A Stranger...

[The Fallen]

The wind was cold bringing bits of frost. The moon shown down on the terra. The tree's cast shadows, so eerie and so dark. The rushing water was dreadful, driving off many prey and predators a like. The small crocs that lived here was hungry but waited patiently. The few mammals that ventured close where devoured with only a squel and a chomp. Nothing was right here....but it made it all the better for the dark wolves. Though, the abscence of howls would have caused worry had not the sound of paws hitting the ground echoed threw the night.

A large dire wolf female was walking towards the river. She had the thickest, blackest pelt known. She had a small white patch on her chest, but that was all. Her long, powerful legs moved with grace, large paws skimming the ground. Her body moved fluidly, muscles rippling under her sinew and fur. Large chest rose and fell in perfect rymth. Long neck was muscled thickly, medium sized head held high. Delicate kiss-shaped ears where perked. Amber gold orbs stared at nothing in particular. Black jowls where opened, lips pulled back to reveal silver tipped fangs. The female was daring to cross into their turf.

She stopped beside the river. Her eyes scanned the place, the scars on her face making her look deadly and lethal. A snarl was rumbling in her chest before ripping out of her jowls. She flicked her ears back slightly and shifted, knowing the cold, biting wind was blowing her scent around the territory. Her eyes where set on the opposite bank. She glanced at the waters before jumping in, making a loud splash. She swam quickly to the other side and shook her fur. She noted one croc biting into her leg and that amused her. She bit down deep into it's belly then brought her head up. Blood, sinew, and flesh clung to her teeth, and dripped onto the ground. She gulped down the rest, before throwing the bottom in the river. This place amused her.

She turned back to the forest, standing regal. Her head was high, ears pricked. Her fur was standing on end, bristling ever so slightly. Tail was pointed straight up, jowls bared and still bloody. She let out a howl that would send chills through any mammals body that heard it. She then awaited the wolf that would come, wanting entrance into the pack.

The female was.....
+The Fallen

+

[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

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Darkness. It was his domain, though his fur was the off-virgin color of purity; though his eyes were glacial blue, though his fangs were hidden beneath silent, still lips. It was in the silence that he roamed, in the quiet padding of his paws against the land he had claimed, ever so slowly -- like the toxic poison which dripped over his tongue like oil, like slime. Fertile with toxins, it destroyed the body, but he had ever had the immunity of the blood in his veins, of the strength of his species. The world continued to turn, and Konstantine merely remained in stillness, a fixture that surpassed time, surpassed the usual gluttonous power that oozed through his fur, his eyes to glint ever so softly, ever so emotionlessly. The glinting was an illusion; his eyes were dull, flat and barren, waiting for the excitement to prick him, to make him bleed, to make him feel alive.

He was a creature awaiting a purpose, awaiting the moment his fangs were needed, awaiting the moment when action must be taken; so he walked, fathomless heart buried under eons of torture, eons of the wretched disease which cracked open his mind and let mold pour into the mosaic of intelligence there. Old, but not so old. Alone, but never truly abandoned. He had the pack, and the pack was his purpose -- he would destroy the world which had denied him his fun. There had once been a war on these lands, and he had reared up with salacious smiles, with lascivious desire pooling in his groin, making stiff the hackles which double layered his taut, roving shoulders. He had arisen, waiting for the bloodshed, only to find it was not to be, that the alphas, like his former, had given up on the death and the dying. To him, to the beast who now walked, filthy, broken, seething in angry silence, there was nothing but the dying. And the killing. Yes, yes, the killing. He would kill and celebrate in the blood of others, in the blood of the wretched young. Yes, yes, let there be blood, let there be violence, and violence there would be at his own decree.

