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Lightning broke through the midnight darkness, briefly illuminating the empty beach with white, electric light. The night was darker than usual—no moon or stars visible against the inky blackness as the invisible cloud cover blocked out all starlight. Thunder rumbled softly across the ocean, vibrating the packed sand beneath Samael’s feet with the aftershock. But the storm was already receding into the distance, it’s contents since spilled onto the shattered coast. Emerging from the darkness of a cave, the coyote stretched lightly, baring snow-white fangs in a yawn. Jet-black darkness to eyes untrained, the predator could see well enough to find his way along the shoreline. Waves crashed against the rocks and sand, spraying the optime with briny water. He pushed back his bangs, wrinkling his muzzle faintly in disgust. With each step his feet sunk into the wet sand, mud encrusting his feet with slime and dirt. The Prince was not found of rain nor mud. He preferred to keep his gold and black coat pristine and this weather made it very difficult. His hair was matted and salty—dirt and sand buried within the strands.
Climbing the face of a rocky outcrop, claws grating against the stone surface, the moon finally broke free from its cloudy prison. The wind had picked up, chasing the storm from the area and blowing the cloud cover away, allowing the natural celestial illumination to freely cast its silver glow onto the night world. Perched atop his rocky throne, he pulled back his hood from his mutilated face and freed his hair from the simple leather thong that’d bound it. Running his nails through the highlighted strands, the Prince wished for a comb and a bath to combat his current state of disarray. But he was forced to give up, sighing lightly and pouting in faint annoyance. Tossing his head, he pulled his long hair over one shoulder and watched the chaos within the post-storm ocean, listening to the distant sound of thunder and waiting for the sun to rise.
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The woman strayed far from the lands of her pack. There was an urge within her—she needed to keep moving. And she had Dreamt last night of a Dream that had been brought upon the wings of the Raven hooded with white. And in the darkness, the Raven had swallowed the world in darkness, showing only the body of her own self standing alone. She had breathed easily in the Dream, comfortable in that familiar state of tenebrous solitude. Her hands had touched her belly, feeling the bodies within her stir. She wondered where her lover was, and as if in answer, she felt the arms of another wrap around her. They were familiar—Onus?—but they were cold—no. She turned but could not. Only her head would turn to see, and the cruel, black maw of pressed against her neck. Corvus, she corrected. His hands moved along her arms, but he did not touch her belly. It was as if he could not. And as his hands settled atop hers that cradled the womb, he hissed like a black snake, recoiling even as he dissolved into a black mist, carried away upon the talons of the Raven. Death cannot stop me. And yet, his warning had seemed hollow. And she had awoken from that Dream with an eased mind. But she did not understand. I need to keep moving.
And so she strayed far from her lands of her pack. And she traveled lightly as she was accustom to doing carrying only the Raven Spear, for she knew that a weapon would be required of her should she encounter an individual of ill will. The woad warrior could still fight, for it was of war that she was born, and it was of war that her soul sang. She could hear it now, humming through the shaft of the spear, ringing on the tip of the blade. She could revel in that song. But her mind strayed from it, falling upon the songs of that which had been Dreamt. The crow wolf had not touched her womb. Perhaps her work to keep the dark at bay had been successful. Perhaps she had protected the unborn life within her.
She ceased, those fluid movements falling still. White orbs shone through the darkness of the night as they beheld the form of another. The strong wind carried the scent to her, but she did not recognize it. Nor was there the mark of a pack. He was a lone creature. The blade of the Raven Spear lifted imperceptibly, tasting the air, bidding for bloodshed with its song grown hungry. But the warrior was still, that tranquility remembered and that control ever present. She was a warrior, and she did not forget the enlightening ring that created her purpose. She was a packwolf, and she did not forget the duties that were bestowed upon her. But she was also carrying life, and she had that to protect. The woad fae’s left hand cradled her large abdomen as if it required the support of her touch. And Cwmfen was silent, simply watching the form. She listened to the sound of the timeless and incessant sea. Dawn would come, the woman noted. Her face was calm with silence, holding that light and tranquil expression of an enlightened warrior, and it was dulled only by the dark soot that had settled within her.
