11-03-2015, 12:52 AM
No one has touched Anastasia before—not really. Her father had once ripped his claws into her flank, punishing her for being careless with a meal, for being arrogant in the hunt. She had screamed then (screamed until her throat was raw and then screamed after), but this does not draw blood across the impossible darkness of her hide and it does not bring screams to her throat. Instead the sound is dark, husky, rough as it vibrates up her throat, the closest comparison that of a purr. She leans into the undead one’s touch, and she closes her predator eyes, enjoying the sensation of the closeness between them. She does not mind the smell at all now, she thinks idly.
“Ana-stasia,” she murmurs her own name in the same broken tongue, and she feels the acid of her being playing in the back of her throat. She does not know that Chantale’s father is her own maternal grandfather; she does not know that her birthright is the legacy of a family that spans across the land of Beqanna once, thrice, and forevermore. She is related to most of those who wander the field in one way or another, although she did not care overmuch for relatives. Her father was the only one she had ever known.
“I am Ana-stasia.” Such a pretty name for an unpretty girl, but she does not mind. She does not dream of being pretty. She does not dream of love-filled eyes and whispered confessions of the heart. She dreams, instead, of things she does not understand but hungers for anyway: for the same screams that had wrenched out of her own body when Atrox had ripped open her flesh; for the fascinating way that flesh peels away from bone; for the intoxicating feeling of knowing you control the lifeline of another. These are the things that fill her head in slumber.
“Why does Chan-tale like Ana-stasia?”
“Ana-stasia,” she murmurs her own name in the same broken tongue, and she feels the acid of her being playing in the back of her throat. She does not know that Chantale’s father is her own maternal grandfather; she does not know that her birthright is the legacy of a family that spans across the land of Beqanna once, thrice, and forevermore. She is related to most of those who wander the field in one way or another, although she did not care overmuch for relatives. Her father was the only one she had ever known.
“I am Ana-stasia.” Such a pretty name for an unpretty girl, but she does not mind. She does not dream of being pretty. She does not dream of love-filled eyes and whispered confessions of the heart. She dreams, instead, of things she does not understand but hungers for anyway: for the same screams that had wrenched out of her own body when Atrox had ripped open her flesh; for the fascinating way that flesh peels away from bone; for the intoxicating feeling of knowing you control the lifeline of another. These are the things that fill her head in slumber.
“Why does Chan-tale like Ana-stasia?”