but her teeth manage to cut through her skin – ah, but barely! Such dexterity and aptitude Raxa must have, to so easily be spared a more grievous wound from the snarling, gnashing predator on her heel.

  A mark - two, to be precise – but that is all she has left upon her adversary; she is practically unscathed! A deep and rousing snarl rises from the depth of her chest, reverberating within her throat as blood-tinted saliva drops from her parted mouth. Her teeth lash out yet again, longing to seize her soft and supple flesh between their sharpened ridges, to tear away at the tender flesh of her haunch. 

   She, too, is swift, lunging away from her hind leg quickly – it does manage to make contact with her own hind leg as she eludes the full brunt of her assault, but it does little more than leave an ache (and in time, swelling and soreness) – she is not foolish enough to stand too close to her corpulent hind end, and thus, with distance placed in between them, is not fazed by her feeble attempt at lashing out at her with her forelegs.

  Enough, he utters – and she is still, her chest heaving from the exertion, while her two-toned gaze (heavily laden with ferocity, with fury and adrenaline) is settled upon him. There is a trickle of blood sliding down her skin and weaving its way through the blackness of her fur, but it goes unseen, hidden away within the thickness of it – she had been cut, and her skin had been broken, but the metallic taste of her blood had done little to satisfy her. She is quiet, listening to Gryffen and his instruction, but her teeth long to sink into the delectable, soft tissue of her throat, to tear it out and leave her gasping for the air she did not deserve to breath.

  Take her captive, he urges her, and she is lashing out, teeth gnashing yet again at her legs and underbelly, seeking to deepen the mark she had already left.

  ”Go!” she snarls, snapping at Raxa, the lone Sylvan that stood to protect nothing, and no one – not even herself. ”Sylva is no longer yours to keep! You are our property now; get in line! Move along!”