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There was another soul sharing the darkness alongside him. The demons whispered in his ear, speaking of ravens and strange, blue marked shadows. He turned his elegant, scarred head toward the solitary creature, eyeing the spear within her hand curiously. Fear did not possess his soul at the sight of the deadly weapon, but rather aroused simply curiosity. Heavy with pregnancy, her dark belly was swollen with unborn children, drawing forth a hunger not so much unlike desire. He wished to lay her down and carefully slice open her belly with his knife, watching the half-formed lives spill out onto the pale, dark sands. Rising, he moved to the edge of his rocky ledge, leaping out into the open air. Landing catlike on all fours, he rolled to displace momentum on contact, finally coming to rest on his toes and fingertips. His cloak rested on the sand around him, spilling across the beach like a dark shadow, but his face was still unveiled, revealing all of his scars. Rising, he approached the woman, noting the peculiar blue woad markings that swirled across her otherwise jet-black pelt. Her eyes were another oddity, milky-white and holding no signs of normal sight, appearing as though she were blind. But her alert state and coolly poised body suggested otherwise, fingers loose around her spear, yet knowing if he made the wrong move she’d spring in an instant.
He almost desired to test her strength, pitting himself against the strange woad warrior, but this sentiment was marred by her large, distended abdomen. She wouldn’t be at peak condition in this state and he would be disappointed at anything less than perfection from her. Attacking a creature down brought no real interest or fun to the devilish man. “Promise me a spar after your children are born,” said the Prince of Fear to the raven lady, smiling faintly. He was ever excited by a challenge, and this being looked like she could take him on and not die within his fangs without a proper struggle. The thrill of a real battle burned brightly within his chest, always desiring to test fate and walk within inches of death, only to feel more alive when the fight was over. There was no fear within this woman’s demeanor, and he longed so wistfully to fill it with such, bringing uncharacteristic terror to that calm, poised surface just before she died in his hands.
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The white orbs watched through the darkness, her sight unhindered by the heaviness of the night. There was a moment of stillness before he rose, and her eyes lifted to follow his progress. As he turned to face her, she could see the coyote’s red eyes, and her mind immediately went to Hybrid Holocaust. That particular coyote had caught her after she had fallen through the ice that had been much thinner than the ice of the north. He had taken a larger form, and with her slowed, hypothermic body, she would have lost her life had not the medic, Bane, found her. But this coyote was not Hybrid Holocaust. Their red eyes were similar, but that was all. They did not feel the same. This male was different, an unrefined darkness within the jewels. But the warrior did not move away. She was not foolish as she had been then. And despite the heaviness of her womb, she could have responded to an attack. But she did not want to risk the lives that grew within her. So, for those brief moments in which the Dahlian observed him that that calculating gaze, the Raven Warrior was still.
But there, she could sense that darkness within him, and a quiet curiosity brushed against her soul. He spoke then, breaking the silence, and the woad bound ears pricked forward. The tranquility of the warrior’s features was unmoved by his request. "And what promise must I make," the quiet melody replied, "to one who may be undeserving?" The white orbs met the male’s gaze without effort, that innate intensity unrelenting within it as she fell silent. She wondered who the male was to demand such a thing of her. Hybrid had lain claim to her tail, although he would claim it only when he had earned it. She did not know when that time would be, but she knew that her death would be in battle. Perhaps he would have earned such a thing, although she did not think that he would. The woad warrior did not often make the same mistake twice. But this male, he had deserved nothing of her. He was simply a stranger.
"Who are you," the soft melody sang. The red eyes made her suspect a certain lineage that seemed to thrive within these lands, but the warrior never assumed. And what would she do with his name? She could do nothing with it, the woman decided, but store it alongside the other names and scents that she had stored in the back of her mind. The woad-marked fae became alert, sensing a strange, belligerent desire and yet sensing no immediate threat. And yet she did not let her senses fall, especially now when the wounds, while quiet, were not completely healed and when life moved within her. Her fingers pressed into her belly as if to urge them into silence with a quiet reassurance. The warrior promised them that nothing would befall them. She was certain that nothing would.
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Lips cracked into a grin, baring snow-white fangs pale as moonlight. This was a disciplined beast, confident in her abilities, yet not wishing to cross fangs where it was unnecessary. She further intrigued the cloaked man, allowing crimson eyes to drift slowly across her shadowy form. Despite her assumed ability to duel and defend herself, naturally the woman would hold back in this state, instinctually as a mother, protecting her children’s lives over even her own. The creature knew this, but he couldn’t say he fully understood such sentiment, never loving any of the bastard children he knew (and didn’t that) he’d fathered. Kaena was the only mortal whom he truly loved, and for her he’d trade his own life, but otherwise, he couldn’t care less about another living soul on this planet, whether a part of him or not. “Obviously you can’t accurately judge my talent until you’ve seen me in action,” the coyote purred, smooth as silk. “But won’t you please just make this little promise to a soul who honestly admires the warrior’s spirit?” And so he did, loving most of all to battle a true combatant, for such was the sheerest pleasure when his fangs finally met their mark, taking the life within the finest body. The warrior never backed down, taking death over dishonor, giving it all until their mortal shell finally failed them, dying in the one and only place where they would truly ever belong—on the battlefield.
