 | The sun peaked high amongst the snow clouds, but its warmth did not reach the ground. Etojo’s dry leaves bristled in the cold as he angled them tight against his emaciated body. When the snowfall had been heavy, the larger flakes had caused his leaves to creak and crunch that there were now few left which were whole. But Etojo didn’t care, finally he had found what he had been tracking, his belly grumbling at the sight and he smacked his lips together with anticipation.
“Food.” He growled, as he spied the lifeless body bobbing ensnared in a tangle of sticks which had begun to obstruct the flow of water downstream. He made his way towards it, sloshing carelessly up the shallow stream, chunks of ice and the sheer coldness of the water biting at his fetlocks. He paid no mind to the sensation, he was used to the chill, and the extra punch of coldness reminded him of her, a friend lost, and his heart pounded heavier with shame as he remembered their last encounter.
Reaching down, he pried the carcass free from the sticks and pulled it from the water. Its body was stiff and smelled only of death now, the water having lapped away any trace of what it had been. But that hardly mattered, food was food, although his orange eyes narrowed and growled in annoyance when he realised the snack he clasped between his jaws was missing all but one limb. Such was the life of a scavenger, he would never be the first to make a meal of it, but he would be the last.
He flung the dead creature onto the snow-capped grass, and leapt out of the stream after it. With his hoof he braced it still, whatever was left of its tiny bones and cartilage crunching with the burden of his weight as he ripped free the first morsel of soggy flesh. It was tasteless of course, he hadn’t really expected it to taste fresh. But even so, each mouthful satiated a hunger he could not have left untended for much longer lest it drive him to hunt. And he could not let that happen, not ever again.
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The cold grips her body, and it is a vice. A squeeze, pushing air from her lungs like a constrictor. Tighter and tighter as she draws the bitter air deep. The world had been left shackled and heaving with spent sweat and seed, withering — naked and shameful. Then came the reaper. Autumnal and leaden, it oversaw all the pleasures that they took liberally, and in it's own dying days lashed from their flesh their sins.  Bloody, but atoned. And then it cracked the sky open with its great sickle. Tearing a hole in the pregnant, expectant cycle. Winter. ( Blink. For a moment the snow is no longer virgin. It is stained with viscera, everywhere. She smells only ice and cold, though. Odd.) She curses them their heady rampage ( Ironic.) Their collective thrusts tempting something cyclical and savagely productive. The great equilibrate. Fall is nature's reaper. Rewarding their work with a quickening, sure. But Winter is what He leaves behind to do his work. She slides her tongue across her soft lips in a thirsty motion. Aurane's black-brown eyes are tracking him like a bird, unblinking and bewildered. Her brow is knitted together, furrowed with a strong mixture of disgust and reverence. Chilled flesh tingles, red and black fur standing erect down the curve and knots of her spine. She blinks, finally. (His morsel fidgets and splits open with a tumult of insect larvae. He continues his feast.) She flinches away — somewhat uncharacteristic — and turns her head to abate the churning in her gut. When she cannot bear to look away any longer she uncoils her slim neck, his morsel is only a paltry and whole nibble again. She moves to him — an odd moth to an odd flame, her carnal grace tempered by a disruptive and powerful dread. A gathering, erotic fear. “So this is what death and dying looks like?” There is contempt in her smooth voice (always), but it wavers and belies a greater curiosity beneath. She does not mean his mouthful of meat. Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
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by bronzehalo
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| There was a shuffle, or a crunch, a faint noise of something that made him pause mid chew. A muffled thud thud, the sound hooves made when they traversed over snow, the sound they made when they drew closer. He ripped off one final mouthful, before his jaw clenched shut with irritation and his muscles tightened along with the rush of annoyance when he realised his enduring solitude had shattered. With a strip of flesh still dangling from his mouth, he thrust his head towards the sound and found her, she who moved towards him with an intent he was sure was there but knew not of what.
