[M] Burn baby burn

[Ilyich]

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I think that the world is red. Her world spun, blood and blackness fighting for control of her mind. Sound ounded in her ears, they pressed to her skull as yet another fit of maliciouse laughter spilled from her maw. Ginger eyes rolled, their glowing depths blazing with insanity. Her tongue lolled past parted tawny jaws. Spittle hung from ivory fangs. Blood. Blood! It dripped in cascading brilliance across her shoulders, down her forelegs. Oh God. Alluring iron flared in her nostrals, and in her own mind she shrieked in joy. Ragged fur lifting and falling in waves of disturbed extasy the she-wolf let loose another shriek of crazed laughter. Others would look on her now, head raised to the heavens, ragged gash on her shoulders, lips parted in a mad yowling to the tree trapped moon, and see insanity. All she saw was beauty. Red pulsing beauty. Swet agony. Oh sweet agony Her pelt rippled, the moon cast its glow across her bloody perfection. Dripping with her own blood the she-wolf let her trembling legs give out. Body sprawling, her tan limbs crumbled. Head smaking a thick root on the way down, Ilyich rolled legs flailing in the air. Oh sweet agony. She looked to be caught in a fit, a trembaling fit of insanity. What was she other then insane? She rolled her baught of joy failing. She rolled carefuly back adn forth from shoulder to shoulder. It died slowly, the joy. It shuddered its way out of her open maw, and with a hesitent whimper she let it go. Ilyich could pound herself, break herself, but the perfection never lasted. Even now blood mixed with dust in her other wise beautiful pelt, and she could not find the joy again. It only came once, once when her skin tore with awonderouse rip. Only once her mind whispered sadly. She could not grip the emotion, she could not drag it back into her. As it left it took her everything with it. It whispered away into nothingness and once again her world was void. Emotion as somthing she did not control. Nothing but fear and suspision winked in her flaming gaze. Not untill her flesh ripped. Not untill her blood fell- scarlet on the carpet of dead leaves. And so it did. As she dragged her graceful form off the spattering of rustling dead things she glanced down at the pool of scarlet. Its congealing blackness did nothing to arose the whimpering need. Blank eyes slipped across the territory she had so reklessly transversed minutes ago. The catch of barbwire in her thick hide had been to much to withstand. Her legs where cut in several places,a dn th need had sparked fed by her bloody need. She herself had slammed her shoulders roughly into the biting metal. humans are stupid, stupid creatures who think their inventions could keep out the needy. The hungry maybe, but not the needy. Not the one who survived on paina dn the glancing blows of anything she could latch into her pelt. But it was all gone now. all gone. Ilyich sat back on her haunches slowly, her tail flicking blankly back and forth. Her fore legs had stopped their persistant bleeding, and now her only comfort was the sticky tide drooling down her back. Wide ragged cuts slithered across her shoulders, their bloody edges flairing out in agony towads the sky. And now that she sat the blood had slipped away form its tunnels towards her feet and created new trails down her back. Red slipped along her skin, making her shake. She wondered momentarily who's land she was bleeding on, and decided she didn't care. If she met an angry face she could feel again. teeth would latch into her pathetic neck and shake emotion back into her dead eyes. And maybe it would stay there "Scream baby scream"

mall fonts; text-align:right;">Table by Soot

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[Cwmfen nic Graine]

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I hope you don’t mind me joining in...
500+


The dichotomous form lifted in the heavens, and yet the form was difficult to find. Despite the pied plumage, the sudden white against the black, his shape was hidden by the shadows of the night. And he was silent—still, gliding upon the dark air as if performing the task that the gods had bestowed upon his kind. But no souls were held amidst his talons. They were curled, empty, beneath black belly for the woaded wolf had not battled, and no souls required guidance across the river that divided the world of the Living and the world of the Dead. The broken beak parted and called once, it’s harsh voice carrying through the nighttime air that carried the Raven. The single eye caused his head to turn at an extreme angle, it’s gaze fixed upon the shadowed earth below. To that bird, the world may have been a single sepulchre, and edifice erected for the woaded wolf to battle, to deliver the souls of the weak to that place that the Dead seek. The Raven breathed, his shallow bird’s breath smelling something it knew all too well: Blood. The black nothingness of the pied bird’s eye was marred by a movement of something—and emotion perhaps, or something entirely different—before they fell dead again. Like tar, the image that he found below was stuck within the reflection of his gaze.

The Raven called again, his voice hollow as if the place within his breast were hollow also. His voice echoed within the halls of the Dead as if in mirthless laughter.

Cwmfen nic Graine paused. All day the Woad Warrior had traveled, her step fluid and ethereal. As if the Morrigan herself were clothed within the black, woad-painted pelt, she moved as a wraith, a faerie of Caledonia, perhaps, through the woods. But she was a simple mortal, a simple Warrior, and nothing more. The treachery of the faeries, however, did not exist within the black female. Only the songs of the world sang wihin her soul, carried by the constant hum of the furies and passions of sanguineous war.

The fluid dancing of the Warrior paused as the Raven’s voice stroked her woad-banded ears. The white orbs, glowing in the half-light, was already watching the form that sat within her path. Her gaze was contemplative, curious, calculating, as she peered upon that strange sight. There was no sign of struggle, so scent of another, and yet blood flowed from wounds upon the lighter wolf’s body. The trembling seemed strange to the black fae, as if the other suffered now from disease or fatigue, but the scent of the wounded wolf was not fevered. The trembling was something that the wolf-born female could not place. A human emotion, perhaps, that nature would not suffer to live.

Cwmfen was still. Fear did not move her. Her tranquility was unphased, that cold-blooded calm unmoved. She was, perhaps, simply curious of the wounded creature. The marred soul, that black smudge, was made curious by the wolf whose back was turned to her. The woad marked tail moved behind the warrior’s graceful form, as if in thought. The black fae was silent as she moved then, creating a wide circle to seek the face of the other.

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