Eligos is bored with the shadow of dragon wings blotting out the echo of vulture wings. He is bored with the sound of language instead of anguish. His attention, his furious hunger, is already following the scrambling carrion creatures. Even with his belly full of the blood of the bird that died beneath his paw (nothing, he knows, has ever survived the loss of a head), his hunger is still a tornado of a thing.
And he, like the desert and the violence that created him, wants to consume every dune, every wyrm, every ounce of life until there is nothing left.
Thana watches him go, a flurry of golden blood flying from his paws like spit from a snarl. Her own heart, her own hunger, chases after him before her body starts to follow. Promise is still an ember in her gaze turning to inferno when she starts to follow after Eligos and the tornado in his chest. “Until there is not a single feather left of the flock.” Each of her words is more violence than language, more wrath and ruin than sound. And Thana, terrible Thana, does not pause to wonder how she’s dissolved so quickly from regent to horror.
It doesn’t matter, not when she curls her tail through the torn off head (from beak to open throat) and carries it with her when she goes. The weight, and the feel of its weeping slipping like a caress through her hair settles something loose in her. The feathers of it wave in the wind like a flag of gore saying: follow me, follow me, follow me.
But Thana is too consumed by the hunt, the wrath, the tornado of Eligos that has shifted in her stomach, to pause to see if the sea-mare will follow like a fox cub to the wolf-mother.
@Lucinda
