[m] [p] time for cake and sodomy
#1
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WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

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Setting Location Form NPCs
Location: The Trenches

Date: ~1 Aug (Foredated)

Weather: Overcast, foggy, humid

Time: Late afternoon
Optime



Machidael is by me!

The rust-colored hybrid grunted as he leaned over his kill. The blade of his dagger flashed, slicing the deer in appropriate places. It wasn't a knife made for this work, but it would serve. He had a mind to try trading the raw pelt for more of the dagga, as Amaury called it, but Machidael knew no one. And -- even if he had, he doubted very much a raw, uncured pelt would be worth so much.

He'd tied his horse some distance from the kill, knowing the scent and sight of blood might madden her. Seraht was a feeble sort of mount, just the type of horse to make him miss Zahi harder -- but for the moment, she was his horse. The rusty-hued hybrid grunted and yanked at the deer. He scowled and the dark tip of his tail flickered as he worked. This carcass was larger and tougher than the antelopes he was used to dealing with. In his mind, this was an antelope -- a weirder one than he'd ever seen, sure, but an antelope all the same. He did not know the word for "deer."

More annoying than the virtual worthlessness of the kill was the damage it might have done to his spear. The animal had fallen on the side Machi speared him, and it had been a harrowing few moments before the chestnut-furred jackal could ascertain his weapon's wholeness. Thankfully, it was well-made and had suffered no damage. He glanced at it, leaned against a nearby tree, and returned to his work.

A crow cawed, and the rust-colored hybrid glanced up. Quite a few had gathered to watch his grisly work. Some perched in the nearby trees; still others circled up overhead. An especially bold bird, dark as night and with intelligent black eyes, hopped up toward Machidael. The jackal paused, frozen, to consider the creature and allow it further advance. The crow hopped forward, regarding him with his shrewd eyes. It made a noise, and snatched a piece of the deer.

Machidael let it launch itself into the air before he snapped forward and smacked it out of the sky. The jackal barked a laugh at the squawk the bird made and watched it tumble on the ground. It lay, dazed, before slowly getting up and wobbling away. Machi watched it go, still snorting under his breath. He called to it in Arabic. Try again and die, friend. Your kind picks at my leavings. Such creatures ought to know their place.

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#2
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If she thought too long on it, her own cowardice angered her, maddened her, even. There was no reason for it. Even the worst of outcomes was not something to flee from, and moving up from that... well, she still did not know how an ideal meeting might unfold. She imagined that there wasn't a perfect way for things to happen -- but that was still not reason enough to turn away when she was so close. Ironically, her lack of conviction meant that she had already stayed in the general area for far longer than she originally intended.


What had been the plan? Come, study Inferni for a while, and if her father or sister were there, see them, then leave? (Leave and go where?) It had been near half a year now, and she had known that Myrika was in Inferni for most of that time. It was likely that she was avoiding the decision that needed to come after just as much, if not more, than she was avoiding her sister. After Inferni, after the inevitable meeting, all that awaited her was a fit of directionless existentialism and unanswerable questions.


Even with the cloudy skies, the late summer heat was uncomfortable, pressing down around her like an invisible trap. The trees dotting the rocky hills were sparse, which, despite giving contrast to the smothering feeling, did little to lift her mood. The lithe coywolf moved at an eager pace, always ready to return to the cover of forest.


A spiral of black birds curled out a good distance from its center; she saw them from a half mile out and moved towards them automatically. If she was lucky, they would be circling an abandoned carcass that she could freely claim. If she was less lucky -- and it always seemed to be the case that she was less lucky -- someone was there already, or several someones.


As she neared, Cassandra saw a nervous horse tied to a tree, shifting back and forth on its feet. She studied it a moment, but did not approach. Words she did not recognize came from nearby, as did the protests of several crows. Cautiously, with her cloak draped casually so as to not appear to be hiding anything, the albino woman approached the red-furred stranger and his deer.

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#3
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(--) SKJakjfkwljgklwaejg I DID NOT SEE THIS OR IT WOULD HAVE BEEN MY FIRST REPLY 8| 8| 8| 8| x 100


Machidael is by me!

Cruelty was a way of life in Machidael. Although the raider clan had tried to instill some sense of morality and righteousness in him, he balked them. His mother had taught him he was the embodiment of a god, so why did he need to respect the laws of Luperci? He ran with them and kept to their ways for a time, out of necessity perhaps -- or because the pickings were good. But he did not absorb their lessons, and when he realized the repercussions for breaking their laws were few, the rust-hued hybrid had taken advantage of it. He had done so with more vigor when he realized the usefulness in inciting his fellow canines to their own rebellions, and soon he'd been far from the only one. It became more difficult to punish the more of his unhappy fellows he roped into dissent.

