[M] dreamless sleep will fall like a deep, poisoned well

(Now AW for CdA members.)

POSTED: Sun Feb 02, 2014 3:13 pm

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It contains extremely graphic violence. Reader discretion is advised.


More hours of his young life were spent within the bars of a birdcage than outside it. One might wonder if it was that experience that warped him in permanence, a child’s desperation for freedom hardened instead to an unfeeling stoniness and a shard of smiling granite unaffected by the weather of people. One might wonder if it was his mother's fault for trapping him there and filling his mind with accusations of demonic possession, for neglecting him while doting on his eldest brother. One even might have wondered if this man could have been crooked all along—if he had been born with this dampened morality and skewed priorities. Knowledge above all else. Knowledge and experience above the brothers that loved him, above the crop-eared caretaker who worried for his condition, above the countless lives he had ruined or the families thrown into mourning for his actions. Judas did not care. He did not possess that sympathy. Neither did he possess fear, regardless of his rapidly failing vision and sickly, frail body.

But anger—Judas felt anger, and Judas very much did not enjoy feeling. The birdcage of his youth, a trinket collected from Anathema with the help of Panda upon his return to Nova Scotia, he could not explain his attachment to or why he demanded it in his possession. As a child it was his prison, his bane; as an adult it was like a collectible, a treasured reminder—and for one unfortunate child in recent months, a temporary home just as it had once been for him.

But that child—and the cage—was stolen from him the previous autumn, evidenced only by the lingering smell of piss and Cercatori in their disappearance from his hat shop home. Judas expected a rescue for the child, but the cage? Why had they taken his damn cage as well? It was an action he had not anticipated, something Judas had not foreseen. Such a thing did not occur, not to Judas. Nothing was an oversight. All was predicted; all followed according to plan and presumption.

But this had not. His cage was stolen, taken without the Aika's foresight, and just as the cage had not resurfaced, so would his anger refuse to subside.

Judas stalked Cercatori borders on many an occasion, clear of all wandering scouts and never daring to tread within. On this fated occasion the Aika glimpsed a tawny coyote settled in the morning sun beneath an empty tree, paper and lead in hand. Judas watched him a while from great distance, shrouded in the underbrush, until it came that the d'Artisan picked up on his scent and grew visibly neurotic.

The pack member gathered his things in a rush and began to scramble, but froze when the red-eyed stranger made himself known at borders' edge. "Excuse me, friend—do you live here?"

"Uh — yeah. I'm — my name's Lowry." The coy certainly considered his words before speaking, yet was made no more confident in their delivery. "This is Cercatori d'Arte. Do you need something?"

This Lowry was no less scrawny than Judas himself, and his fidgeting shrank him only further. The Aika chose to match it, beginning to touch at his arms or hands and mimicking the splitting image of a humble man come inquiring for something far larger than he thought himself to be. "Well, yes, actually. I was hoping someone here might have medicine or herbs to trade." He made for purposeful hesitation. "My vision is going and... I’m running out of options."

Lowry tried not to look, but it was hard not to notice the red shade peeking from between the stranger's eyelids. "Oh," the d'Artisan mumbled, bolts of discomfort raising his fur and dragging his stare to his hands. Swallowing the feeling and devoting himself to optimism, a nervous smile burst forth. "Well — my friend Rei is a medic. I'm sure he could help. Why don't you come with me?"

"That would be wonderful."

Following an accompanying gesture Judas crossed borderlines to lag behind his new comrade, features a picture of gratitude and benevolence. Somewhere behind him a raven followed, obedient yet detached in the morning sky. Judas hummed a moment, polite in his companionship, until Lowry inquired his name and made for awkward small talk enunciated with animated hands and motions. The Aika complied truthfully, pleasant in his mannerisms and admiring of the winter within Cercatori d'Arte borders. The stench, however, burned his nostrils just as it had done the day a member invaded his home.

"What was it you were working on?" Judas asked after a time, lagging behind.

"Well — I was trying to finish a poem I started." The coyote drew the pages closer to his chest, smiling to himself.

"You're a poet?"

"I like to write when I can."

"I see. I apologize for having interrupted you at your work," said Judas, a startling regret feigned in his voice.

