Manifestation

Cwmfen nic Graine · 08-02-2010, 10:10 AM

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I hope that this set-up is okay, ^=^ If you had something else in mind, let me know~ And the length is just for the ‘introduction’, I guess, hahah…! ^=^;;
700+

The Song of War sang wildly within her soul, manifesting into the tangible world through the tearing tones of her snarl. And yet, that snarl was naught but a lick of War’s Frenzy that moved through her, the Frenzy that so surely was guided by Nemain’s hand. The child of the Morrigan flashed her teeth, those partially parted jaws hungering for the blood beneath the loner’s flesh. Even from that distance, she could feel his pulse reverberate through the air—or perhaps it was the beat of her own wild heart reveling in this ancient dance of War of which she was a master. Blood already warmed her muzzle, darkening the woad upon her maw. With hackles raised and her muscles relaxed, the impassive gaze, so tranquil and yet so wildly feral, was fixed upon the yellow eyes. The she-wolf’s harsh breathing was not of fatigue—despite the wounds that had been painted on her body, her bellicose state allowed no weakness to enter her— and instead was of sanguine zeal. The loner’s two companions lay dead at her feet, and still the trespasser was unwilling to yield. For that, the white-eyed Warrior marveled at the loner’s devotion to cause.

But the Woaded Warrior had been swift, precise—merciless, for her body moved with the her own devotion and her muscles sang of war. The hungering jaws parted and closed, snapping in the air—once—twice—as the black wolf flew forth. Having offered no hint of her attack, the loner barely had time to react—and too late. Those strong, white teeth closed about his throat pausing only briefly to allow struggle, to allow the knowledge of defeat to sink in, before they crushed the windpipe. A rush of air was expelled into the world, a thunderous sound in the sudden silence. The pied Raven called and took flight, carrying the souls of the fallen across the River of Life and Death. Releasing the loner, the body fell limply to the earth darkened by the blood of four, dead eyes dully watching a distant place.

The Sanguine Frenzy grew faint in the white gaze, and tranquility and peace were restored.

A pink tongue licked the blood from her maw. For a brief moment, the Dahlian Warrior beheld the work of her jaws. Three dead loners—no doubt a triumvirate formed merely for the desire to plunder the fruits of the pack. As required by pack wolves, diplomacy had first been implemented. But when diplomacy fails, War is waged.

Cwmfen nic Graine turned away, unmoved by the dead. They had fallen in battle. She had given them a glorious death—a death she could only hope to have. A soft, contented breath was expelled into the soft, worldly song, for a Warrior was content when a battle was fought and won and peace was restored.

She found herself at the far boarders. It was a strangely familiar place. Indeed, these boarders, so near the concrete jungle of Halifax, reminded her of passion. This passion, however, was quite different (and yet the same) as the passion that had just moved through her. The city was a place she could never quite love as she loved the woods, but, for its memory, she had grown fond of that human vestige. Fluidly, the Warrior moved into the shadow of concrete, feeling now the burn of her wounds. Three to one, the battle had been costly despite its victory. A rest would be required, but her wounds required tending also. The deepest were at her shoulders. Fatigue quickly set into her flesh, and yet the careful training of the black fae did not allow such a thing to betray her. Although she knew her body was tired, she herself could not quite feel the extent of her own current weakness.

Quietly, the wolf ascended the steps that lead to the apartment. It had been nearly a year since she had returned there. Already, the weather had erased evidence of their presence and fornication. But his supplies remained. Donning the most unnatural, bipedal shape, the warrior took a few dried herbs and left, this time through the window. The graceful woman found purchase first within a tree. The tree’s soft laughter of delight was the only hint of Cwmfen’s presence before she landed silently upon the stone, sitting to tend to her wounds. Having licked the wounds clean (and they were more benign than she had anticipated), the Dahlian placed the herbs within her mouth, before applying them. A soft sting told her that the herbs had not lost their medicinal properties. A soft smile moved across her maw, and with a sigh, the woad-marked woman leaned against the tree, able now to rest her battle-fatigued body.

Samael Lykoi · 08-02-2010, 11:27 PM

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darling take me home to the castle made of skulls and bones
         He wanted nothing more than to live within her arms, and yet he knew that he could not. Adoration was his madness, for he could only love one, and one that he could not have. The world outside was bleak and gray, and held no affection to or from the crimson-eyed man. Inherently, he was destined solely for madness, and greatness. He was meant to shred the world to pieces, and yet he did nothing more than pick the weakest of the weak from the shadows, leaving no greater impression behind.

