09-19-2017, 05:47 PM
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.
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.