Lips moved, the first motion that stirred the mask of indifference; stretched slightly at the ends to bare the tip of fang, a glimpse of black, noxious breath and decaying gums. He lived as he breathed: spreading poison into every nook and cranny of the world, capture the young and brilliant and making them frail, making them dark and broken. He would bring truth, because he was Kostya, and Kostya had ever had the bitterness of being the lone wolf who saw the utter truth: there was no life in life without the thrill of death nipping at your heels. You were never your best, never reached the potential without the horror of possible failure breathing so hotly down your scruff. He would be the harbinger of doom, the creator of destruction, the reign of terror, and he would love it well.

Ha, ha, and he stalked through the land he had claimed, elongated ears pinned down to his skull, white virgin fur masked by dried blood, by the stench of his kill, of his horrendous breath, of the dread that seemed to hang about his every contour. He was strong, he was vicious, and more importantly, he was ugly. There was nothing in him that screamed elegance, but the brutish curves of his fangs and shoulders, of the width of his hips and the strength of his legs. He was a weapon unleashed on an unwary world, and held no beauty but the singular trick he had refined into an art form. The silence heralded his approach, the stench of female heavy in his nostrils; then the howl, that reverberating hellish sound that thrilled down his spine, made his ears flick up, his horns coiling nearly unseen in the presence of his fur. Grey-blue eyes lifted, emotionless as the stirring of intelligence came and went; he followed the sound, saw the form and snickered, his lips turning in a sneering of disdain. Who did this wolf think she was, standing so regally as if she owned the world? The snicker grew, turned into insidious laughter. Evil was not pretty, and there was nothing in him that would give her the credit she may have felt she deserved.

She was but a puppy playing at adult, and the thought amused him, made him rumble out when otherwise he would remain silent, "My, my, my, chicklet has her feathers in a ruffle doesn't she?" the timbre of his tone was resonate with the shadows in the water, with the shadows that seemed to crawl in the crevices of her body, and he latched onto her eyes, saw through the illusion of pride and grinned, gaping thick fangs, black tongue. "Come to play a game, little girl?" he taunted, tail swishing, muscles annoyingly relaxed. How could he fear this strumpet, parading around as if her mere appearance would impress him. "You've come, now tell me what you want."

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[The Fallen]

X FALLEN X
A Wolf Fallen Into The Arts Of Destruction. No Longer The Frail Beast That Once Walked This Earth, But The Beast That Would Bring Your Own Destruction....

X-X- Fallen had turned her head, her nose wrinkling in disgust and irratatio irritation n as the bitter wind carried HIS scent her way. A low, malicious snarl built in her chest, her dark amber gold eyes gleamed, deadly and dangerous. Her jowls clamped shut with a deathly click, yet her lips did not go down. She would not flee like some pup, she would stand tall and keep her ground like the hellish wolf she was. She had Fallen from the ways of weakness, from the ways of being frail and a mere pup in other's eyes. She had changed piece by piece, shaping into the wolf she was now. Her father, the greatest blood-thirsty wolf of his time, had formed her into a cold, steel wolf who did not tolerate others who where weaker, and softer. She was shaped from birth to be a murder, and that is how she is now. Nothing could change this bitch's life and if you tried, say good-bye to your hold on life.

Glaring into the shadows, she spotted him. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and her muscles locked with anticipation. She let the growl, bloodthirsty and venomous, slip between her jowls as he approached. He dare come so close? He dare judge her by looks. She might be beautiful and elegant, but that was just the ways she looked on the outside. Scars covered almost every inch of her body, yet her thick pelt covered them. The scar across the left side of her face was one of hundreds. This brute, the king of this land, dare think she was nothing but a weak female. She would show him what she was, a female who was a bitch, whore, and fighter through and through.

His voice was dangerous, yes. A sound that would have scared her if she had been a pup but it's effects rolled off her form. She was pissed, his snicker having set off her control in rage. Her lip twitched, and her nails dug deeper soles into the ground. She wanted to rip him to shreds, to wipe that smirk off his face yet she had to keep it calm. She could use him to kill of the weaker race, to bring destruction to light and neutral packs that dotted this world. She just had to bide her time and use her cards right. She knew her whore card would be wasted. Being and Bitch and a Fighter would work right at the only right times. She calmed a notch, anger supressed for a second.