Lowry whirled about with grin and words of reassurance at the ready, but found not shame painted on the face of the red-eyed stranger but a lack of emotion as the man suddenly swept close. The thick twine wound between his fingers caught the light once as it was thrown over the Lykoi’s head and against the back of his neck where his throat had been but seconds before. Yelping, Lowry threw his arms against the male and knocked him away, grabbing with shaking hands for the dagger sheathed on his belt.

"What— what are you doing?!" Lowry screeched, the hovering blade clutched in both hands between now parted bodies. "W-We have soldiers, th-they'll come and kill you!"

But the Aika replied nothing and tossed the twine aside. He'd hoped to avoid conflict with that dagger altogether, having studied countless pursuits in their interaction within his mind since leaving the borders. Choking the tawny Lykoi would have been the quickest and easiest conclusion had the damned coyote stayed in place, and it had been a decision made in the Aika's mind without moral consideration. The intent to kill had been a distant possibility in recent weeks as the rage for his property to be returned kindled, but Judas had thought it brash and implausible.

But it wasn't. Killing this neurotic d'Artisan would serve his purposes well; it would frighten the people into returning what very much belonged to him. It would be a sign, a blatant one. There would be no misunderstandings and no misinterpretations. If they did not return his cage then, a conscious decision had been made not to.

Whether Lowry was trained with that knife Judas could not determine, but noticed still the trembling of the coyote's hands, the paranoia in his eyes, the distraction of fear. An advantage lay for Judas, though slim and despite being weaponless: His lack of self-doubt, his incessant confidence in his own ability.

But even Judas was wrong sometimes.

When the Aika closed the gap next, cold steel of the blade found his shoulder—it was inevitable, he knew not how to deflect it. Beneath the offender's wretched cry Lowry squeaked in horror for his own actions, grip in tremors as the blade receded from flesh. As it pulled free and bloodied the grunting Judas seized the coyote's wrist and pried knife from the unsteadied fingers and, in one clean movement, fisted Lowry's tawny hair, slicked the knife deep across the throat, and dumped him to the frigid earth.

Like a stone Judas watched the pitiful coy wrack and flail and grab for the smile in his neck, blood leaping like a wild riverbend from between his fingers. Lowry gagged and gasped and put on a pitiful show, bewildered golden eyes pleading for help, for answers, for anything. He tried to call out for anyone that could hear, but the sound emerged no more than a disturbing gurgle and the coy could not refill his lungs thereafter. Then, at very long and impatient length, Lowry Lykoi gasped his last, fell still, and so faded the color from his once lively, youthful eyes.

Only then did Judas buckle beneath pain of his wound, though it was but a glimpse of gagging and hissing before the man breathed deep and steeled himself against unbearable pain. He hadn't the time for suffering; the schedule was set. He discarded dagger to the snow and retrieved his twine. Between pockets of soaking blood on the paper Judas glanced the coy's unfinished poem. Then he snorted, put fist to the dead man's hair and dragged its author away, never to finish its tale.

With great caution Judas dragged the murdered corpse along the border’s edge, trailing blood and horrid coward-stench—the worst kind—as he went. The Aika was no man of stamina, his frame scant of even meager bulk and muscle, but between momentary pauses to refill his lungs and collect himself he moved with eager and careful speed. He thought little of his actions en route, devoid of sympathy or regret or fear. Judas did not relish in the violence nor would he boast of it in any form. He wore no smile, but ragged determination. This was not a victory, but a necessity. What happened to Lowry was a required cause to regain what was rightfully his once and for all. The people would be forced to understand the gravity of stealing a man’s cherished possession.

Pack scents converged further down the eastern border, and Judas hid the body for a time to scout ahead before approaching one very empty Border Tree. He did not understand its purpose and decorations. A greeting for strangers of some sort, perhaps? A glance at the people herein? No matter; it would serve his intent just fine.

In the dead man’s chest Judas would carve a bleeding message: “Return the cage to Halifax.” Then, finding the corpse lighter in weight than expected, the Aika wound twine around the Lykoi’s ankles, tied its end to the trunk of the tree, and with minor struggle tossed the body over the lower limbs. Suspended upside down with arms hanging, Lowry’s golden eyes pleaded with him still from the afterlife, swaying to and fro in the air like a noosed man.

Judas felt nothing.

The Aika sent out the raven Listr awaiting him in the higher branches. Then he gathered his things, dabbed briefly at stab in his shoulder with snow, and departed east for Anathema.

