11-04-2025, 12:46 PM
tw death/gore/their entire relationship I guess
He wears her eyes, still. Dark brown things turned to glass in his skin, a small break on the expanse of dark gray flesh. It’s their own private joke, back to the first time he tasted her – the jarring crash of bone and the giving way of flesh, a most intimate meeting.
He is still thrumming from his playthings; the small group so tenderly ushered through a carnival of horror. He is not sure he will see them again, but it doesn’t matter – they will think of him until they die, his memory carved into mind and skin, their bodies changed by his doings.
It would be a shame to waste this energy, this motivation - and so he finds her.
He senses immediately the foreignness in her, that old panther king’s blood growing something new in her. A child not of his line, a waste of hers. Though not unexpected, his lip still curls, and the brown glass orbs fall from his skin to the ground, a soft thump on the pine needle-carpeted earth.
“Ryatah,” he says softly, and steps forward, the glass cracking under his hoof, “you should know better.”
He doesn’t mention specifics – she will know, or she won’t – but he sighs. He crushes her face softly with his own muzzle, lets himself feel the luscious thrum of her pulse, and then he withdraws again.
He stands apart from her, turns his head back to the woods, and summons the other mare.
She stumbles out, a pale nothing of a girl, a pawn in their game. Blood has dried tacky on her face from where her eyes once were, and one can glimpse a bit of bone, beneath the butchery. She is shaking, held upright by magic and little else. She is dying, and he is merciful in how he hastens that end.
He is merciful, in that he does it by magic, and not teeth.
It’s with the magic that he grips her heart, still beating uselessly – the way a bird will beat its wings against a cage – and yanks it free. The pawn of a mare collapses silently, and the heart, in this strange outside world, continues to beat oddly.
“For you,” he says, and the heart flops toward her feet, its movements like a dying fish, “I give you so much, Ryatah. And for what? What can you give me?”
The heart beats once more, and goes still.
@Ryatah
lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He wears her eyes, still. Dark brown things turned to glass in his skin, a small break on the expanse of dark gray flesh. It’s their own private joke, back to the first time he tasted her – the jarring crash of bone and the giving way of flesh, a most intimate meeting.
He is still thrumming from his playthings; the small group so tenderly ushered through a carnival of horror. He is not sure he will see them again, but it doesn’t matter – they will think of him until they die, his memory carved into mind and skin, their bodies changed by his doings.
It would be a shame to waste this energy, this motivation - and so he finds her.
He senses immediately the foreignness in her, that old panther king’s blood growing something new in her. A child not of his line, a waste of hers. Though not unexpected, his lip still curls, and the brown glass orbs fall from his skin to the ground, a soft thump on the pine needle-carpeted earth.
“Ryatah,” he says softly, and steps forward, the glass cracking under his hoof, “you should know better.”
He doesn’t mention specifics – she will know, or she won’t – but he sighs. He crushes her face softly with his own muzzle, lets himself feel the luscious thrum of her pulse, and then he withdraws again.
He stands apart from her, turns his head back to the woods, and summons the other mare.
She stumbles out, a pale nothing of a girl, a pawn in their game. Blood has dried tacky on her face from where her eyes once were, and one can glimpse a bit of bone, beneath the butchery. She is shaking, held upright by magic and little else. She is dying, and he is merciful in how he hastens that end.
He is merciful, in that he does it by magic, and not teeth.
It’s with the magic that he grips her heart, still beating uselessly – the way a bird will beat its wings against a cage – and yanks it free. The pawn of a mare collapses silently, and the heart, in this strange outside world, continues to beat oddly.
“For you,” he says, and the heart flops toward her feet, its movements like a dying fish, “I give you so much, Ryatah. And for what? What can you give me?”
The heart beats once more, and goes still.
c a r n a g e
@Ryatah