Were Belgarath born a natural predator, he would slink through the grass with the greatest of ease, gluttonous stomach roaring, while his fang-filled mouth waters at the thought of hot, tangy blood. He would stalk his prey relentlessly, playing on their fears until the poor creatures was a nervous, exhausted wreck; eyes darting back and forth, flanks trembling, foaming at the mouth. And then, half-tiger and half-viper, he would launch himself at the unfortunate soul, clenching his jaws around their spine, or windpipe, or whatever vulnerable part might be closest. Then it would be done - and he would feast. Crack the marrow from its flesh-stripped bones. Sleep. Wait until the hunger rumbles in him once more.
He stalks likes a predator, remembering the last time he found a poor, lost soul wandering all by their lonesome. His grunts of pain were nice, but oh, Bel likes it best when they scream for him. His demons did all the hard work; searing the boy’s body and soul with… whatever it is that seems to hurt so damn much. A salty-sweet smell drifts towards the dappled stallion, and even as his nostrils flare to try and dissect the smell, he alters his meandering course. It leads him to a rather downtrodden looking mare - drowning, perhaps, in her own self-indulgent misery. Oh poor little girl, to have the world treat her thus.
He is smooth - the ice made his body like marble (though he thinks it must be melting by now - there are signs of ageing that weren’t there before), and oh, how the mask hides the devil inside. He does not purr the way that some charismatic villains do. No, Belgarath rumbles, his bass-like voice cutting through the silence. “What’s wrong, little girl?” For she is little - compared to him.
belgarath
