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That’s fine with me!
500+
The pied brute sat unmoving, as lithic as that effigy he had seemed as before. And he had not moved, as if he were lifeless—truly made of stone. And in that darkness, in that world where the vestiges of humans littered the earth still, he might have been. The black orbs watched the black nothingness of the forest ahead of him, but it did not see that forest. His erected posture that gave him the quality of the gods of statues made it seem as if he were waiting—or listening, perhaps. He listened now to the whisperings of the shadows, to their whines that pawed incessantly at his ears. It was the same sound that life made. His disregard of their pleads were as if he placed himself above life, beyond life. But the Korean never made the mistake of becoming foolish. His arrogance was well won. And it was in this black solitude, this empty solitude, that the crow wolf thrived.
And then something disturbed his sinister serenity. Even as it drew near, the male remained unmoving. It was only at the sound of its voice, her voice, that a response was provoked. A single ear swiveled to face her, as if through the sound of her voice he could know her better than through sight. But finally, after a great long moment, the male’s crania turned toward her, a strange movement that seemed unreal. The black, fathomless orbs considered the other as if he could see right through her; it was a gaze that was hard and unrelenting, that held the weight of oppression and yet no weight as all. As the shadows. As the Darkness. A light sneer tugged at his lips and characteristically fell short. The cool façade was unmoved as he rose and strode several steps nearer in what appeared to be a single, fluid movement.
He could not ascertain the colour of the world, living in a colourless life, but he thought that the shade of her coat resembled that of the male which had been the first to come upon him. The large brute breathed in her scent, brought to him by the service of the wind. There was something similar about her smell and that of the other male; perhaps they had hailed from the same region or pack. But he smelled something else on her too, something beyond the scent of her last meal. It was alcohol and something else of which he did not know the name but recognized. And it was with this knowledge that the sneer that had tugged at the corners of those black lips nearly became manifest—but not quite. A black flame flickered across his gaze. “Corvus Vendetta,” the tenor replied, and his cold voice was dangerously, yet invitingly, assuaging. A slight dip of the male’s maw was offered in greeting, but the emptiness in his soul belied his gestures and made them disturbing, perhaps even mocking.
The powerfully built brute closed the distance between them with ease, untroubled by the rituals of society, untroubled by the warnings of death. He towered over her in that form, but he would have anyway. The way he held himself, with that erected posture, almost seemed dominating, and perhaps it was. Perhaps he demanded her submission. But there was something else to it, as if he were merely curious, pushing his limits only to know the end and wonder continuously. The same rules did not apply to this male that applied to others. And upon closing the distance, his white chest brushing against her, his jaws leaned down dangerously with the clear intent of closing upon her, to crush the life from her. But he was always in control. Instead, a pink tongue, so contrasting against his colourless form, found a speck of blood remaining upon her jaws. “And who are you, Rabbit-Eater?” The emotionless tenor dripped with some dark intent as the mirthless grating that was his laughter clawed the air.