since I was born I started to decay
#6
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Okay, I am slow!


He didn't have time to think about it. A wolf, in Inferni territory, and the reek of wolf blood in the air; a wicked, toothy grin spread across his face, snakey tongue licking viciously at his lips. How delightful it would be, to rend the fur and muscles from the pearly white bones that would taste so delicious between his jowls or shape so pleasantly beneath his knife and serve as a wonderful weapon. Wolf bone weapons, yes, the best dagger and spikes that there ever could be, like trophies in his hands. Where was his free spirit now? Perhaps on the ground, wherever he'd abandoned his "Peace and Love" picket sign.


He loved throats, how soft they were; that was how the Juniper alphas and their stain on Mother Earth had been so delicately removed in the night in years past. There was a scar on his opponent's face now, the blood trickling like oil paint on the canvas, and how beautiful beautifully red his blood was! It would make a far better color on the wolf than the ugly color of his fur. Razekiel would be doing him a favor. He relished the feel of the sand and dirt between his toes, pushed at the soil with his talons, and readied himself for the opponent's approach. The wolf's teeth clicked this way and that in a wild, messy fashion; Razekiel staggered his way back, but his enemy's direction was unpredictable and the wolf took a good, damn bite out of his shoulder before the coyote hissed and instinctively threw his jaws aside. Pushing himself up onto his hinds, he used his weight to try falling on the wolf in his attack, jowls this time aimed for whatever they could touch; a nice grasp of his ear meant his eyes could be scratched out, while a clasp on his shoulder could be used to throw him on his back and expose the glorious bumps of his ribs, screaming to be released to the air. Best of all, if Razekiel could just grab at that beautifully shaped throat of his, there would be no better feeling in all the world.



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