Last edited by Judas Poer de Aika XIII on Fri Feb 07, 2014 10:49 am, edited 1 time in total.
gonna turn her head until she's mine, all mine
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POSTED: Sun Feb 02, 2014 8:57 pm

"Micah," screamed the spitz mix, four-legged and darting from the west. She shrieked his name again and again, nearly stopping his heart with sudden panic. The Lykoi could not help it; he had gathered snow found dotted with red, and much against his chagrin Mistral darted along its trail. In her frantic return he expected a bear in pursuit, or an Inferni clansman, or that crooked packmate with the golden eyes and sketches of felled prey.

Mistral never lost composure like this. The Lykoi rose on quaking knees and first searched the horizon, then turned stutters to the adolescent. "I-Is someone hurt? Wh-what did you see?"

"It's Lowry," she cried, then spun on her heels and pursued the blood trail once more.

Lowry—his cousin, his friend. Micah breathed minor relief, knowing the fellow Lykoi to be as easily shaken and nervous as himself. If Micah knew him well, the coyote had knicked himself on something and hadn't noticed—still, the blood trailed further than he could see in either direction, soaked into a unending drag of snow. Was Lowry carrying something?

No, of course not. Lowry was hurt; Micah knew it at his core, regardless of what he tried to tell himself. The Lykoi took off running after his four-legged friend, ponytail unraveling, the man filled with fear that both she and Lowry faced immediate danger. Had something—or someone—hurt him? Was it still around?

It didn't matter, for Micah would at once forget to fear.

The first scream released was silent, a substance of shock to empty his lungs. His hands grabbed for his face next, almond eyes unblinking, and a full stain of red in the snow beneath his feet.

Suspended reverse in the air, his cousin's fingertips dusted the ground. His throat smiled; his face did not. His eyes stared, but they did not see.

A series of yelps, of cries, of howls and screams and shrieks escaped the granite coy, sounds lound enough to echo and trill in the sky with the drastic shakes of his body. Skye, he called next, unable to tear his sights away. He told her to come quick to the Border Tree, that he needed her now.

Then, telling Mistral to run straight home, the Lykoi crept closer to his cousin with hands at his face. In breathing distance he stood, trembling yet immobile like a stone, and read the message carved in Lowry's chest. Return the cage to Halifax.

Mistral's cage. Micah's cage. Then, Micah wept.

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passion, hope
& resistance

POSTED: Thu Feb 06, 2014 4:44 pm

Skye knew Micah, Lowry, and Rei all to be very skittish members of her pack. She wondered why it was Cercatori d'Arte that drew those kinds of people to its core; either way, all of them could be described as overly-nervous and scared of their own shadows, and it wasn't rare to hear one of them calling for help for some innocuous issue that was easily fixed.

She could immediately tell that this was different, however. She began to run towards the sound of Micah's desperate scream and strangled cries, and she could hear the sheer desperation and horror punctuating the pitiful sounds for her. She had never heard him this terrified and upset before, although it wasn't hard to get the black coyote upset at all. This was different - something was desperately wrong.

She could smell the blood before she could see it, and soon enough, the entire scene was unfolded before her. Micah was a sobbing, bluthering mess, but that was the least of her worries. Hung upside-down from the Border Tree was Lowry. His blood stained the snow below red, its color seeping through the white powder like the tendrils of a plant. His eyes were open, and blank - his face was contorted into an expression of horror.

"No!" Skye snarled, emotions coursing through her all at once - sadness, rage at who had done this. She wasted no time in reaching up and slicing the Lykoi free with her dagger, gently lowering him onto the ground. She knelt beside him, her eyes rapidly scanning his face, hoping for a sign of life but knowing that he was dead. Slowly, she reached towards his face and closed his eyelids; it was final. Skye let out a low, soft howl into the winter - Lowry was dead. Lowry, her packmate, Lowry, the one who was always ever-cautious, ever-careful - he was gone.

She allowed the sadness to flow through her briefly - it almost threatened to overwhelm her then and there, and she quashed it. She would mourn Lowry, mourn his loss, but now a new emotion arose within her - anger. Rage - someone had killed Lowry, had murdered him in cold blood, and she had not been there to stop it. Someone had killed him and had gotten away with it. The blood there was fresh. This had just happened. She sniffed the air; there was another scent there, but she couldn't entirely place it underneath the pungent scent of Lowry's blood.

