It Must Belong Somewhere

[Crusoe]

Dead. Death, everywhere. On the breeze and on the wind. The very world was alive with death. If it were possible, of course. None of it was real. It was a story made up in the fantasy wolf's mind to keep him entertained along the drab walk, each paw-step a lingering drag over the chapped earth. Bored. Boring. What was there to do when alone? Count the steps it took to travel to another meaningless location? The wolf's muzzle quivered as it passed over the ground, nose a-twitch-twitch-twitching about many stalks of grass. Or what he thought was grass, at least. Bright green eyes searched wildly out in front, trying to spot something, anything, to save him from boredom. But today (so far) there was no saviour, no hero. How about a villain? For some reason that sounded just right. This was not a place of gods, no... try devils instead. Demons sitting on angels' corpses and plucking their pearly wing feathers. Mmm. He openly salivated at the thought.

Except here was not up for free pickings. Any carrion that was found could only be eaten on sentence of theft, though the skeletal creature was already criminal in nature and therefore not fazed. Death.. death awaited him if he did not eat, and even if he did. Dine one shall on foreign table, and so prepared they be to fall unveiled. Sort of... if caught, then it would be a sure thing that the lurking darkness would make itself known. Come it shall. I am the janitor. A twisted little show of teeth, and the loner meandered onwards.

It was hard knowing where to put a paw and where not. The terra had a most deceptive appearance, almost as crooked as himself in its ways. One placing had almost resulted in the earth opening up, much like a dream the wolf had once slept through only to be assaulted on the head by a tree branch. A painful prickling over his head in memory gave the wolf reason to snort, the exhale of air passing out like a cloud to join its flock in the sky. One sheep I cannot eat. No, the fluffy white puff may resemble such creature but was nothing alike. What shame! A hungered gurgle from the stomach did nothing to soften his mood and he continued with head hung low, eyes sunken from lack of hope until something. Yes, something. A sighting.

Half-drowned in a flimsy grave of bog-water was the small body of a bird. A black one judging from its mucky feathers, though it could just have easily been a raven or crow. Either way Crusoe approached, snuffling madly across the uneven land until its exact location was pinpointed. Splashes of mud weighed around his furred legs, some clumps of equal substance also hanging in sloppy strings from the swishing curve of his tail – it had taken some time to reach the deceased critter after all, and it was no glamorous trek. With a mighty sigh of relief, the wolf eased his meal out from the bog by pinching its crumpled form between teeth and pulling, narrowing an eye when a splatter of dirt flew up. Now almost positively filthy, the sullied and bony loner spent it not another thought and began to ravenously tear into the bird's remains. Bon appétit!

[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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The ground --- it moved. Like his heart: thump, thump, thump, beating like the pulse in the roof of his mouth, the throbbing of the glands at the back of his throat. Movement, like the waves, the tides that bound the desire to the heart, the heart to the loins, burning, burning. It didn't matter, the agitation said. It didn't matter at all, and the thickness of his fur tufted together into hackles, rough and spiked, shivering with the unspoken voice of the creature beneath the flesh. The world beneath the flesh. The desires, the complexity, the utter contradiction of the simplicity of his drive given eight thousand dimensions of a fractured glass reflected in the dirt-pools that opened up at his approach.

As always, the silence.

As always the voices -- but they were not real, and he shut them out as he would the yapping of his cub child, the whimpering of the bitch who dared to give birth to the former brute's pups; salacious desire tore through the lining in his stomach, made his body clench with the trembling lust of one gone insane on the supper of his fantasies. So much strength led down the wrong path, and he had been steered there, led there by the nose at the earliest hint of puphood.

He had learned at the tit of malnourishment, drank deep of bereavement even as the bitch ran dry -- as dry as her cunt and as barren, too. Frustration and the bitterest longing suffused his heart as it thudded so painfully in his throat, his chest to resound within the thick, broad chest that opened up with the nobility of his birth. Dire, the Noble Rot, and he the victor which claimed supremacy over them all; such a false sense of security and yet the years had passed after he had silenced her ravenous hunger, silenced her for good, though he ached to hear the grating sounds of that throat rumbling in his ear.

The tormentor, become the lover -- and he the victim which had fallen under the bony curves, the infestation of fleas and ticks, the smell of rot as her body destroyed itself from the inside. And yet there was the pride. There will always be the pride, and his breath snorts out in a puff of air; muzzle wrinkles, pelt as white as the ice which coated the heart, ruined the heart.

