"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
The warm days of summer had faded away. He is greeted by the brisk winds of autumn as he stands on the edge of the meadow, where the forest borders from the east of the neutral terrain. The hellhound inhales the crisp air, tasting the scents that the autumn winds bring to him. He licks his lips in anticipation as the hungry within him rumbles.
He moves forward from the edges of the meadow both with grace and pride. The black hellhound holds his head high like a proud king. Losing Sylva may have been a blow, but he has found himself recovered from the loss. Instead, he is thrilled with more confidence. Perhaps it is the hunt that gives him pride now, taking the life of another so easily. The badge of a predator he wears so proudly now.
Red-yellow glowing eyes follow along the horizonal grassland. Glancing over the few bodies that are dotted throughout the mid-afternoon day. The day is rather grey, but the sun gives light to the day through the shield of clouds today. There is sign of rain within the distance, but he never minded the rain at all. Instead, he focuses on the dotted bodies ahead—the hunger rumbles again, reminding him.
I wanted to leave something besides a blood trail,
besides prayers growing stale on my tongue.
The autumn breeze plays with the pale locks of her mane, twisting and knotting them into careless braids. She’s the color of snow on the side of the highway and her eyes are tired like she hasn’t seen rest since before she was born. Maybe she was wide awake even in the womb, she thinks to herself with a weak laugh. Maybe if she slept she could remember where her children are or what their faces look like. Cellar wonders if she loves them but she isn’t quite sure how a name should taste in her mouth when you care for the one you call.
When she called for Tyrael, it always tasted copper like her own blood and tears.
When she called for Ledger, it tasted like venom and bile.
She closes her eyes and remembers the faces of the people she’s killed more easily than anything else in this life. A part of her likes to think that she loved each of them for the brief seconds they were in her life. It’s easy to recall the way she cried every time they stopped breathing or the way she offered up apologies like they could bring them back if she meant it enough. Her breath exhales in a shudder. The death always left her feeling dirty and hollowed out, even worse than when her father taught her how to bite down on someone’s throat. Vulgaris is still out there somewhere, she knows, but she keeps away. His new family wouldn’t want her darkening their doorway.
When she opens her eyes again, she watches the hellhound watching his prey and she remembers him for a fleeting moment. Somewhere in the haze of another autumn, she had known him. Her legs move forward the way weeping willow branches sway in the wind. She swallows hard and wonders just what she hopes to gain from speaking to him again. A monster can never form a connection like she yearns for, lies awake every night sobbing for. Friendship is reserved for those spun sugar souls. Cellar is not like them, not at all. Instead, she is beautiful like a freshly sharpened knife. Her scales shimmer in the sun and her cold green eyes hold no emotion. She is a weapon and nothing more.
Hadn’t she learned that by now?
“I hadn’t expected to see you again,” she croaks, some half attempt at a smile taking over her face. Tears are already welling up in her eyes as she braces for harsh rejection. The sharp angles of cheeks would be breath taking on someone with more confidence, someone more worthy of such lovely features.
Cellar takes a step back and wonders if it would be best to leave before he can even tell her to. Her body is just a thing to be used until something stronger or more useful comes along, she reminds herself. She is a means to an end. She’s quick to crush the hope of finding a companion, to devour her own just blooming confidence as she tells herself that monsters don’t get happy endings. They just get what they deserve.
Cellar
I could give you my body, my flesh,
offer it up like a sacrifice, like a banquet.
08-25-2019, 09:20 PM (This post was last modified: 08-25-2019, 09:27 PM by Sinner.)
there is but one rule hunt or be hunted
His creators made him an omen.
Others had called him a monster.
One would call him a lover (if that was the right word for their relationship).
A few would call him father.
These names meant nothing to him. Only names that tethered and bounded him to others. He simply was none of those.
He was a hunter. It was simpler that way. Just the hunt and it’s prey. The adrenaline running through your veins. The sound of ripping flesh and breaking bones. The taste of blood, with every bite there was a high.
The hound wanted more of it. He needed it. Needed it more.
Always more. More. More. He wanted more!
He can smell their sweetness. The life that beats heavily in their chest. It ignites him in ways that only a predator could understand. Not even a prey could sympathize with the addiction that fueled every predator. They would have called it a sickness, but it wasn’t that at all. It was completely different. It was life—simply living itself.
There was power in every death. Every victory with every life that was taken. He won every time—winning a feast to devour.
Sinner licks his lips again. The edges of his lips lightly dripping with drops of saliva as he continues to watch the dotted bodies across the meadow. Carefully, he studies each one of them. His thoughts are messy, the hunger within him disrupts every stable thought that comes to his mind.
There was too many to choose. He couldn’t decide. Weak or strong? Did he want a challenge? The hound’s eyes glance back and forth.
Suddenly, a faint, yet familiar scent enters his nostrils. Sinner’s eyes light up. His mind quickly locks onto that sent. The hunger grabs it and clinches it firmly.
The decision was made.
His red-yellow gaze finds the source of the scent coming his way. The hellhound traces along the edges and crevices of the familiar gray mare. A sly smile creeps slowly across his face, but it turns into something warm and pleasant as the familiar face comes closer (he masks his intentions perfectly now).
“@[cellar],” the hound’s voice is warm and welcoming. “Cellar wasn’t it?” He asks. It had been a long time since he saw the face of the grey mare, but he never forgets a face. Every individual he crossed paths with was remarkable. There was a purpose for each of them within his divine plans—even if it meant to fill his cravings.
He watches as she takes a step back. Sinner takes a step forward, not letting the space between them to increase. No, he couldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t allow the prey that came so willing to him. “Yes, it was Cellar.” He says confirming as the memories come to mind. “It has been long…” His smile widens a little more as his eyes quickly glance across her figure. Her scent is burning with sweetness. The hound can already taste the pleasant taste of her flesh. “It’s been too long, indeed,” he adds as he meets her gaze.
