10-17-2009, 04:02 AM
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Thanks to Akumu for the table!
The coyote woman was almost numbed now, her fighting emotions balancing each other out, though they washed over her in different patterns now, her face remained mostly calm, somewhat more controlled now. She had spoken her piece, and a half-living, half-dead face stared blankly forward, unable and unwilling to pick a side in any sense of that particular argument at this moment. She would not choose to let Samael wither and grow sicker with the coming winter, nor would she abandon Inferni (and Gabriel) again. It was as if the hybrid were being quartered; there were several strong instincts pulling her in several directions, splitting her into pieces.
The Aquila spoke, his voice slow and certain, sinister as a snake's. The hybrid did not fear his retribution; she had hit him once and that was enough, should he even attack the hybrid did not think she could defend herself. The instinct to obey him as her leader was powerful enough, but stronger than that, there was love—fragmented and hurt by their rocky relationship but ever-present within the hybrid nonetheless. He started to walk away, and her coal-black ears folded against her head, something like a whine sounding very softly in her throat, a puppy-call—a sound the coyote had not made in years. "Don't walk away from me," she said, and though there was the strong hint of command in her voice, there was pleading, too.
Hopping swiftly to her feet, the coyote took after him anyway, even if he did not turn to her, trotting just behind him and speaking lowly to his back. "Do you think I mean to hurt you?" she asked almost rhetorically, neither expecting nor requiring an answer. She walked in his footsteps exactly, stretching her shorter gait to match his own. If they had been walking in snow, there would be only a single set of tracks. "Never," she whispered, punctuating the prior statement and stopping in her tracks, watching and waiting for him to keep walking or turn and face her.
The Aquila spoke, his voice slow and certain, sinister as a snake's. The hybrid did not fear his retribution; she had hit him once and that was enough, should he even attack the hybrid did not think she could defend herself. The instinct to obey him as her leader was powerful enough, but stronger than that, there was love—fragmented and hurt by their rocky relationship but ever-present within the hybrid nonetheless. He started to walk away, and her coal-black ears folded against her head, something like a whine sounding very softly in her throat, a puppy-call—a sound the coyote had not made in years. "Don't walk away from me," she said, and though there was the strong hint of command in her voice, there was pleading, too.
Hopping swiftly to her feet, the coyote took after him anyway, even if he did not turn to her, trotting just behind him and speaking lowly to his back. "Do you think I mean to hurt you?" she asked almost rhetorically, neither expecting nor requiring an answer. She walked in his footsteps exactly, stretching her shorter gait to match his own. If they had been walking in snow, there would be only a single set of tracks. "Never," she whispered, punctuating the prior statement and stopping in her tracks, watching and waiting for him to keep walking or turn and face her.