A creature of darkness, the ultimate blackness that called to the darkness in others, but the indifference made him worse, the ambitionlessness made of him a creature to be mocked, and destroyed. Let them come, he had once said, his voice rumbling into the silence of his solitude, and they had, oh they had come. They came to the call of his strength, to the call of his ego, and the promise of bloodshed in the noxious breath of his jaws, the black stains of tar that hollowed out the contours of his fur, his teeth to gleam a greasy black, his tongue poisonous, darting, disgusting. Sinuous as the shadows of gleaming scales between the sheets of tormented lovers.

What creature this, but demon? What creature but the detested of the mighty, the outlier given power under strange, enigmatic circumstances? It burned, this desire to do what he had not done in months: to rebel against the chains which kept him bound -- but he had put himself here, and it was here he would remain until he was satisfied, until I have destroyed the memory of her.

Such was the gloom, such was the darkness, the silence that heralded his approach, the seemlessness with which he churned through the depths of mud, of croc, unafraid and unthinking, reminiscent of another battle fought on such grounds. Years ago, it seemed, that another had battled to keep him off these very grounds he now owned. A chuckle caught in the midst of letting loose and twisted, silenced. Nothing but the silence, and the churning of mud under paws.

Then the action, the play which drew it's curtains back, revealed the highlight, the spotlight, the hero in green and white pelt, in the mysticism of starvation and the utter disregard for territory. Yes, yes, the anticipation was it's own monster, it's own desire that sapped the strength of his convictions and left him emotional, made the pained, hollowed eyes gleam with interest, with the wicked mischief of one who enjoyed another's suffering. What was not suffering in that hollowed out body? Those bones which reminded him so balefully of her -- the very creature he sought to destroy beyond the grave. The one who had stolen him, though he did not know, though he would never know, now. Born of love, when his life had been built around the hate, the failure of it all; mate, mate? And he had plowed her, sought to spread seed in a womb tainted with disease. Failure? And he had been the one to be shamed, the weak one, the notoriously incompetent one. Impotent; he seethed.

What trouble was there in the thrust? Forward, back, forward, forward, forward? And still he could not do it -- shame, shame, and the voices clamored -- whispers of a past he had sworn to forget, but never could. Forsworn, as every morning, every midday, every evening, Konstantine pushed, forward, forward, like the thrust -- thrusting himself through the mud, through the grime, becoming part of it as the coat of glimmering white became grime, became much less than the glory he had been proud of.

Who cared, who cared? And the light swiveled toward him, the words written on blocky text. He read, as he had always read, knew as he had always known: there was no situation in which he was unfamiliar, no place in which he would be disoriented. This was but a wolf, and he the greater, always the greater, the beast that waited with gaping jaws. Swallow, and the glands pulsed, heavy with the latent, lazy desire of their existence: poison gushed like a broken dam over the contours of his tongue, senses reeling from the intoxication of such an orgasmic release; he swallows, convulsively, poison dripping like tar from his lips as his ears flick up, elongated and terrible, horns woven so intricately close to his skull they were nearly invisible, hidden by fur.

Blood pounded, world rolled to a ponderous stop; he stared, he smiled, toxic sludge stretched down to blend with the mud, burned through and fell to the bottom. He chuckled, "Too incompetent to find better game?"

Not a taunt, a claim; not a challenge, a reality. His eyes, glacial and ready, dissecting, knowing the lines, the exchange, the reactions. So simple, this play, and ever had he been the center of it, the world revolving around his paws, and his alone. He grinned, crooked and insane, nearly cracking his jaw in half as the ooze pooled on his tongue.

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[Crusoe]

Though the tousled pickings were mangled and torn in a grinding swallow, no relief was bought by consumption. It wasn't enough. Not even the whining edge of hunger was hushed by the feathered snack, for all it was was a snack. Satisfaction could not come close. With flesh so meagre it would take great pursuit of nutrient to restore what should have been his, lost to frailty and plague of curse that lay within his own skull. Pity for one's self was long since spent, and all that could be spared for the last dribbling of mouldering decay was a bitter cackle. Spitting out a few of the eaten bird's sooty plume, the wolf was about to lumber onward through the slough once more when syllables rang out like the sounding of church bells to a fugitive. It halted any wanted movement, bringing instead the slow twist of head and flick of ears as if offended. Feeling like a criminal just caught in the act, Crusoe eyed the oncoming wildly. Impressive! Who had seemed himself like a ghost compared to the one drowned in mud, somehow the brilliant white still shining through as if the mud weren't there at all. And here he himself quivered in a wrapping of bog-wash, almost trembling from the shock of the encounter.