She looked down at Lowry - he was entirely covered in blood now, but she could faintly see the cuts underneath the blood, and although she wasn't sure, she thought that they spelled... words? She stood, turning to Micah; he was distraught, and she could not blame him. Skye walked the distance to where he stood, and reached out to put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Micah," she said, her voice heavy, "who did this? Did you see?" She had to know who had killed Lowry; she had to enact justice.

000+ words

by the amazing Alaine!

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POSTED: Fri Feb 07, 2014 2:06 am

Jace Wolfe
brazen devil

She found the sprays of blood. It's scent had drawn her too it like a scavenger to a fresh kill. Jace knelt to the floor and fingered the shiny crimson covered knife and growled deep in her throat. Some pathetic loner had come into their lands and attacked and killed member of Cercatori. Their was no mistaking Lowry's overwhelming Cercatorian scent.

She found the scrap of paper the poem had been written on too and her eyes briefly flashed through it in case it concealed a name or group that had done this. Then she was running, chasing the death scent as it was dragged across their borders. Micah's sobbing reached her and the veteran flicked her ears in annoyance.

She reached the scene just as Skye removed his body from the tree. The woman barked out a second growl as her eyes fell onto the corpse that stared into nothingness and would do so forever. Already expecting death she was unsurprised by it but that did not stop the coursing black fury that rolled through her veins. She woman swore loudly and turned to the black coyote and their esteemed leader, hatred in her eyes.

"Let me go after the coward that did this, I'll bring you back his head." The snarl upon her face was feral and cruel, she would make them suffer, make them beg for their own death. There was a little enough scent beneath the blood but it was there and she could use it to track and find.

The woman told no lie, if the alpha would sanction it she would indeed follow this murderer and bring back his head. Cercatori deserved justice, Lowry deserved to be avenged. Even though the lithe woman did not know him all too well, he was still a member of her back, her hackles rippled and her fur bristled, she had killed before and she would do so again for its name.

Jace Wolfe

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POSTED: Fri Feb 07, 2014 11:38 am

She was all the way on the other side of the territory patrolling when it happened; in the nights to follow, she would wonder how things might have been different if she had been on this side, where the event occurred. If she could have stalled or stopped it with the flash of her blades or the slice of an arrow through their enemy's flesh. While the pack was tense about Anathema, border patrols were increased at least somewhat. This would show them that they were not as prepared for someone to breach their borders as they had thought. It would show the freshly ranked Commander that there was much she needed to change.

Her ears raised to the sound of a call, urgent in the air, that spoke of something horrible. It was the voice of a wolf she considered rather childish, he called for her mother. Yet there was something in his voice that made her immediately stop what she was doing to listen anyway. Something was very, very wrong. Her tongue flicked across her teeth and she considered her options. Run to the spot or stay where she was? Cautiously, she continued her patrol. Though she headed in the direction of the sound rather than away from it, which had been her original course. When her mother's voice came, that was when she started to run. For Skye's voice was fraught with a message that stung to the core: Lowry was dead.

Esme's familiarity with the shy male had never extended beyond the passing acquaintanceship of packmates, but she hadn't disliked the male. It didn't matter, anyway, when it came to death. All deaths of Artisans mattered and this was not a simple death by a natural cause, the voice that had rung out in the cold night air spoke of something far more sinister. Someone had killed in their pack. Someone had killed a member of Cercatori d'Arte and it didn't sound like they had met with their maker in return. Immediately, she suspected Anathemans and she wondered if she had been wrong to leave the area where she was patrolling. What if more were coming? Thomas had been headed on a path to crisscross where she was, though, so as long as he did not divert from his path the area would still be covered.

A knife was in her hand when she arrived at the scene, breaths coming out in hot gusts of air while her lungs worked to resume their normal pattern from her running. Jace had just spoken and Esmeralda growled her wordless agreement to the words. Her ears slicked back and she moved to her mother's side, looking at the dead body of the Ringleader with anger and remorse. The Commander looked to Micah, wondering what he had to do with this, if anything; had he just been the first to come across the dead wolf or did he have more knowledge than that? What was the message carved so inelegantly into the chest of Lowry?
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POSTED: Fri Feb 07, 2014 2:04 pm

He vaguely heard the leader's first cry upon arrival, vaguely watched as she cut the dead man down and cradled him. Babbling and mortified Micah stood aside and stiff in place, almond eyes wet and red and bulging. For once focus swerved from himself, from his shortcomings and inabilities and blatant flaws. He could think only of Lowry, of his cousin, of the only other Lykoi he had met outside his own sisters to accept him, to resemble him. They were more kin than Micah could claim to most Lykoi. They were packmates. Now he was dead.