Now, there was nothing to temper his inhibitions, with he followed with the rigidity found in some of the most stoutly religious. Just now his inclination was to tempt more crows, so he tore pieces from his kill and flung them forward. Closer and closer to the corpse they were, sure to draw the hungry birds close. Perhaps this time, rather than punching, he'd use his dagger. A plethora of black feathers to decorate his dyed-dark hair might serve him well. Machidael had never been one for feather decorations -- perhaps because birds were difficult to capture in his homeland without certain ranged weapons. His spear was not suited for such tasks, ranged weapon as it was -- he'd learned that upon destroying a hawk or two. Only the largest birds could withstand the long spear, and those were rarely encountered anyway.

He was watching for the crows when another noise drew his head around. It was a pale canine, and at first Machidael thought it was a wolf. He reared up a little bit, setting a hand protectively on his kill. He scrutinized her, and as his crimson eyes came to her face, he realized she bore the same features he now recognized to be coyote. They were more similar to the jackal than the wolf, though the differences there, too, were stark. Her color still threw him, for he'd only encountered coyotes of brownish and tawny coloration, as with the idiot in Halifax and Sebante. Machi had never seen an albino before, and therefore did not recognize his first.

What want? he asked, reverting to English. He knew this to be the tongue of this land, though he loathed to speak it. It was so much more difficult to express himself in English. At least in his mother tongue, he stood some chance of being understood -- though he was coming to suspect many canines of this land simply had little to say. If they were all addle-brained as the brownish coyote in the city, he could hope to live a long, lovely life interacting with morons. He might not even bother to try and learn their tongue more completely. Sebante's rudimentary education was already half-forgotten, the more obscure and rarely-used words -- along with tenses and all sense of grammar -- had flown out of his head. As the most extensive conversation he'd engaged thus far had been with Amaury, the heavy-accented African dog, he had little hope of picking up the words by observation and listening.

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She had met foreigners before. Creatures from distant shores and lands of human and canine lore alike. Many were wolves, but sometimes, they were smaller in size and stature, like the fellow before her now, and with a way about them that was odd and exotic. She had heard stories of Europe and their villages of wolves, all civilized with their horses and houses and clothes of one sort or another -- this was the lifestyle that Thornloe had imitated to an extent, but they had neither the population nor the resources to recreate the splendor told of in stories brought back from overseas.


There were other regions in the land across the ocean. Africa, Asia, or sometimes it was just the East. She was no expert, but the non-European lands seemed the ones with the non-wolves. Jackals, were they called? It had been some time since she had last encountered one, and that one too, had had a heavy accent, without many English words known to her. She had been older and frail, travel weary and quiet, and Cassandra had not learned much from her. Their ways and customs were a mystery to her, much less their language, if there was even a tongue as common as English was on her own continent.


The pallid woman held her hands up, pink palms facing outward. "Nothing," she said quietly. "I'm only passing through..." She smiled and feigned embarrassment. "Though if you've the mind to share, I would not turn down a meal..." And who would? She had pride in her skills and her self-reliance, but there was no shame in taking what was freely given, or even in taking what could be taken.

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(--)


Machidael is by Nat!

The wolves and even the coyotes, with whom he was supposed to share blood, were strange creatures to him. He did not understand how the coyote could run the gamut of color from tawny to white (and, he presumed, black as well) and be more relative to the jackal than the wolf. Perhaps Sebante had lied? Machidael had trusted the creature to a great extent, and perhaps all of it had been a mistake. Machidael was not used to being made a fool, though he knew the foul taste of betrayal well enough.

He sized her up and down, looking over the cloak. It was draped in such a way that Machidael could discern no weapons, though perhaps they were only expertly hidden? Or perhaps she was a master of combat without weapons. Either way, she was a woman, and he did not fear her sex. He had seen warrior women and ridden with some of them, too, but when they raided a village or town it was always the screaming and clutching women who went down first. Their weaknesses were known to the rust-hued jackal.

