She does not arrive by chance.

(“Sylva,” They had whispered. “Sylva,” They had whimpered. “Sylva,” They had crooned.)

So she follows, a mere wisp of a shadow to Their peripherals. One spring from the darkness and Their blood would spill into her jaws, Their muscles would feed the ache in her belly, Their strangled screams would sadate the inner cravings of her mind. But she pushes those thoughts aside to follow Them and Their whispers (“Sylva”) until They come to a stop in a dense forest.

She feels at home, weaving between the thick branches and under the tangled brambles in order to circle Their unsuspecting, warm bodies. There’s a scent at Their feet, so thickly-placed she barely withholds an annoyed chitter to rise from the back of her throat. They have successfully aided her, but there is no more reason for Them to exist except for within her own belly. So she remains quiet, a slinking shadow so close to Their warmth that her movements might feel like a breeze upon Their skin.

They speak among Themselves, slippery words she is beginning to understand but still unable to replicate (alone, she might try — words such as “Hi” and “Nexu” and “Sylva” though the latter is the most difficult to reproduce). Her armored head turns slightly — slowly, so as to be imperceptible — to catch Their sliding words.

“This is it. I bet someone will show up shortly, I heard there’s always some psychopath or another on the border.”

It is speaking to another, smaller Prey beside it. She can understand that much. But Their words are useless and empty, in hindsight, because it is just as the other opens its mouth when a trill leaves her throat (sounding like a bird’s twitter in the bush nearby to Them but sounding like “Time to feed” to her own ears) and she springs.

The larger Prey goes down first — her intended target with its thicker meat — before she easily catches the smaller with her blood-stained jaws. She feasts before doing anything further with these woods (“Sylva, Sylva, Sylva”) and her inky, armored body is splattered with varying shades of blood red by the time she’s finished.

Delicious.

She leaves an intentional disaster behind her when she slips into the shadows once more (half-chewed entrails and puddles of dark blood and an entire left hindquarter from the smaller Prey). Before she gets too deep into the thicket, her leggy body pivots to hide among the familiarity of the shadows, waiting in complete silence for some unsuspecting Prey to walk into her trap.

The freshness of spring is clear in the forest, despite the burning embers of gold and red that paints the trees into an everlasting fire. Snow has disappeared from their black and twisting branches, melting into the thick pine-needle laden ground, while ice tries to cling helplessly to roots. The forest smells damp and earthy, a robust flavor that is tinged with the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh (her corpse lies in his chamber, but the jewel is safe within his depths) or the putrid, metallic smell of dried blood.

The smell of new blood drifts to him - a stench so familiar, so longed for, that he will come crawling through the darkness in search for its source. He has learned to love his visitors, and has gone so far as the borders of Sylva itself (leaving his placid lake behind him) to greet whoever dare lingers close enough for him to grab, to influence them towards his never-ending lake and to the darkness of his bone-filled cave. He kept little pieces of them (most of them didn’t notice, mostly because they were already dead) and his cave is littered with their remnants, little trinkets to remind him of past visitors, and to keep him looking forward for more.

Beneath the trembling darkness that the thick canopy overhead supplies, the evergreen and pearl stallion moves at a leisurely walk, carefully stepping over large roots of the tall redwoods, water dripping listlessly from the long and tangled tendrils of his mane and forelock. The scent is stronger now as he departs from his foreboding lake, the blackness of his eyes noticing the fresh blood that taints a trees bark every now and again, or marks the pine-needles with a sticky, red color. He lowers his head, nostrils quivering as a deep nicker passes through him, inhaling deeply of the equine blood. With a twitch of his nose he slowly raises his head, his tongue running over the cracked dryness of his pale lips. 

The blood is not from a wound, but something that is doused in it, moving through the forest.

“I smell you,” his deep baritone voice gurgles into the silence, bottomless eyes scanning the darkness around him for any signs of whatever lies within. 

Nothingness responds, and with a calculating twist of his head, he moves forward further and farther away from his precious water.

It is not long before the scent leads him to the scene - organs displayed in a haphazard pattern, body parts tethered together by only loose tendon and sinew, the dead eyes of the victims staring at him helplessly. He nudges a hindquarter with the broad of his nose, his pale tongue running across the cold and bloodless skin. The feast had been blood-soaked and thrilling, and Maugrim’s dark eyes glimmer with jealousy and viciousness. He almost did not notice the Clown as his bloodlust fills his soul, a sharp snort resounding from his pale nostrils as the familiar voice cuts through the air. Maugrim says nothing as he draws up beside the Forest-king, looking past Modicum and into the blackness of the dismal forest, raising his chin to sample the air around them. The stallion says nothing, wondering what will appear from the shadows beyond.

m a u g r i m.

“You’ve sure done a good job of taking them out. Why don’t you reveal yourself, flesh eater?”