And that bothered him.
It bothered him because he had been alone for so long and the time between then – when he wasn’t, and now- when he was, well so much had changed. He had grown savage, literally in every sense. He had been born again wild in this self-imposed solitude that any whiff of social grace he may have had was gone, long, long gone. He had let the charade fall to dust. A part of him was proud of that, that he no longer had to try. Dead leaves, brittle twigs and muck. Finally a true manifestation of his bitter and sulking soul. That’s all he was now, perhaps even what he had always been, deep down.
So why did she close that gap when any other animal kept the radius wide? What was wrong with her? Or perhaps a better question was what did she want from him? Etojo’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, he had nothing, offered nothing, except…
His eyes fell to the carcass chewed and shredded by his hooves, and suddenly, as if that could be the only possible reason, the thought truly illogical, Etojo reached down for his carcass and pulled it possessively to his chest. Mine. His food. Not hers.
“So this is what death and dying looks like?” She says when she is finally near.
He glared at her, his leaves bristling. Her words as sharp as any barb as she pierced into the essence of what he had become, of what he had let himself been reduced to. Instinctively he gripped his carcass tighter, as if it could act as some sort of deflective shield to reflect the sting of her spoken realities. Her words pulled him from his ridiculousness and at the realisation he wished her more gone then before. He was about to tell her so, the words already half formed on his tongue. But her sweet fleshy smell began to entwine delicately into the potent scent of decay that he was holding onto. And the longer she lingered, the stronger it become.
Etojo closed his eyes and breathed her in. She smelled fresh, enticing, and the hunter within him found his growing desire for her hard to quell as his tongue became slick with slaver. He cocked his head to the side and let the carcass fall from his jaws. Why would he need that when he had found something much bigger? And his lips which were about to form go away instead said “Stay.”
Etojo smiled a half smile, though it was far from friendly.
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12-03-2015, 01:51 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-12-2015, 12:54 PM by Aurane.)
Her instincts are misfiring. Electric shocks pulse her brain, prodding and dissecting. Her survival instinct is intact, but it is subdued by a deep seated yearning. A fly to a trap; a child's tender hand to a hot element. She shivers, her ears burying deep in her thick, dark mane — they fill with a multitude of screams, and she is weak to distinguish this internal death knell from the reality around her. Are things dying at his feet? Wasting away. Microscopic executions. But the screams mouth “run!” desperately. It is herself. A multicellular outcry. “Run!”She moves to spook away, to land a kick and feel the give of his unnatural coating. But she is stuck. Stuck watching him possessively coddle his morsel with eager delight. Stuck watching him glower at her — it is all wrong, but her eyes sip deeply on that angry vigil. She mistakes his bitter venom for a come-hither, and she capitulates appropriately. Moving a step closer, feeling a flush in her muscles. Her heart pumping blood to her extremities, preparing for her flight. Instead it excites her, fills her with the confidence of invulnerability. She blinks. (His twigs and leaves fall unceremoniously like confetti from his walking form. They are supported by nothing, so nothing remains.) She frowns at him, for a moment sadness (pity?) rushes her veins, an emotion she does not keep company with often. It piques something angry in her, something terribly offended by the sick weakness in it. A husk. (But something must live inside. Does he give off warmth? See if you can feel it...) She reaches out, her lips searching for it. And then finally he speaks and she recoils. Her black-brown eyes narrowing. (He is not for this world... How certain are you that he even exists? Try the blink thing...) She blinks, and his smile is just as unsettling. Just as muddled with desire, hunger and ill-will. He is just as he was. She widens her eyes, returning his smile with one sicky sweet of her own. She takes another step forward — still probing for his warmth, still prying for signs of innards beneath his otherworldly cover. She repays his feigned welcome in kind. “I was never leaving,” She purrs. She offers him a smile, carnal to its core. Finally she bridges the gap as close as she dares, quite yet. “I'm Aurane.” Two neck lengths away — working together, they could make both their dreams come true. Wouldn't that be nice? Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
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by bronzehalo
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| Good, he thought, come closer.