What give? He thought back to Amaury and the word he'd used for the smoke. Dagga? The jackal had no way of knowing this word was not a typical reference to the plant, of course. Fuck? he added, rudely gesturing at the object used to perform such an act. And why not? Sebante had been his last, and Machidael was used to far more frequent pleasurings than he received now. It would take a particularly lowly sort of canine to prostrate themselves for meat, so easily obtainable, but Machidael and his ilk preyed on desperation.

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#6
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Cassandra had been worshipped once, too; it had been a shock to her, but she had been betrayed just as quickly, as easily. She was more strange than the rough-spoken seadogs and more beautiful, she had been told. Something easy to look towards, to look at, to revere in a shallow, mindless sort of way. A holy, pure goddess amongst the dirty mongrels of the mountains -- all men, of course -- but nothing ever stayed scared for long. Only fools believed in such things, especially if their god was themselves.


Asked in a different manner, she would have been happy enough to shrug, tell the stranger that she had nothing of value, thank him for his time, and continue on her way. But fuck? She could have laughed, but gave a sly sort of grin instead. Did she look so desperate? It had only been a day since her last meal; were her bones showing already? Did others spread their legs so easily? It was not an offense taken personally; no, she was not so easily bothered anymore by the trivalties of swine. But it was an excuse. And she had not known that she had been looking for one until just then.


"Is that all you want?" she asked sweetly. Cassandra paused and looked the jackal in the eye, her own still reflecting some odd combination of embarrassment and experience. She undid the tie of her cloak, shrugged it from her shoulders, then held the heavy cloth in front of her, as if to cover herself a different way. "But we should eat first, or the crows will have our meal."

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#7
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(--) /snortchokedie


Machidael is by me!

The smile was unexpected, and Machidael regarded her with the slitted snake's eyes of deep suspicion. In his experience, many found sex to be a special thing shared between those who cared about each other, and many more grew ornery at the suggestion of unacquainted relations, even if unattached. And still, a memory resonated within Machidael of his second stint within al-Iskandariyya. He remembered the canines from the first time he'd lived there, too, but at such a young age, he had not known their purpose. There were both women and men, according to taste, and though Machidael had never been prosperous enough to have indulged himself, he'd longed from afar.

He would not, however, have expected to encounter the same thing on this continent. From all Sebante had said, it was less civilized by far, and such esteemed trades -- for what else was something allowed to pleasure him, but an esteemed trade? -- were not found here. His suspicion prickled again, and the rust-streaked jackal wondered if he had said anything Machidael might rely upon. Her removing the cloak bolstered his hope, and the jackal was preparing to stand when she tucked it before herself and spoke of the crows. His head snapped toward them and he hissed frustration at the closeness of them. Crows were of no concern to him with more tantalizing games to play. They scattered at his scrutiny, however, and Machi was quick to return his attention to the pale supposed-coyote.

You run, he said, and extending a finger to point at the spear and then the horse. I chase, I take, he promised. There would be killing, later, but first there would be taking -- or perhaps both, simultaneously? Machidael would have time to decide. Though his steed was a tottering old thing, he did not need to ride her down -- he could throw the spear from horseback just as well as he could with both feet planted on the ground. The rust-hued jackal took a step away from the midsection of the corpse and shrugged, gesturing at it. His knife was sunken into the exposed flesh around the ribs. He didn't particularly care if she ruined the pelt, for by occupying himself with her, he'd surely waste the brief time in which it was easiest to skin the thing. It was therefore likely he would give up his pelt-prize anyway.

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#8
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POWERPLAY? I do what I want! Minor powerplay cleared with Siebutts. ;D


His few words made it difficult for her to understand exactly what it was he wanted her to do, or what he intended to do to her -- but whether a rape play request or a threat of rape, it didn't matter. It seemed that he believed her ruse enough to offer her some of the carcass, though her interest in the deer had left entirely. It was easy enough to prey on others' misguided sympathies. It was far more satisfying to prey on others' misguided contempt, arrogance, and self-assurance. And she yearned for the distraction of that satisfaction.


Cassandra approached the stranger and his kill, sizing him up discreetly while keeping her gaze on the meat. "Thank you," she said. He and she were roughly the same size. She guessed that she was probably slightly larger than the jackal unshifted, but on two legs the difference was negligible. The spear had been the weapon that had fell the deer, but it would be hard for him to use it against her until she was much further away. Other than that and the knife still in the dead animal, she saw no other weapons and doubted any would be hidden under his skirt. A more genuine grin tugged at the corners of her lips at the thought.