         Happiness was not meant for him. Contentment lay only in scattered entrails and weeping flesh. Blood dripped from his clawed hands—the kill abandoned behind him in the street. He killed for nothing. He killed solely for pleasure and some dim, vague desire to hear the Angel once again. The voice had fallen silent. He could not live without either of those that he lived for. Scars twisted across his flesh, both self-inflicted and torn into his skin from the ragged, desperate throes of a dying soul. He was the whore—the fallen devil descent from grace.

         His gaze sought the sky and the woad-marked woman perched so precariously in the tree. She smelled of blood. He’d smelled the blood long before he’d smelled the she-wolf and realized her presence above him. He leaned forward against the bark, pressing his nails into the wood while craning his head upward toward the creature. “I dreamt of a raven,” he said, remembering her and remembering their promise.

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Cwmfen nic Graine · 08-03-2010, 12:14 PM

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500+

She could hear him coming. That approach—it was only vaguely familiar. The rhythm interrupted the worldy song of Silence that was so befitting her soul, and the rhythm she knew she had heard before. Often, perhaps, but not regularly. That interrupting approach came from a memory of long ago, and the images and colours associated with that particular beat emerged slowly to the surface of her consciousness. With eyes closed, the woaded woman seemed unconcerned, untroubled by the approach of the other. Despite the recent battle, despite the approach of three loners at the boarders of her protégé, she did not move to act immediately, for the one emerging within her memory was not one to cause alarm, she felt. Yet, the Warrior, as always, was alert and cautious, untrusting of others and yet trusting of herself, loyal to her pack and to her soul. But this was not Dahlia. The concrete city did not require her skill at War. The black fae breathed softly. Yes, she knew the identity of this walker—

He spoke as if bidden. The voice confirmed the identity, and the white orbs opened to reveal the world to the healing Warrior. She did not look down at him immediately but contemplated in silence the words given to the air. One by one the Raven Dreamer picked them, gathering them into her mind until they formed a sound that she could understand. Slowly, fluidly, she moved and yet seemed to be still. A faint, knowing smile danced across her dark lips like the silver moonlight over a still pool. Cathubodva, was her mind’s response. Battle Raven. She was the Battle Raven, and yet the pied Raven was, and the Morrigan too. “Samael.” The name rolled easily from her foreign tongue. Ethereal movements of the sinew beneath her woaded pelt carried her to the earth, and the Warrior descended from her perch. Fatigued muscles went unheeded, unfelt, as she rose, her erected posture held in dominance and yet with modesty. “Did the Raven bring you to me?” The soft alto sang with silver tones, darkened by the presence of this coyote.

White eyes met Crimson, peering into them with a mild curiosity. The gaunt, golden male was definitely a curiosity. Thin and almost emaciated, the Woaded Warrior was not intrigued by his physical appearance. Samael was nothing like Onus, who had somehow ensnared the intrigue of the Caledonian-Korean on many and incomparable levels. Instead, it was what was within the depths of the red eyes that caused her curiosity to be tugged. She was curious of that strange darkness she saw, that darkness that was different from the unrefined fire that Svara could not control. No, this was not like that. This was different. Withdrawing, the wolf gazed into coyote’s face. “Why have you come?” Perhaps she already knew the answer. Indeed, long ago a promise had been made when her belly had been full like the moon in the sky. But the Warrior, far from those she had borne, was simply a Warrior now and nothing more.

Samael Lykoi · 08-26-2010, 06:40 AM

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darling take me home to the castle made of skulls and bones

The bark gave way beneath his claws, allowing them to sink deep, deliciously, into the wood. His name was spoken on melodic voice, assuring him of the woman’s identity if the peculiar woad-marked coat had not already. He smiled—the expression wicked and reminiscent of the mad cheshire cat. She moved, leaping to the ground below, standing tall before him. He felt no need to submit to her subtly dominant posture, nor to rise up and challenge her pose. “Darkness brought me to you,” he said, smile never fading. “and blood.” The scent, so alluring, hanging metallic on the air. He adored it.

“You made a promise,” he purred, reminding her, answering her question. He had not forgotten, though he’d forgotten many other things. Life never seemed to pass in a linear manner for the creature—rather, memories twisted and turned, blurring out and changing within his mind. Childhood came before adulthood, and murders all blurred into one decadent, ecstatic feeling. Perhaps, tonight, he would kill her—or perhaps, tonight, he would finally die.

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