Although the words are spoken in that slippery, dotted language they all seem to speak, she can understand his meanings. Father spent his time teaching her the ways of Prey when he wasn’t hunting alone (he brought her, frequently enough, but there were days when he would come back soaked so thickly in blood his body was red rather than black) and she’d grown up learning their behaviors and body language. Mother never wanted her to explore past the protection of her magic (perhaps to keep her safe from Sister, but she’d encountered Sister once before), yet she found herself slipping past regardless to inspect the Prey closer.

Until one day she had slunk past the barrier and never looked back.

She waits — as she had waited for the two Prey to speak smooth words to each other in distraction — for more to arrive. They certain will (“Sylva, Sylva, Sylva”), drawn to the splattering of blood and wreckage of entrails. Her mouths open to reveal rows of inches-long fangs (though the movement is slow and one to express mingled amusement and delight rather than danger) when more come slinking from the shadows. There’s an emerald and ivory Prey, as well as the scent and sound of a darker Prey lurking on the breath of the clearing.

She chitters then, a rhythmic pattern of clicks in the back of her throat, that sounds different from the trill she’d given earlier. This is more a series of greetings (where back of the throat relates to their positive emotions and front of the mouth relates to their negative emotions) toward the Prey gathered. As she greets them, she moves — sliding from the shadows as slightly as if she were one herself. Long, armored legs drag her tall body forward while the ink of her body shifts with the cords of sinewy, slender muscle that twists along her body.

She tries (as she has tried in the depths of cobwebbed forests). “Nexu.” It comes out with a suction akin to a lover’s mouth sloppily sucking from tender skin while also sounding much harsher than it ever would in a natural mouth. Yet it is understandable, barely.

Despite her language barriers, she is not simple. Intelligence shines in the depths of her glossy eyes — eyes which scan between each face, even in the direction of the one hidden in the bramble. She calculates their expressions with a sharpness even Father might not have, all while her knife-tail flicks behind her heels in case they decide to launch an unannounced attack.

A dark woman, with glowing eyes of green, is here as well - but it is clear she is not for Maugrim, so the beast remains focused on the smell of blood and curdling organs, even as his bottomless black irises sweep over the curve of her hips unabashedly. He has never met her, but there is something about the nameless lady that intrigues the Riverlord.

The sound that comes from the darkness of the brambles and underbrush causes Maugrim’s spine to curve, rolling his shoulders as it hits his ears. He is still expressionless, but now his eyes fixate on the trembling foliage, lifting his chin slightly while his pale tongue flickers hungrily across cracked lips. It then slithers from beneath the shadow, trekking into the hazy sunlight that trickles through the thick canopy, and Maugrim’s nostrils widen as he inhales its scent. He had never seen anything like it, and his head tilts in an animalistic fashion, almost curious as his eyes meet its own. 

Nexu.

Its voice is garbled and straining; it is not used to communicating verbally. Dripping with blood and shining with the black armor, the creature stares at them with mild interest - almost curious as its sharp eyes peer into each one of them. The clown asks it its purpose, its desire, but even Maugrim knew that it is clear - flesh, blood, muscle...it is strewn across the area in shreds, and only here in Sylva would its tastes be accepted and fed. The green and pearl stallion snorts sharply, dark eyes shifting to Modicum. 

“It needs to feed. It needs a family,” he breathes to the black stallion, his voice sinister and calculating. His abysmal gaze turns to Nexu, lips twitching. “Nexu needs family.” He says again to it, with his words in a staccato, his body straightening as he stares at it, flicking his tail idly as if matching her own posture.

m a u g r i m.

The Prey stare. She’s expected it, being so different from them, and her eyes hold their own unflinchingly. Her gaze (dark and feral and calculating) lingers on the emerald-and-ivory Prey for a moment longer than the rest. She senses something in him, something that is not in the others, but it sends a low chill through her belly and so she turns away before she can identify what it is.

They speak around her.

“It needs to feed. It needs a family.”
“Nexu needs a purpose. With her on our side we would be unstoppable.”

Perhaps she might snarl at the way they voice her needs as if they see within her mind. Perhaps she might nod, affirming their conclusions. She does need to feed, but not in the way they might imagine. She can easily hunt in the hidden woods of Beqanna, feasting on unsuspecting Prey and shy deer, but it is not nearly as thrilling.

She desires more and they have that.

Her gaze turns to the green-eyed mare after she finally slips into the clearing. Her nostrils quiver as she looks over the mare, assessing her horns and wings and dark mouth. Then she turns to the original Prey, eyes scanning over his short height and dark body and bright nose. Finally, her armored head twists to land on the emerald Prey, and she takes her time to note his moss-and-seafoam coloring and intent gaze and mimicking posture.

A low chortle roughly slides from her throat (a laugh, to her own ears).

She wants to tell the Prey she will stay. She will dwell in their household whether they want her to or not, murdering the smaller Prey until their woods are empty or they provide her with Prey themselves. But her tongues do not work so easily to allow their language (Father had taught her that) so she moves again, as silently as a shadow, to cut three vertical slashes against a tree trunk with her knife-tail and rub the bulk of her crown and armored body along the length of the bark.

My territory.

With a last look at their faces — leader-Prey, emerald-Prey, female-Prey — she slips into the darkness of the newborn nighttime.