From the moment Samael had been born he’d been trained, turned into a finely tuned killing machine until bloodshed and murder utterly consumed his soul and he knew nothing else. This woman and he were of two vastly different, yet similar mindsets in that they’d never fully be able to leave the battlefield behind, always ready to fight and defend themselves until the day they died. “It could be fun,” he continued, crimson eyes gleaming with barely concealed excitement. “Just a simple spar, nothing more,” and that would be enough to content him at first, testing her ability and deciding whether actual death would entertain him or not. If she wasn’t worth his time, there would be no point, like killing a rabbit and calling himself a champion. “Samael,” he answered, granting his title to the woman when she asked of his identity. But that was simply his mortal name, given at birth by his mother and prophesied beforehand by his sire. It did nothing to encompass who he truly was and everything about him, but that would have to do for now. Words alone could not impart who he truly was without sounding arrogant or irrelevant and he highly doubted the woman would be impressed or awed by any of his demonic titles.
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The woad-bound fae observed the loner with quiet eyes. "Skill in battle," the soft, Caledonian lilt countered, "is not the only quality attributing your worth." There were many things that made a warrior worthy, and, often, it was not skill in battle that deemed one as such. One may rise victories in all battles, but that did not make one a warrior—a mere fighter, perhaps, or even a killer, a murder. Those things were not the same as a warrior. And it was the mind that attributed such titles. The black fae herself did not train those of an unsound mind. It should always be that way. But she knew that it was not, and she knew that there were killers and murderers that wore the title of warrior, of knight, of soldier. And it was with these creatures that the warrior battled, for it was these creatures that brought threats to the boarders.
"I spar with warriors, and I meet them on the battlefield," the quiet melody sang once more as she moved to the side, walking past the coyote. Her white orbs held his gaze even as she passed, and then she turned them to the murmuring sea. "With murderers and killers, I battle." In the warrior’s mind, there was an acute difference, however similar the words. She did not know if the male would understand.
"And your soul wishes for a simple spar," the song both stated and questioned. There was a brief pause as she shifted her weight, her fingers brushing against her large stomach, considering the future in which the lives within directed her. Perhaps she would wait until they were ready to leave the den on their own, or perhaps a little sooner. Would she even be capable of raising them, or would they be better lived with Alexey Koios? And yet, she knew that she must care for these lives that the Dream claimed she must, and so she would wait patiently should she chose to uphold such a promise. "I am not yet certain of your quality," the quiet melody continued, her voice like silver in the cool nighttime air. She sensed a darkness, though unrefined, within him, but she could not see whether the air was clean or tainted. And so she made no promise yet.
At the sound of his name having been given, the woad-banded aurals swiveled to catch it upon the air. Turning with an ethereal grace, the woman gave a brief dip of her woad-bound maw, her voice singing, "Samael," in formal greeting, the name rolling fluidly from her foreign tongue. "Cwmfen nic Graine," she offered in return. And she did not offer titles, for he knew already that her blood was of warriors, and her scent would allow him to know from which pack she hailed. Her leadership did nothing in these unclaimed lands, nothing unless in belligerent circumstances. Briefly, her eyes flickered over his scarred face, and yet, despite the placement of the scars, his sight seemed to function still. The warrior considered the meaning of such a thing, and weighed his worth within her mind once more. Her own scars, because she fought most often in that natural shape, were upon her back, as if her life carried such weights heavily. "Do you request spars often of warriors?"
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The woad marked female refused to regard Samael as anything more than an insignificant, arrogant annoyance hardly worth her notice. He smirked as he dwelled on this, knowing it would take a lot to prove to her he was worth her time, if he even desired to pursue as much. But killing a woman heavy with children was akin to nothing more than murdering some small, helpless prey animal, even if she skillfully bore a deadly weapon familiar to her as her own claws. It would do nothing to satisfy the hellish prince, and so he continued. “Battle or spar with me—call it whatever you will, but I would enjoy immensely seeing such a creature as yourself in combat against myself,” Samael said, watching the woman with blood-hued vision. There was no honorable battle defending those you loved in his eyes. The only creatures he would go willingly to war for would be Kaena and the Angel—and for both of them he would do anything, even if it came to ending his own life.