Gracefully, she crouched opposite him on the other side of the carcass, cloak temporarily draped across her lap. The jackal had watched her carefully and now opened his mouth to speak. In the moment it took for his maw to part, she stood again, letting the cloak drop, a tiny, three inch dagger in each hand. She lounged at him, one dagger swinging upwards towards his face while the other shot forward towards his crotch. Her eyes still smiled innocently while her lips curled back in a snarl.

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Machidael is by Nat!

Machidael suspected nothing from the woman. Her kind, when warriors, always made a boasting show of it. All the female raiders he'd known had been such -- they wore trophies of their kills and flaunted their status as raiders more often than they even raided. The leader of the raiders' clan had been a woman, and even she, strongest of the she-beasts, had fallen bloody and lifeless, speared by some idiot peasant. At least she had the good sense to die in battle and with the taste of glory, rather than suffer a phthisis of her power and strength. The old once-warrior men and sometimes (albeit rarely) women in the clan had been worse than even the boastful types.

Having already picked at the carcass, he had no intention of joining her, and instead stood awkwardly at beside the corpse on its opposite side, gazing down at her with cherry red eyes. Her ghost-paleness still disconcerted him, and Machidael studied her with sharpness in his gaze, his gaze more bloodied and deeply red in coloration. They also lacked the otherworldly transparency of her colorless eyes. The pinkness of her flesh was pleasing, however, and he could imagine there were pale tinges of pink elsewhere on her body, too -- in far more pleasing spots than the tip of her nose and the pads of her hand. Machi imagined them and a grin, almost happy and glittering with the gold of his tooth, appeared on his small muzzle.

Her thanks was received with a monotone grunt, and he seemed not to allow its distraction from sizing her up. He did not prefer women -- his tastes tended more toward masculine, and Machidael enjoyed males he could dominate (and therefore avoided wolves, who typically outsized him by a great deal, as a general rule). It was no wonder coyotes appealed to him, then. The jackal was never one to refuse opportunity, however, and as she was pretty enough to raise his desire, he could certainly indulge himself. He grew restless and dissatisfied with his own play after only so long, and that time had since past. It pleased him to have found one willing to engage him, and one of quality, at that.

Perhaps he was too busily engaged with appraising her body and imagining its rose-tinged features, which were soon to be his for a time, to see her intent -- or perhaps she simply made none of her intent known. Machidael never knew. He was opening his mouth to suggest they both might accomplish their ends at the same time, if she would only shift her position a bit, when there was a sudden movement. Drawn out of his desirous imagination and formation of his inquiry too slowly to truly react, Machidael jerked out of purely masculine reflex. If he lacked in this instinctual flinch, he would have lost the thing which made him unequivocally male -- and an eye, too (but that seemed less important in the grand scheme). As it was, the small blade tore through his thigh. The other flashed mere inches from his crimson-hued eye.

The salty scent of blood, which had been growing steadily more rotten since the deer's death, was suddenly renewed, and Machidael knew it his own blood-scent. The slickness was palpable along his thigh, and the searing fire of the cut more so. He realized his own lips were snarling, and he added a cacophony of growling and half-yowling to the expression of fury. The hybrid crouched half-way and swiped at the blood with a hand. Bitch, he hissed. Fucking coyote bitch, he added, more colorfully, and followed it with a string of slurs and promises to fuck her bloody in Arabic, despite knowing they were probably incomprehensible to her. He flicked the excess liquid off his hand and onto her pretty pale coat.

The skinny jackal took a step, funneling the pain this caused in his injured leg into the ferocity of his snarl, and took another edging around and away from her. He needed his knife, or, better yet -- his spear. His crimson-colored eyes flicked to both in turn, though they visited the pale coyote between both, wary of her motion. He took a step forward on his uninjured leg and held the other hand against the injury, trying to to stave off the bleeding. Some of the fire was starting to leave the wound, but he needed a weapon all the same. Machidael was a brute fighter and capable of downing an unarmed enemy of similar size even when he himself was unarmed. Still, the rust-furred jackal had thrown the spear, watched it pierce the chest or belly or leg of some distant foe, and sliced too many throats with knives of his own not to be wary of even her little blades.

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She sneered at him as he crouched and allowed herself a moment to enjoy the scent of new blood in the air while he cursed at her. The strange, slurred language he went off in was oddly beautiful, even if she knew with certainty that he was saying nothing beautiful. She spared him no poetry; if she had wanted to kill him, the time he wasted on words would have been time enough for her to strike twice more, four times more, and take what could be taken. Cassandra was built small and lean and had always made up in speed and accuracy what she lacked in strength and endurance, even as a child, though those days, her skills had been put to gentler tasks.


