Mortals, or things born, cannot hear as well as made-things and she tries not to hate her for it. She tries not to bare her teeth, and clack her jaw, and pull the hate out of the mare’s marrow. It rides her hard, harder than the hunger, when a touch brushes lightly across her shoulder. Her teeth grind against the roar echoing in her belly.
Eligos has no such hesitation and his snarl sets the bones-of-stars to trembling like deadwood in a hurricane. He scrapes his claws against the glass-shards.
Screech, like a blade on a gravestone, screech.
Thana does not smile at him, or the mare, or do anything but lift her blades up in warning. “As all born things do, you do not listen close enough.” There is more snarl than sound in her voice, more tap, tap, tap of a monster at a door than greeting. But Thana does not ask to be let in when she drags her horn down the center of the mare’s face before pressing hard against her lips. Hard enough to cut. Hard enough to maim.
Her hooves make more thunder on the bones when she steps closer. “I could teach you.” The flat of her tail taps against the ground, asking in a way that her horn never does. Her entire body screams with the language of monsters, of unicorns, of things no feeling can fathom. She screams of hunger as much as she screams of wrath, and war, and devastation.
Thana hungers.
And the sound of it lives in her teeth when she moves to drag them across her own lip until she bleeds. Drip, like a promise at the tip of that blade on a gravestone, drip.
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