Her jowls parted, tongue slipping from her jowls as SHE spoke now "Watch your tongue brute. I am nastier then you think, and willing to show it to prove me point" her voice was a mere hiss, red spittle dripping off her fangs. Her voice was a deep, hair-curling rasp that scared the hell out of any light wolf "I have come to join this pack. The others are too weak and good for my blood-thirsty tastes. You may reject me, but I will hang around, nothing drives me off from the place I want to be, yet holding my own against you would be a problem. I can tell that you are beyond evil. Its rolls off you in waves, and the scent lures me closer. Yet, do not think I am a love-sick female, or one of those frail things. I have fought and killed more wolves then you can count" she clipped her jowls together, waiting to see what he had to say.

They had skipped past introductions and she was fine with that. He did not have to know her name, no one did. Yet, she was not called X The Fallen X for no damn reason. She had fallen from the good wolves and climbed high in the dark world. She knew more then most and would be a great wolf to have in addition to this pack, but it was his decision and she had a feeling he would not tolerate her for long. Her anger was rolling off in waves, and the smell of ozone surrounded her. She had triggered her powers without a thought but that didn't matter, she was pissed and that was a bad sign.

[/font]

[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

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There was more than danger here; there was the excitement, the utter delight with which Kostya had always viewed the violence, the anger,m the sheer magnitude of lustful fervor. In the desire to destroy that flesh, there was the pooling heat of unrequited longing. It was a disease, a plague that crept into the split fractures of his mind and made him want, made him crave what no wolf should ever want: the destruction of it's own kind. But there was something about her, something regal that came to him as a familiar sight -- an almost deja vu thrill that teased at his younger memories, pulled them out with careful, tender fingers. What was this thing he knew, this face he felt he must remember?

Thick paws, heavy and muddy dug into the ground, sinking, sinking with the sheer bulk of his body. Power was undeniable in his veins, but was he quick? Did he need to be? Ha, ha, the dire wolf had never feared the scorching heat of battle, the vicious, cruel marks of claw and fang. It was his own way to worship life -- this insidious howl he let loose in the silent coils of his eyes, of the muscles which writhed underneath the scored, broken pelt. Hideous, yet the power was there, just out of reach, oozing past the blackened lips, the decaying tongue. Toxicity reigned supreme, destroying the mind, polluting it so only the cruel remained.

Ah! If only Olya were here, his soul cried, writhed, folded inward in an inverted sickness for her flesh on his tongue again. She had created him with her dementia, and he, well he had ended her nonsensical madness. The anger reminded him, provoked his memory, made him think of times he had never thought to think of again: that time between the dark beauty of Orchid, and the lascivious nature of his adopted mother, adopted lover, adopted murderer. Names were unimportant, he had learned, though he had ever had a fondness for his own -- so aptly named, with hard, thick syllables clicking off the tongue. It seemed to match him.

Nose crinkled, disdain as clear as the condescension of his stance, of the utter dismissal of her powers. He knelt to no one, now. Now, he was struck by ambition, by the need to move, to do, as he had never had been before -- before that. A sickening smile of satisfaction as the anger rode the air hard, made his nostrils flex, his pupils seeming to tighten with the beginnings of the rut. The threat merely pushed him forward, made him take a few more stalking steps toward her, that slim-waisted, narrow-shoulders beauty.

Whorish mongrel. The smile gaped wide to show his fangs, toxic fumes burst out with the excitement as glands gushed out the black, oozing liquid. The taste made him delirious with adrenaline; he swallowed, a nearly convulsive thing as the madness crawled up his spine, snapped it's fangs around his neck and shook him hard. Take her, it screamed, wanting the taste of her flesh in his mouth, knowing the right was his, but not truly caring either way. If he had been the one trespassing on her territory, he would not have cared a wit, and would have sought the same end. He played at Alpha here, caught between two commingled desires. These wolves were pansies, little boys trying to play at men, snapping and snarling when he knew -- when he knew -- that it was but a hairsbreadth and a whimsical desire that separated their life from their death. Watch your tongue brute. I am nastier then you think, and willing to show it to prove my point.

