I love the way you rake my skin, I feel the hate you place inside.
Blood.She smells it and it is an overpowering smell that hangs in her nostrils, refusing to leave no matter how much she snorts it out. The scent is cloying and thick, and she blinks the sleep from her eyes, wondering if her beloved has left behind a kill for her to poke and play at. But there is no wolf-caught corpse laid before her nose where they rest about her bent knees curled beneath her small form. No spoiling meat or scent of it to mingle with the blood - just the blood, the blood that brings her to her feet and rouses an odd feeling in her.
Femur could care less if someone was hurt. She’s not a healer, no one in her family has that particular talent. Most of them are either immortal, goat-horned, a shifter, or strange in some other fashion but none of them can make the hurts of the flesh heal up and scar. Still, she sniffs the air and trails the scent to the ashen seashore where a mare lays in what looks like almost death. Her black eyes pick out the scant rise and fall of ribs poking up through the painted skin that signifies the mare is still taking breath, however faint and few in between those breaths might be. She comes closer, lowers her nose to scuff at the bloodied and scratched skin.
Ew.
The mare stinks of apples, blood and sex. Sylva. They’d had an event of late that had drew the beasts out of those that attended and gave them free rein over their darker unexposed selves. Femur had declined to attend. Would have if Longclaw had asked it of her but had followed him into the Tephran deeps instead to his den, a secret that she keeps to herself as his lips had left hot kisses spilling over her needy skin. She thinks that whatever this mare had encountered there, had not been like that - hot and needy and given up freely. Whatever had happened had come through force and pain, not sweet coercion.
Part of that made Femur mad, no one should be had or taken against their will. Pain and pleasure should be agreed upon, not doled out in spiteful fisted increments to be suffered but somehow, this poor mare had endured and Femur is drawn to that. She can only image what a slap in the face that fact must be to whomever did this to her. With as much caution and care as Femur can muster, she tries to tenderly nose the neck and face of the mare in hopes of awakening her though she cannot image the depth of pain the mare must be in to be in this collapsed state on the shore. Nor can she imagine how the salt must sting every cut and bruised part of her.
“Hey, you need to wake up now…” she intones softly near an ear.
Femur
@[Scyla]
i owed you a reply from the twins but you get a rather 'nice' femur instead. <3