The pallid woman followed the jackal's gaze a moment and remembered the horse. Lips still curled, she returned her eyes to him as she knelt briefly and picked up the edge of her cloak with her left hand, transferring the blade from that hand into some secret fold. Then in another sudden movement, she pulled up so the heavy greyish tan fabric flared up between them, hiding her for a moment during which she charged forward again, thrusting her right hand skillfully forward, timed so that her dagger cut through the air as soon as the cloak lifted out of the way. The stranger was hidden from her view as she did so, just as she was hidden from him, but from experience, she knew she was aiming for the middle of his chest, just under the sternum.

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Machidael is by Nat!

The rust-colored jackal did not comprehend the severity of his situation, nor his own woeful unpreparedness. Why would he, when he had conquered every foe put before him? He had run from fights, of course, retreated with the rest of his raiders and flew before Khayri, but those were different sorts of fights. Picking on the weak of the world was all he'd done thus far, and to have a foe competent enough to fight back surprised him. And truly, he didn't understand why he should be attacked -- they'd come to an agreement, and there was nothing strange or offensive within that agreement. Bodies and lives both were traded each day.

He wanted the knife stuck in the corpse, for he did not dare even swing a fist at her with the blades in play. But she was standing closer to the corpse of the deer than he was, and with his injured leg, he could not hope to move in and take the knife before she cut him once or twice -- or more times, if she opted to slash quickly rather than stab and he was truly unlucky. Hissing his frustration, the hybrid watched with frustrated crimson-colored eyes as she moved for her clothing. The russet hybrid took a shifting step, and jerked in surprise as the garment flashed between them, hiding her from his view. He hunkered down and raised a fist, thinking she sought to cover and tackle him while he was engaged in removing the thing. He'd let most of it pass over him and fling whatever covered him away with the hand.

She came charging through instead of leaping onto him, and Machi was surprised to the point of delaying his shoving with a shoulder for her oncoming body. He snatched for a wrist or arm with his opposite hand. It occurred to Machi he might even seek to bite, but the jackal sought to disarm before he stuck his face anywhere near her.

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#12
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As ever, her father's words echoed softly in the back of her head while all other thoughts fled to accommodate the focus and attention needed to move quickly, strike quickly, react quickly, everything quickly. You must not judge, Cassandra. Other cultures were different from hers. Other canines' beliefs and ideals were different from hers. Their differences could be reconciled and there did not need to be violence. But the truth of the world was that believing was for children. Everyone was wrong. But some were more wrong than others, and there were paradigms to shift and egos to crush and justices to serve.


The albino woman always expected the possibility of missing her blows, but it surprised her when the jackal was lucky enough to blindly grab her incoming wrist -- and in just the right angle that made it difficult for her to drive the blade through his fingers or palm. But Cassandra did not give him long enough to think of what to do with her thin wrist. Her body followed the motion started by her hand and arm, half-stepping, half-leaping over the fallen deer. She lowered her head, jaws wide, and lounged for the jackal's chest. She would tear a pretty ring off his nipple and wonder if he found the pain even distantly erotic.

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Machidael is by me!

The momentum of her motion was too much, especially as she followed through and dove for him. The jackal was tossed backwards, trying to fling his legs beneath her even with the movement. One leg was injured, though, and slowed -- there was only his good one on which to rely. There was a flash of teeth before him and a searing bolt of pain on his chest, and the hybrid howled. He flailed his free hand in attempt to beat and slash at her head while he yanked at her arm with the other, claws scrabbling for a hold in her flesh.

He twisted his skinny body away from the pale canine's jaws. The pain came to a fiery head as he was distinctly aware of a tearing sensation. Gasping with that and already panting with effort, he heaved with his good leg and bad leg both, though one screamed with this effort. His midsection was splattered with a few drops of his own blood at this renewed effort, but he aimed to put the strong runner's muscles of his hindquarters beneath her weight and get out from under her.

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The little bit of metal came away easily, followed by a modest bit of blood, but the satisfaction was immense. Even admist the awkward landing and flailing of limbs and claws against her slight body, Cassandra found that she could not keep herself from grinning, teeth bared in a mocking jeer. She jerked her head back fast enough to avoid being swatted at, then quickly untangled herself, sustaining minor blows in the process. She pushed off from him eagerlu, moving in the same moment the jackal's good leg shoved out towards her.