He watched hungrily as she stepped into the envelope of his chill, his aura of coldness though it lacked the cutting bite of ice. Her muscles quivered beneath her flesh, tantalising like jelly, warm and invigorated with blood. He could see her warmth radiating off of the surface of her skin, rising as vapour into the cold, cold air. A salivating sight, and a dribble of saliva swelled and fell beyond the cup of his lower lip.
She edged closer still, as he did to her. The hot breath of her words moulding him senseless.
‘I’m Aurane.’ She says… her name he somehow reasoned through the fogginess of his desire, though she might as well have said ‘eat me.’ But no matter, in a way, hearing her name was the key, twisting and turning in unison with the grumbling of his stomach, unlocking a desire, no, a need that he had only ever felt once before. And he needed this, needed it in the same way he supposed she would rather hold on to her life. But what would that matter to him when he licked her bones white and that her which was became no more? She wouldn’t be Aurane anymore, she wouldn’t matter, and to Etojo that somehow made sense.
But there was a niggle. Something that swam deep in one of the dark crevices of his consciousness trying to resurface, something which should have been lost. And yet there it was, bobbing into the fore. He’d found it. Control.
No he thought, he didn’t want to control it. But she was close, almost too close. The tangle of indecision causing him to hesitate. And so he stared at her, mouth ajar, jaws open with the sharp whiteness of his fangs exposed in a partial bite that almost was but wasn’t. Everything about it went against instinct, he wanted her bad. He could see the hunger mirrored back in her eyes too, she understood… well, not exactly.
“No, don’t.” he snapped, more to himself than to her. And he flinched away from her falling back upon his haunches and rocked awkwardly backwards. There was a crack, the sound of twigs snapping, and a jolt of pain surged up his backside. “What do you want?” he hissed it at her, the words bitter and tinged with pain. And he diverted his gaze away from her, and instead glared at the carcass mangled beyond recognition. Anything to keep his hungry orange gaze from eating her.
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She has perfect control. Tight, self-assured command of her body — but like a captain drunk at the wheel in the eyewall of a storm, her direction is wildly foolhardy. The last beating drum of a dying man; the last thirsty swig of bacchanalian life. But she feels a terribly arrogant certainty: He will not touch her, not until she is ready. Though the meaty and bloody quality of her shoulders might be tantalizing, he could have had her. But he instead stands before her salivating, and it makes her feel powerful. A terribly dangerous assumption. It emboldens her. Her black-brown eyes grow wet and fixated — empty but for one glint, a singular drive animating her. (What lies beneath that cloak of dead treestuff.) A singular purpose compelling her probing mouth. Then she catches a quick glimpse of his teeth again. Those instruments for shredding, tearing, biting. She makes a soft coo-ing noise, running her tongue across her lips. Oh! The things she could do... She chuckles under her breath. ( But how to get them out?) And then he speaks and her ears flick lazily to catch the tones through the mire of her own feverish brainstorming. He demands. Sharp and strong, she almost considers acquiescence, but when he rears back she pulls her fine head away, snapping her neck back and to the side like a cornered snake. The raw snap of his twigs consumes her with now unencumbered panic — a sudden flush of true self-preservation. It renders her inert, but for the dance of hooves and she sidles back a few steps. “What do you want?”Her ears pin back into the tangle of her dark mane, and the alarm is replaced slowly with ire. She pushes forward, closer than ever, her breath heavy and she can feel now that he is cold. He is nothing but mortality embodied — both death and decay combined; he is the realization of the natural life cycle. “Did you have life once?” She spits, still catching her breath, “Or have you always been so fundamentally bereft of warmth?” Her nostrils flare, pink, “Does it hurt?” She means the queer, branch tail. She means the migration of his soul. Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
lines and shading
by bronzehalo
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