05-17-2018, 08:12 PM
god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
The clown had promised him a kill.
He is not a beast that forgets, not is he a beast who would let Krone forget. Her days have been numbered since the moment he had taken her from Tephra’s briny shores, and every day he reminds her. She is his, a trinket, a collectible. If it had been up to Maugrim, she would have been a bloated corpse at the bottom of the lake her first day in Sylva; but he had been told to be patient, to wait. He did, but only because every hellish demon needs organization, needs structure - which the Riverlord lacked. He is impulsive and feeds into desire almost immediately, and though the strain on keeping her alive has nearly drove him mad, he has been successful.
Maugrim had to make up with his lack of blood by other means, which for Krone, meant emotional torture and his desires.
They stand near the cave, both him and the clown watching the birth with their own eyes. Maugrim remains expressionless, wondering the purpose of two weak children such as these, but he did not care enough to voice his thoughts. He only cared for what he had been promised, and the ravenous hunger in his eyes gleams with the thrill of it. She screams and Maugrim’s pale lips twitch, praying that the childbirth would leave her heart still beating. For Modicum’s sake, he should be hoping so too. Her dying in childbirth would not suddenly fulfill the promise given to him.
And finally, he hears his cue.
Finish her.
The stallion steps forward, the Finisher and the forever, drawing water from the black and still lake around her body like a blanket, crooning to her. He doesn’t even pull her into the water, but instead lets the water meet her.
He forces the water into her throat and lungs, much like a knife twisting into the abdomen. It wouldn’t take long, but he has waited long enough. He presses a hoof to her throat, just beneath her jaw, and forcefully eases his entire weight onto her windpipe, his dark eyes hungrily watching as her body struggles to inhale beneath him.
It is simple,
quick,
satisfying.
The stutter of her last breath sends shivers down his spine, leaning close to feel the squeezed breath on his cheek. The water recedes but he remains above her, pressed against her neck with a single foreleg and leaning into it so much so that finally there is a sickening snap somewhere beneath her skin. There is nothing left of her that he could take; the fire-child would have to come burn the body, perhaps. His dark eyes reflect the emerald gem that adorns her forehead - a pretty jewel he had become quite fond of - and without hesitation he lifts his foreleg from her neck and instead places it there (carefully now, of course). He sets himself, lifting his weight and allowing it to fall against her skull, crumbling beneath him. He does this until the sea-stained jewel pops away from her.
His pale mouth picks up the small trinket, the only token to remember her by, and takes it into the shadowy water with him, to begin his collection once more.
He is not a beast that forgets, not is he a beast who would let Krone forget. Her days have been numbered since the moment he had taken her from Tephra’s briny shores, and every day he reminds her. She is his, a trinket, a collectible. If it had been up to Maugrim, she would have been a bloated corpse at the bottom of the lake her first day in Sylva; but he had been told to be patient, to wait. He did, but only because every hellish demon needs organization, needs structure - which the Riverlord lacked. He is impulsive and feeds into desire almost immediately, and though the strain on keeping her alive has nearly drove him mad, he has been successful.
Maugrim had to make up with his lack of blood by other means, which for Krone, meant emotional torture and his desires.
They stand near the cave, both him and the clown watching the birth with their own eyes. Maugrim remains expressionless, wondering the purpose of two weak children such as these, but he did not care enough to voice his thoughts. He only cared for what he had been promised, and the ravenous hunger in his eyes gleams with the thrill of it. She screams and Maugrim’s pale lips twitch, praying that the childbirth would leave her heart still beating. For Modicum’s sake, he should be hoping so too. Her dying in childbirth would not suddenly fulfill the promise given to him.
And finally, he hears his cue.
Finish her.
The stallion steps forward, the Finisher and the forever, drawing water from the black and still lake around her body like a blanket, crooning to her. He doesn’t even pull her into the water, but instead lets the water meet her.
He forces the water into her throat and lungs, much like a knife twisting into the abdomen. It wouldn’t take long, but he has waited long enough. He presses a hoof to her throat, just beneath her jaw, and forcefully eases his entire weight onto her windpipe, his dark eyes hungrily watching as her body struggles to inhale beneath him.
It is simple,
quick,
satisfying.
The stutter of her last breath sends shivers down his spine, leaning close to feel the squeezed breath on his cheek. The water recedes but he remains above her, pressed against her neck with a single foreleg and leaning into it so much so that finally there is a sickening snap somewhere beneath her skin. There is nothing left of her that he could take; the fire-child would have to come burn the body, perhaps. His dark eyes reflect the emerald gem that adorns her forehead - a pretty jewel he had become quite fond of - and without hesitation he lifts his foreleg from her neck and instead places it there (carefully now, of course). He sets himself, lifting his weight and allowing it to fall against her skull, crumbling beneath him. He does this until the sea-stained jewel pops away from her.
His pale mouth picks up the small trinket, the only token to remember her by, and takes it into the shadowy water with him, to begin his collection once more.
m a u g r i m.
@[Krone]