He wasn’t ignorant enough to believe others did kill for their supposedly justified causes, but to him there was nothing more than bloodshed and murder. He took pleasure in the simplicity of parting a soul from it’s body, drinking it’s blood and dining on it’s still warm, bleeding corpse. Her name was strange, and he didn’t even dare placing it on his tongue, knowing it would never flow from there as eloquently as from her own. She was unique and foreign—it showed without fail from every ounce of her being right down to her bizarre calling and woad marked figure—and the creature didn’t desire to mar her distinct identity with his ignorance. But he imagined destroying her would be as interesting as drinking a fine, rare wine unobtainable from anywhere in the vicinity. She’d probably taste as delightful as any delectable foreign prey and introduce him to battle techniques unfamiliar to him thus far in his existence.
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The "And what manner of creature am I," the soft melody sang, and it was as if she were truly curious about the answer. That distant tranquility seemed to observe him from afar, her mild curiosity almost cold—and yet, it was not. "And what of yourself?" He had continuously implored her for battle, a thing with which the warrior was unfamiliar. No other creature had asked such a thing from her. Perhaps it would simply be a spar, as he said, or perhaps they would battle, as she suspected. But waging war was not a thing to take lightly. While the black fae reveled in battle and in fight, she did not revel in it needlessly. She understood the necessity of the existence of peace as well, and she did not wish to defile the beauty of war’s song. And so she was cautious in the forming of this promise. It was unwise to proceed when the footing ahead was uncertain. Often the warrior had been required to go forth without the knowledge of the footing ahead, but here such a thing were not necessary.
The woad warrior could sense that unrefined darkness within him, a thing that she had seen in many. And yet, as with those many that she had seen, the wolf became intrigued. Her soul was born from the darkness and marred twofold by the same blackness that had wrought her. From the moment she had breathed the first breath of life, her soul had been drawn to darkness. It was that single, black smudge upon the light of her soul that seemed to have grown darker in those passing days. It was from her own darkness that she sought to keep from the lives of a black seed within her, but it would always remain with her, a hidden birthmark. The woad bound fingers brushed absently against her swollen belly. "Perhaps," tranquil melody sang, "you will simply find me when the time is right." She did not know what was Fated for him, nor did she know what was Fated for her. But this encounter was not chance, for she did not believe in mere chance.
Cwmfen turned to face him, her body gliding marginally closer to the cloaked coyote. She did not deny her intrigue of him, her curiosity. But it was not yet strong enough for her to desire knowledge of him. "One can never truly know another," the melody mused aloud, "until one has fought the other." The white orbs, devoid of any clear emotion (were they empty, or were they simply filled with those diluted feelings?) held easily the crimson gaze. Samael seemed to know exactly who she was and what he was demanding, but the woad warrior knew nothing of him save for the silent subtle notes she had gathered. The woad-marked fae wondered if he would enlighten her of such a thing, for thus far he had merely demanded, silently refusing to bare himself before her. And she wondered once more: was this Samael worth the time and the effort? What had Fate written in her invisible ink for the two that now stood before eachother?
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“You are a rare curiosity,” he stated, in reference to her question as to exactly what kind of creature he regarded her as. “While I am something of connoisseur. I believe you can introduce me to battle techniques I have yet to encounter, and enlighten me in your unique style. Obviously, you are foreign, and that interests me immensely,” the coyote continued, smallest smile lingering on his lips. It appeared an ordinary expression to anyone who didn’t catch the faint shadow in his eyes—the way his expression didn’t quite erase the bloodlust from his gaze. He was truly interested in her ways of war, to learn something new and immerse himself in something he’d yet to see before. But he wasn’t utterly devoid of longings to fuck or maim this pretty little blue-marked thing. But that would have to wait until her children were born and she was at her life’s peak, ready to take him on at full potential. Screaming women that died easily held no real interest for the prince other than an occasional pastime to ease overwhelming boredom or desire. “Perhaps I will,” he replied, knowing he may very well seek her out when that time came rather than leave the potential of a further encounter to chance.
