"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
It demands—a command and he obeys without protest.
He answers the calling of the hunger, leading him onto his path. A path of servanthood, searching and seeking to found the wielder, the harnesser of darkness. There is a purpose to be had. A path that must now be taken for he has grown too lazy. The world is too quiet.
The hound breaks away from the shadows of the never-changing autumn forest. Slipping out of the hellhole he came out from, a hole he concealed himself in since his arrival to the forest kingdom. The silence needed to be broken
His paws find comfort on the earthy grounds of the forest floor. There is absolute comfort in his canine form, the beast hardly ever touches the body he was shaped and formed to be in this world. His identity is lost when he reverts to his horse form, but when he is the wolf he is himself—he is powerful and feared.
Sinner scours the forest, twisting around the kingdom’s trees. Dark form of black fur and scales obviously make him an enemy to be feared of—he hunts, hunger calls him. But it is also searching for a purpose and curiosity that calls him too.
Spring has come, but who would ever know? The trees stay stagnant in the autumnal forest, the thick underbrush and heavy canopy keep it ever-dark and cool. It’s how he likes it, how the rest of them like it. Secluded, dark, damp - perfect for whatever desire fueled them that day.
Small black legs creep through the forest. He is silent, having mastered being unseen and unheard as he walked. An art form, that he’d been practicing his entire life. Quick, lithe steps barely seem to touch the floor. Hes a silent stalker, he always had been.
He’s always working towards something greater, a way to bring evil to the forefront of Beqanna. He gives his citizens tasks to wreak havoc among the more neutral lands, and he attempts to cause trouble himself. But lately, he’s been quietly building up the copper kingdom, waiting for his chance to strike…
Waiting for others who would gladly cause mayhem with him.
Modicum Mortem
@[Sinner] sorry this is garbage just wanted to get something up to you.
It drives them all. Predator and Prey alike, it is the kindling to their fire. They cannot live without food and they cannot have a good life without that which improves their happiness. For some — the Predators of Beqanna, for example — their happiness comes in the form of the hunt. She is one of them, a Predator.
The protection of the shadow, the thump of a beating heart, the deep red spurt of blood; the hunt calls to her like the croon of a mother’s affection. She dreams of the hunt, sometimes. Flashes of Prey skin (whether horse or doe or wolf or fox) and the musky scents of the earth, the cry of an injured animal and the warmth of muscle against her mouths, the flood of saliva against her teeth and the way the shadows curl against her shoulders.
Something new.
It is not a someone, but a something, crafted of a darkness that could have thought of her own alienoid figure. It slips through the shadows as silently as she, and her nostrils sense the Predator in his blood. Yet she waits among the needles of a pine-tree, pointed shoulders as still as the branches that slide against her armored crown. Her inky color blends into the shade so well she might become the darkness itself, yet if he senses her presence she won’t mind.
After a moment, she slides out from beneath the tree with a few chitters, sounding not altogether welcoming or threatening. Her knife-tail flicks against her heels, even while her dark eyes critically analyze this new Predator.
Friend or foe?
credit to fangs of bearbones.
@[Sinner] / @[Modicum Mortem] / this is all over the place oops :/
06-03-2018, 01:38 PM (This post was last modified: 06-03-2018, 01:38 PM by Sinner.)
There is a deeper darkness here than he thought of. He can sense it, feel it within the air. The hound inhales the air, it suffocates his lungs, clinging to the very chemicals that give him life, that make him breath. It wants to kills, it wants to destroy. This darkness corrupts, it manipulates, and it is wild. It gives him a high he has never felt before—a pathway he follows so willingly without question.
He knows he is not alone within the forest for too long. The predator senses of this world have shaped him to be sensitive to his surroundings, but it is the darkness that he senses even more. When he has no master he is more aware than ever. The hound is more desperate to find his calling (to find his hunt, to destroy).
