[M] - Bloody Conquest

[p] - Lucia

POSTED: Sun Aug 12, 2018 7:00 am

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.

Aidan stood, his back leaning against a tree, hidden within the empty woods. His pelt was soaked in blood in various states of drying. As he shifted, part of his grizzly covering would glisten wetly while others were dry, creating great clumps of matted fur. The Massacre youth had done his best to cover himself in pungent smelling objects he had found, trying to hide the scent of blood, and for the most part, he’d managed it, but nothing could ever truly stamp out the iron scent that made the hairs on any predator’s neck stand on end.

The fight had been brutal, fast and utterly unexpected, or at least as unexpected as fights ever were to Aidan. Several loners, the coyote was unsure exactly possibly four possibly six, demanded he give them his food. Clearly, they’d never heard of Anathema. Seeing the signs of escalation, and realising he was outnumbered, Aidan had stabbed the leader through the neck, with such force he had felt his knife scrape against vertebrae. After that, there was a moment of stunned confusion on the part of the attackers, but Aidan was not shocked or surprised, giving him precious seconds to press his advantage. It had been hard though, and Aidan was spent, his body scratched and bruised, but alive. In his right hand he still gripped the night, holding it so tightly he could feel the hilt digging viciously into his palm, but if his blood slickened hand had lost him the weapon, he would never have survived the encounter. To an onlooker it might seem strange that despite all of the blood, the blade of Aidan’s knife was clean. The Massacre youth had licked off every scrap of his enemies’ blood, lapping it greedily and filled with a vague sense of accomplishment.

Aidan lost his footing only yards from the cleansing expanse of water. The brightness of the day almost a mockery of the brutality of earlier on, and making the bloodied nature of his body clear for any who cared to look. In his head he could hear his sire’s mocking laughter, so close and yet pathetically short. He stood slowly and staggered forwards into the water, falling to his knees in a display of spray. The moment he entered, tendrils of crimson flowed away from him, clouding the clear waters. Digging the nails of his free hand into the fingers of his knife hand, Aidan managed to unclench his fist, careful not to lose his weapon and replacing it awkwardly in his makeshift belt sheath, the only scrap of clothing he ever wore. As he looked at the damage his own knife had inflicted on him. Aidan saw the cut in his pad, cracks extending outwards. The wound was red and angry, and he lifted it to his lips, licking at the blood before lowering, within a wince into the water. Taking a breath the Massacre youth plunged his head beneath the surface, allowing the numbing cold to enter his ears and muzzle, gulping down great mouthfuls. With a gasp he appeared again, wet, but his pelt mostly restored to its original markings. A sound caused him to stand and whirl around, drawing his knife with his left hand. The movement was fluid, made with the grace of a snake, or perhaps a wounded animal.
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Sticks and Stones