A thrill of anticipation curdled the poison in his mouth, made him swallow, made his eyes raise, a heated look glazing over the emotionlessness corner; the change was a slow one, where indifference fell away to curiosity, to interest, then inevitably, to the hot stress of being denied what he wanted. She threatened, and he wanted to accept it, to feel her hot breath on his skin, to know her fangs in his flesh, to know that he was still alive, to show her that she walked the edge of death. What a game she had brought to his doorstep! He chuckled, a rolling, taunting sound. Yes, yes, little girl, continue to amuse the big bad brute, the wolf that'll eat your little red riding hood and fuck her remains. I have come to join this pack. The others are too weak and good for my blood-thirsty tastes. You may reject me, but I will hang around, nothing drives me off from the place I want to be, yet holding my own against you would be a problem. I can tell that you are beyond evil. Its rolls off you in waves, and the scent lures me closer. Yet, do not think I am a love-sick female, or one of those frail things. I have fought and killed more wolves then you can count.

He laughed, he could not help it -- so earnest this desire to prove herself to one such as him. A laugh, as raucous and uncanny as the way in which he was watching her, calculating the length of ground between he and her, wondering, so idly, how it could be breached. A laugh, yes, he had laughed, and though the laughter dwindled down into nothingness, there was that warmth in his tone that said clearer than words that he taunted her, antagonized her because it was so easy to do so. "Now why would I reject another slave?" His voice dipped down, growing rough with the edges of a growl, and sexual arousal. "but enough of this. I want your flesh, and you're angrier than a pup denied it's first meal. So let's do this, shall we?" he chuckled, a rolling sound as poison dripped down from his stained fur, drooling down with the hungry salivation of a wolf starved. "If you'd like, I'll make sure there's nothing left of you to wander around."

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[The Fallen]

X FALLEN X
A Wolf Fallen Into The Arts Of Destruction. No Longer The Frail Beast That Once Walked This Earth, But The Beast That Would Bring Your Own Destruction....

Oh, he had pissed her off. She sank her claws into the terra, muscles tightening under her thick satin pelt. She felt the growl in her chest grow in the size. The pure venom of it ready to eat the lupine's vocals to show him she was pissed. Her fur pelt bristled, not one fur left still or lying down flat on her bodice. Her pupils dilated, eyes narrowing to mere slits. Ah, he wanted to fight her...to hurt her. She would give him the battle of a lifetime...she would show him how much her fangs hurt when they sank into yielding flesh and continued to rip out a wolf's throat without the slightest hesitation.

Pink tongue slipped from between her jowls, before slipping in. She tasted his wanting for the battle, could see it in his eyes. He was waiting for it.....wanting it so bad. She was ready for it, ready to make him believe she was a lupine not to be messed with lightly...someone who could make him go wild with desire to kill. A low, seductive chuckle slipped from her jowls as she began to move, not towards him not away from him but in a tight circle around him, out of reach...for now. She wanted to please him...oh yes pleasing him would be good. She imagined the fight, knowing it would be bloody and painful but oh how she loved the feel of pain.

His words cut through her sense of thought. He wanted to start the battle? Oh she would start it without a hesitation. She stopped before him, still out of reach, flicking out her tongue again smelling the sexual desire. Hm....not bad. She let another chuckle escape her jowls as she said "As you wish...but don't forget...I don't let other cause me pain without a price" she flashed a devilish smile before the air began to crackle with power. Her scent....the once murky smell of blood had turned to the smell of burnt rubber, burnt fur, and the smell of burning flesh. Her orbs where a bit glazed, desires mixing in together.