They are predators like him. Hiding within the shadows, carefully waiting and watching for the right moment to strike. But they are not hunting each other for a meal, they are simply learning about each other in the way they only know how—the only way predators always do. There is a right moment for everything, a moment that must be calculated and action that has to be taken at the correct time.
He does not need to call them out. The black wolf waits for them, coming to a halt nearby where the alien waits within the shadows, watching. The clown king is surely around another corner—just a little closer and he will be there surely to reveal himself.
It is within a couple moments of his standstill that she reveals herself, a creature of the night, a creature of not this world. She is something quite different from them all (a completely different species, perhaps a god of some sort). He does not feel fear from her, not even the knife-tail that flicks around her heels casually.
A wolfish green appears from ear to ear across his jowl. “Marvelous,” he says with admiration. He cannot help but admire such a thing that she is—a thing he has never seen before, a thing he cannot help but wonder what sort of power she can possess and the things she can do.
But then there is he, the prowler of the forest that has yet to come out. He turns his gaze away from the xenomorphic. The hellhound does not fear his life will be hindered in the presence of the alien (at least not now). His red-yellow eyes scan the forest surrounds.
06-04-2018, 05:11 PM (This post was last modified: 06-04-2018, 05:12 PM by Modicum Mortem.)
He stumbles across the black fur of the hound just as it breathes its last works (come out...). Eyebrows raise, and ebony hair stands on the ends of his neck. He is not afraid, more surprised than anything. What was this thing? Was it a shifter, or simply a lone predator camped out in his woods?
"...Wherever you are," He responds to it, nostrils flaring. He stays a few feet back, ice eyes glancing over to yet another - but familiar this time - figure standing among the trees. He glances between the two, allowing a devilish grin to tug at the corners of his dark lips. The creatures that are summoned by the forces here are nothing short of amazing.
He stands, awaiting a response, eyes falling back and forth between the two constantly. He wonders what would come of this interaction...
They stand in the autumn-forest, cloaked in the shade provided by the blood-red and pumpkin-orange leaves over their dark heads.
Hunter and Hunter and Hunted.
Perhaps the leader-Prey doesn’t realize it (perhaps he thinks he is too good for their animalistic lifestyles) but he is the Hunted, as much as he might feel like the Hunter. When his soft, supple skin is put up against the Predators’ (the pulse of his vessels sings to her like a siren’s song, the sweetness of his muscle dares her to stretch with her mouth, the sound of his breaths urges her to cut them short in a final, dying cry), he is no Hunter.
When their eyes find each other — glowing red-yellow to intelligent inky-darkness — there’s a mutual interest, pricking at the back of her mind like an electrical current. And when he — short and supple and sweet-smelling — steps into her vision, there’s almost a smirk on her face, if an alien-horse were able to do such a thing. The one corner of her mouths tips upward, revealing half-a-mouth of razor sharp teeth, and her dark eyes twinkle with amusement when she turns to the other Predator.
He is like Wolf, but much larger and much more otherworldly.
A Beast.
She knows he is wondering what she is, just as she is wondering what he is. “Nexu.” The only word in their sliding, dotted language she can pronounce with certain clarity. Her voice is suctioning and peppered with clicks in the back of her throat — one could almost call it the accent of her own language showing through despite speaking their language.
She steps closer then, eyes matching the leader-Prey’s gaze, and steps closer to Beast. Her nostrils flare to scent him (warm and earthy and shadowed). She isn’t afraid of him — hell, she’s hardly afraid of anything (Sister, her mind seems to remind her) — and thus she presses her knife-tail gently against his side, prodding at the thick fur that rises from his skin. It isn’t enough to hurt him; it’s hardly enough to even be considered pressure. Yet she is on-guard. She knows how Predators work and she wouldn’t be surprised if he lashes out at her.
She moves away following this prod, regardless if he snaps his teeth or claws at her armored side, and settles in the comfort of a chilly, inky shadow.
