songs of the blood; khaedrik - any

[vertebrae]

Snick snick snick

Is the sound her talons make on the ground. She once asked her mother if that particular sound was terrifying to which the mare had replied that to some, it just might be but not to those that do not fear little fillies creeping around in the dark. Even ones with an undead appearance to match the sound her unnatural feet made. The mare’s answer had seemed to satisfy something in the predatory black of her latest daughter’s eyes - eyes that had seen too much already at such a tender age.

Sometimes, she wasn’t quite sure how the mare could stomach to look upon or even touch her. Not that she cared because she knew she was loved as much as the mare was capable of such a thing. But most shied away from her because of her peculiar appearance of patchy fur that occasionally fell out on its own to the bits of muscle and bone laid bare for all to see. Wounds festered on her skin at times, weeping pus and blood until she exuded a scent of decomposition that she wore with all the grace she could muster. Mother had explained that she was a throwback to her grandfather who apparently suffered the same undead affliction that she suffers now but he had used it to inspire fear. 

Vertebrae had no answer to the unasked question in the mare’s eyes as to how she would turn out to be. Neither saw much merit in declaring themselves wholly good or wholly evil when the world required a balance between the two. But she had already been exposed to the fearful and disgusted looks on the faces of those that they’d traveled past in the forest. She had borne those looks with a stoicism well beyond her age and placated herself with thoughts of realm-jumping as soon as their travels ended. 

They ended with the mare depositing the undead girl in the midst of a field full of voices that sounded oddly young. Vertebrae knew then that she was being left to her own devices for long enough to perhaps learn or gain some much needed social skills. However once her mother was nothing more than a receding speck on the horizon, the filly went perfectly still and her black eyes filmed over as she projected herself to another realm - usually the land of the dead because she fit right in there. So there she stood - there but not, as her filmy unseeing eyes stared off into space.

@[Khaedrik]

[Khaedrik]

The night ebbs and flows around Khaedrik – smooth and caressing one moment, oppressive and malevolent the next. He moves from shadow to shadow, held close to the earth´s bosom, in harmony with the supple rise of the hill beneath him, and the generous arc of the sky above him. The stars flicker, weak against the sheer depth of darkness. Khaedrik is restless, and Khaedrik is calm. His heart beats slow within his breast, but his body is turgid – and he walks the night in bursts and fits of movement.
Demons, shadows and monsters dog his heels. From time to time he lets them catch up, and loses himself in the wash of delirium, content in the sick hallucinations that project images upon images – until he can no longer tell what is real and what is not.
The wind picks up, and coasts over his hot, hot pelt. Sweat rolls down his sides, and beneath his skin muscles coil, twitching and tense.

He smells her before he can see her – she is monster just like he is monster, with the only difference that everything about her betrays what she is where his heritage goes unnoticed by most. She is death and he is darkness and there is something about her that begs him to approach. He is not alone tonight; his latest creation trails along like some oversized atrocious puppet. But where the snick, snick of her talons would betray her presence – Khaedrik and his companion (a large shadow-cat today; all feline grace and predator-eyes that gleam yellow-cold in the dark.) travel soundlessly. His own glitter-dark eyes burn, haunting and tumultuous in the shadows.

She is like you his monster coos – in that ancient tongue that only he can understand. Its voice rolls from the darkness and sings along Khaedrik’s nerves. Weeks of inner turmoil, and months before that, of madness, have taken their toll from his body. Now the hollow of his hips juts at an abrupt angle, and the sunken half-moons are twice dark beneath his eyes. For all his pain, he is still beautiful, and there is an inherent elegance bred and etched into every curve of his young, now malnourished body. He looks frail – but he is a monster.

He appears before her in a swirl of cat-claws and shadow; he is not afraid, but rather curious. She stinks of death, he notices, and he recognizes all too well the glassy look in her eye. Khaedrik is dangerous, because of his curse, and because of that harassed look he wears, one that remembers his hallucinations. One that remembers delirium, and its comforts. But tonight he comes because he seeks the kinship that he sees in her, and there is a smile; albeit abysmally apathetic, on his face.

”Hello.” he offers – and his child´s voice is strange against the background of night. Disembodied. ”I am Khaedrik”

His monster purrs its own terrible greeting in response; and Khaedrik´s head tilts to the side, a curiosity in his eye that borders the obscene.