This would be fun...oh so fun. She couldn't wait to sink her fangs into the powerful male. To feel his teeth graze her flesh. She knew he had toxic fumes in there, they filled the air around her. She knew he could kill her but she would make sure he didn't have the chance. Her own gift could shock his heart to bits but no...she wanted this to be a deadly game that lasted for a long time. She wanted this so bad, she was aching and paining for it. Finally, without a warning lightning clashed into the ground before him, the beginning of the end of time. The first 'attack' in this battle of desires that ran free.

[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]

Round and round the circle goes, where it stops, no body knows, nobody indeed but the big brute, the enthralling brute, the ugly brute who tip toes a round the circle, nudging, nudging, pointing that narrowed muzzle hefting daggers for fangs. Dire wolf, noble wolf, he of the shadows and the winters, the darkness and the ubiquitous light -- ha, ha, and his laughter resounds in your ears when you lose your way. Pretty patterns hold no portent when he speaks, his tongue to writhe and speak as it pleases, lie or truth is anyone's guess. To him it's as natural as breathing, as natural as dying when the poison becomes too much, when all that's in front of you are the vicious hallucinations of a nightmare's breath. Tail swishes, large paws move forward as the excited distress tightens the circles in his eyes, makes him seem to be lost to sanity, though such could not be farther from the truth.

My mistress death, he thinks, of burden, of idolization -- he would worship her living the only way he knew how: to kill, to bring power in the bursting of blood, in the shedding and stressing of life. Each resonating tremor rumbled through his body, shook the deepest core of his wolfish being, tearing apart the soul which ached simply to be. She speaks, this dark inversion of himself -- black, petite, and female -- but she is so much like him that the off-setting flavor of her rage is just a hairbreadth different from his own. He exists simply to kill, she for the joy of the rage, for the joy of dominance. Let her play, he thinks as tenderly as a lover, as a mate who gently, quietly slides his fangs in her fur, into the neck, waiting, waiting for the moment of unity -- but this unity was of a different coin, the flip-side of lovemaking. Dark, harsh, and the world exploded into light, blinding him, burning him, his nostrils to widen, his lips to snarl as the poison gushed over tongue, over fang to pour onto the ground where it hissed in it's own virile anger.

Yes, the lightning. Yes, the blinding pain. Yes, yes, yes, he takes it all, wants it all, and grins through it all once the shock -- ha, ha, -- fades. A brittle tension has arisen and he watches as they tiptoe around it. A rumbling chuckle, as intimate as a lover, "How charming, my lady." and he eases forward, watches her as she circles, as she holds herself ready -- so easy this ritual. To know. To want.

The first step -- she taunts. The lightning to flash at his feet.

The second, though he does not move to fulfill it: he must attack, but he knows the way this dance is to be held. He attacks, she dodged and gets leverage, and the leverage is unforgivable. So he grins, a sickening delight warming the phosphorescent colors of his eyes, vibrant and glowing as the pleasure coils in his mind, makes his body oily as a machine, efficient and perfect for it's task. "Let's do this then." and he slithers forward like a ghost, the whiteness of his pelt so contrasting to her dark ebony hues -- he dives forward, rushing, uncaring for the pain, for the disaster that she holds at the tips of her claws -- let her burn him! Let her kill him if she has the guts! Without fear, without care, and with a frightening confidence of one who lives in recklessness, he charges her with a fleet-footedness that brings him to her feet within a span of three heartbeats, his hackles raised, his horns disguises against the flatness of skull, the coiling of fur -- his eyes though, they burn, burn blue, burn deep and his jaws flash black, as the shadow she claims to represent.

Blackness, as tongue, fang and maw reaches for her paw, two inch fangs reaching to sink into the delicate turn of her leg, the graceful arch of fragile bone. Please, please, his loins clench, his hackles stiffen as tail lashes -- the ground beneath them churns as the paws lands, heavy and large, the bulk of his weight on the front. Bite, bite, he reaches for it, sees it, desires it. Let it be!

[Snowey]

Occ:I shall judge.

[Kostya]

Fallen has left I believed.