Don't be afraid when the night wolves cry,
feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.
“Come,” she cajoles, and without hesitation he does. Femur had seen his mask slip, (that was never allowed, never allowed) and with fingers deftly sweet had readjusted the disguise using no more than two words. Lead on he must, one foot in front of the other until the two of them are bobbing heads above the waves and only then does he look again; this time with a charming, sharp grin. “Imagine us as true ghosts.” He muses to her as the cool water rolls over his shoulders. From his vantage point they could be mistaken for bodiless wisps. “The havoc we could wreak.” Longclaw chuckles.
Oh, someday they will be. Ghosts, that is - someday they will be. When that day comes he has no doubt that his spirit will find her, bound together as they already are. Longclaw’s boyish inclinations and wishes will come true and, once the curse has rotted everything that holds him together, he will become stardust. Ashes to ashes, after all.
Nothing in this world or any other lasts for very long but it cannot stop the ants from moving, building, making more of themselves. Immortality shackles the few and in more ways than one, Longclaw would not seek it out for his own use - death is now the only, final comfort he has against the baying dogs who chase away his humanity. They will hunt it down; that sliver of goodness within him, and they will feast on it’s light and suck the marrow dry from his bones until only the curse remains.
With a shudder that clenches his chest tight, Longclaw pulls himself up the soft incline of Tephra shoreline and thinks, “Lupei’s death had not been a murder after all. Closer to a mercy killing, really.” It’s the first time since the exchange of power that he’s thought as such; with the new revelation he can rationalize the death of his grandsire and put the past to rest. For good. “I’ve seen this shore dozens of times now,” The young stallion exhales, winded from physical exertion and soaked clean through, “but I have to say that seeing you here makes it refreshingly exciting again.”
His eyes had been pointed starboard, trained on the Volcano that thrust like a smoking fist into the clear, afternoon sky, and now they slide down the hillside of green, over the tops of jungle vegetation, across the warm spattering of sand where saltwater pools in muddy tracks beneath them to where her fine hooves wait motionless for instruction. Slowly, (he enjoys taking his time, they have all the time in the world now) his hungry gaze fills her in piece by piece beginning with the round bulge of her fetlock.
Every haloed line of her body is filled with crushed gold, interrupted only by ashen patches of white and the overcast shadows that naturally give her dimension, shape. The corner of her elbow distracts him, sends him following the dark swell of her girth and back to where it disappears underneath her stifle. He pauses there; Longclaw needs a moment to quiet the short gasps of breath that quicken his pulse. Blinking, practically vibrating, he tears himself free from desire, lust, and turns once again to hasten his eyes over the swoop of her neck to the point of her pretty little nose.
The glare of sunlight on her exposed fang nearly rips his black heart from his chest. “Come close, I need you.” He demands, though he makes no move to take her himself. He could silence those hellhounds with touch; for now their ravenous bellies would be filled with her adoration. Outside of them the tropical scenery remains inviting, bright: Nature continues despite the horrible things happening around her. “Should I take you to the depths of the island, where you can find new haunting grounds? Or maybe to a cavern hewn from lava itself? I’m at your disposal today.” He tells her calmly enough once the threat has passed.
It sounds nice, but Longclaw has mastered the art of the hoax. She has the option of choice, his golden specter, but all options inevitably tie them together. “What a joy,” He thinks, “to come home and see her waiting for me on the shore.”
Oh, someday they will be. Ghosts, that is - someday they will be. When that day comes he has no doubt that his spirit will find her, bound together as they already are. Longclaw’s boyish inclinations and wishes will come true and, once the curse has rotted everything that holds him together, he will become stardust. Ashes to ashes, after all.
Nothing in this world or any other lasts for very long but it cannot stop the ants from moving, building, making more of themselves. Immortality shackles the few and in more ways than one, Longclaw would not seek it out for his own use - death is now the only, final comfort he has against the baying dogs who chase away his humanity. They will hunt it down; that sliver of goodness within him, and they will feast on it’s light and suck the marrow dry from his bones until only the curse remains.
With a shudder that clenches his chest tight, Longclaw pulls himself up the soft incline of Tephra shoreline and thinks, “Lupei’s death had not been a murder after all. Closer to a mercy killing, really.” It’s the first time since the exchange of power that he’s thought as such; with the new revelation he can rationalize the death of his grandsire and put the past to rest. For good. “I’ve seen this shore dozens of times now,” The young stallion exhales, winded from physical exertion and soaked clean through, “but I have to say that seeing you here makes it refreshingly exciting again.”
His eyes had been pointed starboard, trained on the Volcano that thrust like a smoking fist into the clear, afternoon sky, and now they slide down the hillside of green, over the tops of jungle vegetation, across the warm spattering of sand where saltwater pools in muddy tracks beneath them to where her fine hooves wait motionless for instruction. Slowly, (he enjoys taking his time, they have all the time in the world now) his hungry gaze fills her in piece by piece beginning with the round bulge of her fetlock.
Every haloed line of her body is filled with crushed gold, interrupted only by ashen patches of white and the overcast shadows that naturally give her dimension, shape. The corner of her elbow distracts him, sends him following the dark swell of her girth and back to where it disappears underneath her stifle. He pauses there; Longclaw needs a moment to quiet the short gasps of breath that quicken his pulse. Blinking, practically vibrating, he tears himself free from desire, lust, and turns once again to hasten his eyes over the swoop of her neck to the point of her pretty little nose.
The glare of sunlight on her exposed fang nearly rips his black heart from his chest. “Come close, I need you.” He demands, though he makes no move to take her himself. He could silence those hellhounds with touch; for now their ravenous bellies would be filled with her adoration. Outside of them the tropical scenery remains inviting, bright: Nature continues despite the horrible things happening around her. “Should I take you to the depths of the island, where you can find new haunting grounds? Or maybe to a cavern hewn from lava itself? I’m at your disposal today.” He tells her calmly enough once the threat has passed.
It sounds nice, but Longclaw has mastered the art of the hoax. She has the option of choice, his golden specter, but all options inevitably tie them together. “What a joy,” He thinks, “to come home and see her waiting for me on the shore.”
Longclaw
@[Femur]
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)