She stumbled backwards a few steps, plucking her dropped dagger from the ground as she did so. Straightening up, the albino woman pulled her cloak back around her shoulders, tucked the blade within it, then with a last parting sneer at the stranger, turned and bolted for his horse.

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(--)


Machidael is by me!

The pale coyote scrambled out of his grasp and away from him, losing her balance with the kick, though it delivered no damage. The rust-colored canine sat up with a growl of pain, his hand clutching at his chest. He was quick to scrabble to his feet, though, expecting her to rush in again. It surprised him when she did not, and instead retreated. Machidael hesitated a moment, glowering at her and almost thinking to let her go -- until he realized his horse and other things were back in the direction she was headed.

With a loud curse the chestnut-furred jackal started off, intending to chase after her. When his injured leg hit the ground, however, Machidael knew he would do no chasing. His eyes scanned over the ground and fell on the corpse of the deer, long forgotten. He hobbled toward it as quickly as possible, throwing the injured leg out to increase his stride despite the sharp bite of pain it gave him. The skirt he wore was torn near where the knife had nicked against it, and the slick of blood ran almost to his knee now.

His crimson eyes searched the corpse for his knife and found it, knocked aside and close to the animal's rear hoof. Machi grabbed it by the back of the blade and cocked his arm back. It was his knife and he knew its weight -- and also that it was not meant to be thrown. He launched the already-bloodied thing at her with his good arm, not particularly caring if he hit the stot instead. It was worth his while to at least try, and if the horse died in the process -- well. Maybe it would be better if she left, but he considered that too late -- the knife was already in the air.

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An ear flicked back at his curse and the swell of satisfaction and victory in her chest was more filling than the meat of the deer could have ever hoped to be. Distantly she acknowledged that she often just the same in her judgments and arrogance and bitter contempt, but as always, the justification was in her own understanding. In her own mind, at least, there was no pretense, though her deceptions would have others think of her the same as she thought of them, no doubt. And so the world devoured itself, uninterested in compromise and understanding.


The horse was a well-worn palomino mare, tied to a tree by a short length of rope, still fully tacked and laden with a good-sized bag. Nearby, a second, larger bag sat on the ground next to a very tall spear. She did not have much time to really decide how thoroughly she wanted to rob the jackal, however, as a rough blade struck the tree above the horse with a loud thuck. The animal, already spooked by the presence of her, a ghastly stranger, tried to rear, but was prevented by her short lead. She whinnied shrilly in protest, shifting awkwardly in place and tugging at her rope.


Cassandra leapt on the animal's back, and with some effort, wrenched the knife from the tree, nearly losing her balance as she did so. She leaned forward to cut the mare free, then sat abruptly, one hand clutching both the reins and her mane, one hand still grasping the blade as the animal took off with fearful speed. Though she made no effort to direct or rein in the horse, the mare also made no attempt to buck her, and the albino settled onto her mount quickly enough. She tucked her newly won knife into the bag and sighed heavily as they left the jackal behind. She was grinning, still.

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#17
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(--)


Machidael is by me!

When the blade sailed over her and stuck thoroughly in the tree, Machidael knew he could not reach her quickly enough. Perhaps if he had a real throwing knife, or if the blade hadn't been already blood-slicked and therefore harder to grip, he might have at least nicked her and bought a few more minutes. When she was atop the horse, though, he knew it was lost. Still, he tried to advance, his injured leg stiff with the pain of his motion. With the movement and flash of his knife, Seraht was suddenly free and barreling away from him with the pale stranger on her back. The rust-streaked jackal's scowl was deepened, furrowed across his face and accentuating the darker hints of his jaw.

He kept his mouth shut, at least, as he watched the horse's fleeting hindquarters. Though he seethed with anger, he actually did not know any curses to articulate that anger. Perhaps he owed that for his silence. Soon, even the pounding of hooves faded away, and Machidael was left in the relative silence. He glowered in the direction of the last spot where he'd seen the pale flaxen hindquarters of what had been his horse. A cawing brought him out of his angry stupor, and his head snapped to attention, back toward the deer corpse. The ravens had settled down on it and were feasting away.

Machidael half-staggered to them, leaping half-heartedly when he was nearly upon them. Some were already rising, but a few of the most ardent feasters were too concerned with their meal to take heed of his advance. Snapping and slashing his claws, he tore into two, their lives hardly soothing to Machi's anger. The rest exploded away from the corpse, screaming and crying their own anger and fear.

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