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“You’ve sure done a good job of taking them out. Why don’t you reveal yourself, flesh eater?”
Although the words are spoken in that slippery, dotted language they all seem to speak, she can understand his meanings. Father spent his time teaching her the ways of Prey when he wasn’t hunting alone (he brought her, frequently enough, but there were days when he would come back soaked so thickly in blood his body was red rather than black) and she’d grown up learning their behaviors and body language. Mother never wanted her to explore past the protection of her magic (perhaps to keep her safe from Sister, but she’d encountered Sister once before), yet she found herself slipping past regardless to inspect the Prey closer.
Until one day she had slunk past the barrier and never looked back.
She waits — as she had waited for the two Prey to speak smooth words to each other in distraction — for more to arrive. They certain will (“Sylva, Sylva, Sylva”), drawn to the splattering of blood and wreckage of entrails. Her mouths open to reveal rows of inches-long fangs (though the movement is slow and one to express mingled amusement and delight rather than danger) when more come slinking from the shadows. There’s an emerald and ivory Prey, as well as the scent and sound of a darker Prey lurking on the breath of the clearing.
She chitters then, a rhythmic pattern of clicks in the back of her throat, that sounds different from the trill she’d given earlier. This is more a series of greetings (where back of the throat relates to their positive emotions and front of the mouth relates to their negative emotions) toward the Prey gathered. As she greets them, she moves — sliding from the shadows as slightly as if she were one herself. Long, armored legs drag her tall body forward while the ink of her body shifts with the cords of sinewy, slender muscle that twists along her body.
She tries (as she has tried in the depths of cobwebbed forests). “Nexu.” It comes out with a suction akin to a lover’s mouth sloppily sucking from tender skin while also sounding much harsher than it ever would in a natural mouth. Yet it is understandable, barely.
Despite her language barriers, she is not simple. Intelligence shines in the depths of her glossy eyes — eyes which scan between each face, even in the direction of the one hidden in the bramble. She calculates their expressions with a sharpness even Father might not have, all while her knife-tail flicks behind her heels in case they decide to launch an unannounced attack.
Although the words are spoken in that slippery, dotted language they all seem to speak, she can understand his meanings. Father spent his time teaching her the ways of Prey when he wasn’t hunting alone (he brought her, frequently enough, but there were days when he would come back soaked so thickly in blood his body was red rather than black) and she’d grown up learning their behaviors and body language. Mother never wanted her to explore past the protection of her magic (perhaps to keep her safe from Sister, but she’d encountered Sister once before), yet she found herself slipping past regardless to inspect the Prey closer.
Until one day she had slunk past the barrier and never looked back.
She waits — as she had waited for the two Prey to speak smooth words to each other in distraction — for more to arrive. They certain will (“Sylva, Sylva, Sylva”), drawn to the splattering of blood and wreckage of entrails. Her mouths open to reveal rows of inches-long fangs (though the movement is slow and one to express mingled amusement and delight rather than danger) when more come slinking from the shadows. There’s an emerald and ivory Prey, as well as the scent and sound of a darker Prey lurking on the breath of the clearing.
She chitters then, a rhythmic pattern of clicks in the back of her throat, that sounds different from the trill she’d given earlier. This is more a series of greetings (where back of the throat relates to their positive emotions and front of the mouth relates to their negative emotions) toward the Prey gathered. As she greets them, she moves — sliding from the shadows as slightly as if she were one herself. Long, armored legs drag her tall body forward while the ink of her body shifts with the cords of sinewy, slender muscle that twists along her body.
She tries (as she has tried in the depths of cobwebbed forests). “Nexu.” It comes out with a suction akin to a lover’s mouth sloppily sucking from tender skin while also sounding much harsher than it ever would in a natural mouth. Yet it is understandable, barely.
Despite her language barriers, she is not simple. Intelligence shines in the depths of her glossy eyes — eyes which scan between each face, even in the direction of the one hidden in the bramble. She calculates their expressions with a sharpness even Father might not have, all while her knife-tail flicks behind her heels in case they decide to launch an unannounced attack.
@[Modicum Mortem] / @[Maugrim] / @[Astarael]