THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE NIGHT AIR THAT STIRS A WHITE HOT HUNGER DEEP IN HIS CORE. HE KNOWS. HE KNOWS. BUT HE DWELLS ON IT IN LONGING, IN SOFT YEARNING, AN ADDICT WEANED FROM THE ENCROACHING FIX – TANTALIZING, SWEET, METALLIC. HE CLOSED HIS EYES. HE BREATHED IT IN. HIS TONGUE PRESSES TO THE ROOF OF HIS MOUTH, TO THE CORNERS, TO THE EMPTY SPACES BETWEEN THAT REMEMBER WHAT IT IS TO TASTE. HOW HIS JAWS REMEMBER WHAT IT FELT. IT SIFTS BETWEEN EACH DEEP BREATH, EACH ONE MUCH DEEPER THAN THE FORMER, UNTIL IT IS ALL THAT LINGERS IN HIS NOSE AND HIS MOUTH AND THE SPACE BEHIND HIS EYES – IT SEARCHES THE HOLLOW OF HIS THROAT AND CARVES A TOMB IN THE PIT OF HIS BELLY WHERE IT WAITS. HUNGER PULSING. HE TAKES IT IN LIKE A LONG DRAG ON THE LAST STICK IN THE PACK. TOO SWEET. TOO RICH. BUT IT IS SLICK AS HOT IRON, FULL AND LUSCIOUS AND TOO LIGHT! TOO LIGHT! HIS EYES SNAP OPEN AGAIN WHEN THE BREEZE SUBSIDES TO NOTHING, AND HUMIDITY IS ALL THAT REMAINS.
A SMALL GROAN PULLED MEEKLY FROM THE PIT OF HIS THROAT.
HE REMEMBERS.
IT WASHES OVER HIM LIKE A FEVER AND BEFORE HE CAN STOP IT, HE IS MOVING – HE IS PACING, STEADY AND ELEGANT FLOW, AS CALCULATED AND QUIET AS HUNGER COULD BE. HE CANNOT HELP THE WAY HE THINKS OF IT – DRIPPING, DECADENT, THE RIND OF SPLIT FLESH AND GNARLED BONE, THE WAY IT GLISTENS IN THE NOT-MOONLIGHT WET AND WARM AND FRESH. HOW FRESH IT SMELLS. HIS THIRST CURLS IN HIS BELLY LIKE A HEAVY VIPER ROLLING BACK INTO ITSELF, AND HIS LIPS CURL BACK FROM IVORN FANGS DAMP WITH SALIVATION – DESPERATION. THEY ARE SLICK AND SHARP, EACH PAIR OF THEM TOO TIGHTLY KNIT BEHIND THE PEEL OF FLESH. HE IS SUDDENLY ALL TOO AWARE OF THEM, BUT THIS IS FINE. IT IS ALL FINE. HE IS SHAMELESS, PREDATORY.
WHEN THEY MEET, THEY MEET AS THEY ARE: TWO WOLVES AT THE HEEL OF A KILL.
AT FIRST, HE SEES HER BUT HE DOES NOT SEE HER. SHE IS A SILHOUETTE, AN OBJECT, AN OBSTACLE, SOME UNDULATING, GROANING THING HIS EYES PASS IN A BLUR. HE SEES THE CADAVER, AND IT IS ALL HE CAN CARE FOR IN THAT MOMENT. (HE DOESN'T CARE FOR ITS DIAMOND PATTERN AND ITS GLOSSY SHEEN. IT IS RED. RED. RED. RED –) A POOL OF ICHOR DRIPS AT THE TUCK OF ITS NECK, AND HE IS ENTERTAINED WITH THE THOUGHT THAT THERE IS EVEN STEAM THAT RISES FROM THE WOUND – FRESH, HOT. AND WAITING.
ANOTHER STEP AND HIS HOOF CLICKS AGAINST THE OBSIDIAN STONES THAT LINE THE CLEARING. HE CAN ALMOST FEEL HER HEAT BUT IT IS NOT FOR CLOSENESS – IT IS SOMETHING AKIN TO FURY, BUT SOMETHING MUCH MORE PRIMAL. IT IS ONLY THIS HEAT THAT BRINGS HIM TO HER ATTENTION, BUT SHE IS STILL YET AN OBSTACLE. KNITTED TEETH, LIPS PEELED BACK OVER THEIR SHARPENED HINDS AND GLISTENING WET WITH RED, MINGLING WITH THE GREY, THE SOFTNESS OF HER NECK, GROWN RIGID WITH WARE. SHE DRAWS BACK INTO HERSELF, ALL WRETCHEDNESS, ALL WILDS, ALL AGGRESSION. SHE GROWLS, AND HIS OWN DEEP TIMBER OF A GROWL RETURNS THE FEROCITY, CRAWLING FROM THE PIT OF HIS THROAT.
ALONG HIS SPINE, HIS HAIR DREW ON END – FAINTLY REMINISCENT TO A TIME HE RECALLS HIS WOLFISH NATURE, ANOTHER LIFE THAT BETRAYS HIM IN HORSE FLESH. HE GUARDED HIS THROAT, HIS CROWN PULLING SHADOWS ACROSS HIS NAPE AS LIPS WRINKLED BACK FROM THE GLINT OF HIS FANGS THAT CAN ALL BUT ACHE WITH WANT. THERE ARE SHARP THINGS IN THE DARK, TOO.
IT TAKES A MOMENT BEFORE HE IS WILLING TO ACCEPT THE SCENE BEFORE HIM – FOCUSED ON THE DRIP, DRIP, THE SOFTNESS OF THE SOUND IT MAKES WHEN THE BLOOD LEAVES HER LIPS DESPAIRINGLY, PADDING AGAINST THE GROUND WASTED. IT IS ONLY THEN HE BREATHES IN THE AMBIANCE, AND LIKENS HIMSELF LESS LIKE A MONSTER AND MORE LIKE A DEVIL. HE DOES NOT LOOSEN ENTIRELY, NOT RELEASE THE GROUND HE HAS CLAIMED OR THE ANTICIPATION OF BATTLE THAT RISES IN HIS BONES. BUT HE SOFTENS SLIGHTLY INTO THE FAINT SEMBLANCE OF SOMETHING HUMBLE. HIS EARS RELEASED FROM BENEATH HIS HORNS, AND HIS SHOULDERS ROCKED BACK WITH A DEEP INHALE. "something tells me you're not the sharing type." WARM, SMOOTH, HIS TONES ARE A STEP AWAY FROM THE GROWLING TIMBRE THAT HAD SCRAPED THE EDGES OF HIS THROAT. HIS WORDS ARE SMOKY, HOT TRACES OF FOREIGN DIALECT - SOMETHING ROUGH AND PREDATORY BUT ALL THE WHILE DEBONAIR. HIS LIPS EASE AROUND THE SYLLABLES WITH A TOUCH OF SOMETHING SIMILAR TO SOLTERRAN RUGGEDRY, BUT TOO CONSUMED WITH UNDERLYING ELOQUENCE. "neither am i." BUT IT IS NOT A THREAT - A GRIN THREATENS THE CORNER OF HIS SNARLING LIPS, BUT HIS EYES ARE FAR TOO STEADY UPON HER.
@