“No,” It was thoughtless protest. “No. Not hungry.” Like a child denying the stolen cookie with a smudge of crumbs across its face, the words might have been even slightly convincing if not for the following of internal grumble that could only be a sound of need itself. Twitching at the contradiction his body had given, the loner turned to fully face the other and found both acidic eyes drawn to the fountain of toxin falling from behind a tormenting, shaded smile. Grin. Whatever it was. There was a delirious charm to the ill sight, something that held strong lure over his ability to see. Though look away he wished, every desire had become rendered as useless. Paralysed by curiosity, the wolf viewed the wolf with a widened stare which was deep in intrigue. “Freak!” He finally yapped, tail beating out a sloppy wag that proceeded to spray mud everywhere. “Freak! Freak! Freak!” The chant-like shouting was soon accompanied by the up-and-down motions of hopping, bouncing and skipping – anything to highlight the bizarre pleasure derived from the discovery of a... well, 'freak'. But enlightenment did not come without a price – in its wake was a class of ignorance that resulted in the slipping and falling into the clasp of sinking quagmire.

It was very much one of those what the fuck moments. The sensation of non-existent hands dragging, grabbing and pulling him to the under was overwhelming and every struggle ended in yet more adversity. Age here was very much the creature's enemy – youth forbade him the calmness to practice self-control, and also the knowledge of to know what to do. Helpless and without the strength to wrench himself free, Crusoe could only laugh out of disbelief, amusement perhaps the final emotion to cross paths with his distorted being.

Ooc- sorry for the wait and for the fact it's not so long. I've been really distracted lately.

[Snowey]

The Beast, The Beast, he lingers far, lingers near. The body if not poisoned, the mind is plagued. The memory tainted, the body broken. The spirit dead, the heart blackened.

She-wolf padded in the shadows her off virgin coat tainted by black markings were muddled by the shadows and light from the canopy above her horned head healing was not a gift but a curse, she could not escape the hell the beast had built for her the hell her power did not help her with. Bags were beneath her light green pools, ebony nails held the earth between her toes catching scents in the air she cautiously tracked it as she drew closer she went down lower and got smaller she hadn't gained a power yet what use would it be to her here. Everyday she dreamed of killing the scarred beast, powerless to do it. She crept around listening.

[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]

Freak -- yes, freak, and he the epitome of it. Such a strange word, a crooning whisper he yearned to hear in his ears again, to feel that terrible fur brushing against him. Demanding from him, but he could not be swayed -- his will was his own and he had vowed not to kneel before any. So the interloper, so the conqueror! So laughable this turn of fate, this disastrous keening of grief that resonated in his very bones. He detested the very chains in which he had bound himself and could only look with a morbid sort of pity at the creature before him. Who cared for this pain when there was this pathetic plight to watch? Shadows could not distort the ugliness of the creature -- the heart which shriveled with cowardice. What was this?

Ear canting, eyes sliding down the length of spine, the length of leg, there ignited a certain the arousal: blood, death, exterminate the pity, destroy the creature. His lusts rolled forward like the tide, hackles seeming to dance to a tune only his blood-rushed ears could discern. thump -- and he took another step, his eyes strangely lit as they looked upon the creature, as they devoured the creature (he could not say this was a wolf -- where was the pride?). He was but flesh and bones, his mind a broken child's thing, and he had had enough of this madness. Enough of this insanity that brought the whispers into full spring.

Scents of lavender could not penetrate the shit he waded in, the smile that oozed out between black lips, the bleeding warmth of his expression as annoyance quickly folded away into this, - - this:

No point in a circle -- simply standing, watching the flailing, watching the disaster unfold, the strings of fate taking a hand where her consort death had not. Noxious fumes dripped from the span of lip and tongue, from the glands which pulsed in glee, a resonance of desire that lapped at his loins, made his groin burn, burn.

"You're a broken thing." He says, his voice soft, crooning -- the song of death that comes heralded by silence and invades the sweet silken dreams of your mind. He is the poison: the oil which divides the water, pollutes as it strangles, destroys. Yes, destroys. Did the creature think to attain help? So laughable -- hie muscles coiled beneath the harsh pelt, his skin seeming to dance, to writhe as bone and thought conjoined into motion. Kostya chuckled, a rolling sound of amusement that slid between his venom ravaged mouth -- fangs all black, tongue stimulated by the sheer mass of it drooling out of the sides of his mouth.

It fell into eternity, and met the floor -- sizzle, sizzle -- but it was a sound he had grown accustomed to: dire wolves breed such. Or at least, his birth pack had. Ha, ha.

"What's this? What's this?" -- and he gives voice to the madness as he had never had before. "Ha. Ha." Tail swishes, curls at the very ends as ears cant to the side, a delirious happiness beginning to smolder in the phosphorescence that sought to devour the very creature he should be welcoming into his world with open arms. Or perhaps, this was his welcome, this his smile, this his hug.

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