He picked her scent out of the salt-laden wind, committing it to memory and intending to not allow their lives to end without meeting again on this plane of existence. She was just as intrigued with him as he was with her—evidence hinting in the way she moved ever so slightly closer to him. Had she been repulsed she wouldn’t have inched closer, rather further away to escape his unwanted presence. “Clever,” the Hell Prince remarked, musing on her comment. He already knew and believed it, even if he’d never truly dwelt on the details before this moment. When facing death one’s true character emerged—whether they would stand their ground until the end, dying with their head held high or go down like a coward, crying and screaming without honestly doing anything about it. He’d seen many deaths before this moment, and he’d seen the truest, deepest exposing of character, whether unexpected or anticipated. And he looked forward to facing this woman on the battlefield, seeing if she lived up to his expectations or whether she would succumb to his fangs without a real fight. “What do you think you would find in me?” he asked, bloodstained gaze glinting with curiosity and darker malice, wondering what the woman would say.
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You’re fine, ^=^
I used that same pic for a Cwmfen table once.... Only I made it blue-ish
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A curiosity. The black fae watched him, her gaze held easily and unwavering, not challenging and yet not submitting. It was a strange thing, to be considered a ‘curiosity’. She understood then the nature of that male. "Only the worthy should learn the arts of war." It was a truth, but the black fe knew that it were not always so. There was always a corruption willing to slip by the scrutiny of a master, a malice willing to be patient long enough to learn all that could be learned before departing with blood upon their hands. And yet, a creature like that would never truly understand war, for war did not house such souls. Even Corvus had learned before his soul had rotted into that hollow nothing that shone with no light. That was what made Corvus dangerous. But he was dead. All creatures must die. Even the good. Even the bad. All things that have a beginning have an end, and Fate did not offer otherwise.
There was quiet movement against her swollen belly, and the woad bound fingers moved slowly and gently across her abdomen. And the lives that made her heavy fell still once more. "Then we shall see," the alto melody responded. The curiosity moved across the calm eyes of white as the moonlight moves across the still surface of a pool. The spar would determine all things, and until then she could wait in patience as she must wait for the lives within her to grow. The black soot that had settled like tar upon her soul strained, sparked by her curiosity. They sought to grasp her soul more firmly, but the purity of her soul was like a diamond still and could but be shrouded in darkness. And untroubled by the silence, the woad warrior allowed it to persist as the sound of the coyote’s voice died.
"I would find something with which I am familiar." The black fae did not think that this coyote would give her something that she did not already know or suspect. But one could never be certain until the essence was truly sampled. Perhaps she would be surprised. Perhaps. "But it is not what I will find but what you are willing to give." The soft alto fell to silence, and it seemed now that it was with the silence that she spoke, a voice so strange as to be soundless. The Raven Spear hummed, a brass ringing, as its blade tasted the air. The white orbs seemed to glow in the darkness of the night as she watched him, her gaze distant, calculating, impassive. She did not move closer as she stood there, but was unmoved. The warrior’s erected posture and tranquil impassivity seemed to command and not demand, as if she were the very warrior goddess that sent her Dreams upon a pied Raven’s wings. "What would you be willing to give, Samael?" The quiet melody seemed to whisper in the night and yet rise up as the song of all wolves, and almost it seemed as if there were a wild belligerence in her song. The Caledonian-Korean tilted her head ever so slightly, imperceptibly, in query.
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“My life,” he stated, a small, bloodstained smile crossing his dark lips when he spoke. “Only to one worthy and willing enough to take it.” Samael Lykoi would die on the battlefield at the hands of another. He would be torn down, eaten alive and dragged back to the depths of hell. There he would burn for eternity, torn apart again and again until heaven and earth collided and the dead walked the mortal plane as though they’d never left. Dying in some lonely, sad hole did not suit the hell prince, for he knew death was approaching and it only quickened his heart rate and burned like fire within his lungs. He would kill, kill, and kill again until someone finally had the power and desire to tear him down, destroying his living shell. Every living thing must die, no matter the shade of their soul, and Samael was no different. He may have been born from hellfire and brimstone, but in the end he would fall just as the others.
He would return to a throne of broken bones and blood, but until then he was forced to bide his time and wreak whatever havoc his soul could muster. His wings creaked softly, crying out for a sea of blood to bathe in. This woman he longed to add to his destruction, tasting her essence on his tongue and shredding her flesh into pretty little crimson ribbons. Her children he would devour, squealing as their life was stolen away before it’d even truly begun. But first, he would meet her on the battlefield, testing her prowess and worth. Perhaps, if she were found worthy enough it would be she who stole his life and laid his innards out across the autumn grass. Only time would reveal fate’s plan when their paths eventually crossed.
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