With Lowry cut from the tree, Micah could better read the terror in his expression and the lack of resignation within. Lowry had died fearful. No, not fearful—mortified. He took to death unceremoniously and without grace, and in his passing looked at his end with nothing short of terror and confusion, just as he had lived in life. There was no heroic death here, nothing to look upon with a measure of pride. Nothing but poor, pathetic, terrified Lowry taken before his time.

And Micah wondered, just in that moment, if he would look the very same when it came his time as well.

Skye spoke; Micah realized she clutched his shoulder in her hand, a grim determination in her eyes. "I-I-I-I d-d-don't know," he stammered, choking back a wave of grief brought about simply by opening his mouth. "W-W-We found him li-li-like this. Th-The cage— his ch-ch-chest says the cage— could i-it mean the one fr-fr-from Ha-Ha-Halifax?"

He gasped once to recapture needed breath, suppressing all he could to the best of his ability. "I-I-Is this m-my fault?"

She could not answer, not before the others came. Was he to blame? He had been rescuing a child; he had been unable to get the cage apart to free her. How could he have known? Why would he have ever dared return the cage to that wretched place? Was he to blame?

Micah shrunk away as his packmates arrived one by one, silent but present. He could not attempt to blend into the scenery. In this grief, he sought only to sit on the cold winter ground, wrap arms around his knees, and bury his face tightly within until the time came that he needed to move next.

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passion, hope
& resistance

POSTED: Fri Feb 07, 2014 9:03 pm

He had been nearby, walking aimlessly. The house was too empty, too loud, and he had sought refuge in secui form, walking the packlands. He had sat a while at the Lagoon, spent some time at Paradise Pier, and had been wandering back toward Thornbury when the howl from Skye had reached his ears. He'd frowned then, his ears slipping back against his skull in displeasure. A death. And then a fear struck him, as angry as he was at his father, had it been him? Before he could think about it, he was moving, racing to where blood and the pack smells came from, large paws stirring the snow in lazy puffs before settling down.

He didn't smell Taliesin when he reached the gathering, his mismatched eyes darting around, taking in the sights of the pack, the individual scents of the others. His eyes were drawn to the body on the ground, the eyes shut. The fur bristled on the back of his neck, a soft growl in his throat. He hadn't been close to Lowry, but he had KNOWN Lowry. Micah was distraught, Skye, Jace, and Esmerelda were furious. The healer found to his surprise, an anger growing in his gut. He was no warrior, but he felt as though he had failed somehow. The distant thought that he wished Tameri had been at his side to soothe him flittered across his mind, but he didn't have time to entertain that notion, didn't have time to worry about his own feelings. He watched silently to see what would happen, to see what he could do to help.

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POSTED: Sat Feb 08, 2014 3:02 pm

Almost immediately, her packmates began to fill the scene, staring down in horror at Lowry's lifeless body. She was vaguely aware of their presence near her, but all she could see now was Micah, and the shadowed echo of Lowry's body lingering in her gaze.

She could hear Jace's request - she knew that she would want to do this. Jace the ever-hunting warrior, eager for blood, eager to kill whomever may tread in the path of her pack or her family. She twitched an ear in Jace's direction but said nothing, focusing on Micah. She could hear Esmeralda's wordless growl beside her, the anger of her packmates palpable in the air.

Micah stuttered and stumbled over his words, but spoke all the same. He hadn't seen anything - he didn't know. Lowry had died alone. Skye squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment before opening them once more, a steely look in her eye. Micah shrunk as he noticed the others come, as though he were a snail shrinking into his shell at the notice of a predator. She allowed her hand to fall off of his shoulder. She had other things to deal with first.

