Comfort in pain -open-

[myth]

A few frogs croaked somewhere from the shadows, the trees above shifted in the wind, creaking mournfully as they did so. Sol's legs were caked with mud and slime. But, the rest of his crimson and sable locks were clean, the only things clinging to the rest of his pelt were shadows. They caste a strange velvet hue over the land, a violet light. The horns on his head became more prominent as his ears shifted against the rest of his pelt. His tongue lolled between parted rims. The air was heavy and hot. Overbearing. The crimson male tilted his head to the sky and howled. A beautiful alto song that echoed through the bog before being lost in the mist without an echo in remembrance. He could not help but feel that there was someone else there. But, the bog often felt like that. He snorted, a small amount of flame appeared in front of him, scorching the air. His blue orbs scanned through the mist, trying to see through the dark shadows and patches of fog, to no avail.

[Perpetual]

---

Wings stretched out as far as possible, making the muscles flex out as far as possible. The huge eagle wings then tightly enclosed to the barrel of their owner. The fog was thick and the swirl of the air pressure didn;t last long before filling back in. Dark blue eyes, the hue of nightly sky before it turns to haunting black. The blanket over the bog today was a bloody red, slowly fading. The air was only hot and sticky here because of the warm waters. Every where else the air was frosty and bitter. Sabander was high in the leafless trees. His ears had detected the sound of another wolf. A howl almost comsumed and forgotten by the barren land. Saber crouched on his branch, watching down at the watery grave bekiw him. His powers spread into the enviornment. His mind filled with the thoughts of the trees and creatures. He was concentrating on picking up on this solitary wolf however. He had yet to meet someone his powers did not work on. [/size]

[Kostya]

+ KONSTANTINE +
••• CALL ME KOSTYA •••

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
who art as black as hell, as dark as night

[/color][/center]

Did he know that Saber still lived? He should remember these things, should know these things as second hand, if not first and foremost -- but Konstantine never remembered anymore. His mind was full of fog, rolling onward into the bog of his consciousness; this land echoed his inner self, this selfish, self-important inner-self. He sloshed through the bog, churning mud, churning hate, but it was all distant from him. He was emotionless, without conscience, without caring. Where others were consumed by hatred, by the pettiness of life, Kostya was darker, swirling deeper into the loathing of the heart.

He lived only to kill, destroyed whatever crossed his path -- he was Alpha because he would not bow. He was Alpha because none could take his throat inbetween their jaws and kill him. There was no other way, and he relished this power, flexing it about with the simplest ease. Kostya knew, with a liesurely turn of his ear, and mouthful of toxicity coating his tongue, making his senses reel from adrenaline and pleasure, that there was nothing stopping him if he put his mind to it; so he walked, and thought, and chuckled ever so slightly beneath his breath.

Dull, emotionless eyes slipped over the figure who howled, slipped over the curves, the colors faded and unsaturated before his ever consuming hunger. He saw red, breathed red -- what was a wolf painted in this color but a wolf begging to be brought to heel; his muzzle gapes open, fangs coated in that ugly blackness, staining fur and tooth and soul. "You're here. Let's hope you're interesting." nothing more. He is not kind. He does not care.

If he managed to drive away all of his packmates, Kostya would still be content knowing that he was still supreme. He smiles, but there is nothing kind or beautiful in it. "You're a pretty thing, but this place is meant for ugly. I hope you can become ugly." such strange words, to be spoken, slipping over wet, oily tongue -- his eyes seem to glint, drawn by the red, distracted by the red. Does the wolf bleed as redly as his fur? He grins, unable to contain the glee, nefarious as it was.

[/size]