She turned and faced Jace, seeing her own expression echoed in the multicolored warrior's. "Do it," she said roughly, allowing her to go out and find the killer. Skye could feel a storm brewing - she hoped that it would not interfere with the trail. She then turned to Esmeralda, whose eyes were still transfixed on Lowry's body. She did not want her daughter to experience such death so soon, but it was out of her hands now.

"Stay in d'Arte," she said, voice strong and firm. "Round everyone up into Thornbury. If Jace fails, I will find the killer myself, and I want d'Arte to be safe in my absence." She was taking no chances - whether it took hours, days, weeks, or months, she would not allow the murderer to go unpunished. That didn't mean that d'Arte would be left defenseless, however, and the thought that the killer might have a comrade did cross her mind. She cast a meaningful glance at Myrddin, whose face was torn, a mirror of the storm brewing overhead; she wanted him to return to Thornbury, too, and take no chances.

She then looked back to Micah, her face softening somewhat. She could order Micah roughly to tell her where he had found the cage, but that would render him even more terrified and distraught than he already was, and she was not so cruel. "It's not your fault," she said plainly, kneeling down to face him. She did not coddle him with words or treat him like a pup - her words were matter-of-fact, solid, steady, and rung with truth. "But you can help us now. Jace may not find him, and if she doesn't, then I'll need you to tell me where you found the cage." Find the cage's home, find the killer's home, she reasoned to herself.

500+ words

by the amazing Alaine!

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Luperci Mate to Jazper
crown of clay
My Sunny One

POSTED: Mon Feb 10, 2014 11:29 am

The promise of violence was on the air, the threat of it palpable. It didn't help that there was a dead body, clogging up her nostrils with the beginning of decay even in the cold winter air. Her tail lashed from one side to the other aggressively, her shoulders tightening with the anger she felt coursing through her body. Anger that she desperately wanted to work out of her muscles in some way, but couldn't. Not while she stood there awaiting the commands of her mother, their leader. Without undermining or disrespecting Skye's position, the Commander could do nothing. Despite her position, she was still not the one to make these kinds of choices. Which was probably best; she wasn't thinking rationally right then, whereas the cool head of her mother was prevailing over what Esme knew was probably a similar amount of anger - if not more.

There was an order to Jace, to go and do what she could to track down the murderer. Esme's throat opened to offer her assistance but the Leader was already looking to her and the words died before they came. Because she had a different command, just as important to the survival and care of the pack as Jace's own search. Gather the pack, keep them tight and keep them safe. Of course, there was more to it than that; she also needed to set up something around the perimeters. They were not going to all hide out like rabbits in the warren, awaiting the death that would come with swift teeth to those who cowered in corners and let it just come to them.

"As you wish." she said softly, bowing her head and flattening her ears to her mother's command. There was no desire to buck free from this order, either. She wanted blood, but she wanted more to be a loyal Commander who took care of her pack. Her desires came second to the pack's needs. Esme heard soft murmurs from her mother to Micah and her eyes narrowed; he had something more to do with this. And she would find out what it was.
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POSTED: Fri Feb 14, 2014 7:10 pm

There had been a commotion around the pack, screams, urgent screams. At first, Belial followed the few members that he watched darting toward the borders, but he stayed hidden. He tried to hide his scent the best he could too, despite the wind direction. He kept his distance from the actual scene, when he approached. He kept himself behind a couple trees, a few bushes. He kept out of sight and watched as they found one of their own suspended from a tree.

Educating himself earlier in life, Belial knew how to read – and the message carved into the Lykoi’s chest was obvious. Skye approached, screamed, and cut him down from the tree. There were a lot of voices coming from the area, but Belial held his breath to decipher the words said. There was something said about a certain cage, as depicted in the message. Micah, a canine that he hadn’t particularly liked, stammered and stuttered – something about the cage. He couldn’t quite tell what the coyote said, but he seemed guilty, sad. A faint smile grazed Belial’s lips, and that was the exact reason he did not show himself.

His mood wasn’t dampened due to the extreme situation – actually, he appreciated the way the killer left the body. He got his message across in a very effective way. Belial wanted to congratulate him, and hoped he would one day if they didn’t find and kill him first. He still watched them, listening to Skye command the few members that stood around her. The exciting part was over, and he retreated back to his house using the cover of the trees to hide him from everyone else.


Hi :) I just wanted Belial to make an appearance and be nosy from the forest behind them - so this post is not very detailed.

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