|| You can't hide your face, my face...

[Storeh]

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[bg=#000000] Harshly uttered whispers, inrapturously convincingly perfect tempted the sharp edgings of the dangling betrayal of unsightly incorrectablity. A tempo, to be sure, that filled with drowning brims to lessons with the inability to assemble needed lyrics to fill silence. There was so much pretense to unsightly words flaffling so wonderfully about, entangling themselves as audios threatened to beat through drumming windows. It was a carving, to be sure, upon the still form of brute's distorted face, frozen in place as time into space. There was a rhythm, however, that any could see, to the whimsical busting of one's own cranium. Startled corners of crinkled mouth, lines embedded into deeply scorned flesh collected the beading scarlet of the drops that ran thickly from the insides of mouth, trickling like sparkling water, shimmering in lightless place. Wonderful! It was all simply wonderful! Without equal, to be sure, as the skull threatened to burst, the seams already popping slightly as skin broke, supple as well as warm to touch. It came in ribbons! It came in bows! It tore to shreds as the stallion merely could only smile as the birds fluttering about spirited away his flesh. No reaction, a smile. A smile. The wings were so pretty, with their glittering little rainbows, the feathers so soft as they beat against his wounded skin. The beaks weren't sharp, but no matter! They sawed. Back and forth, pluck, pluck, as if Spyder were a finely crafted harp. Pluck. Take the muscle from bone, drink the devils water in crimson ash. The banging continued, louder, showering a delicate arch that landed upon his own, discoloring what was already discolored. Shame. Caws, their songs muffled by the fight for the feed, aware of the beating heat. Aware of the breath. Unaware of the mind. Unconscious, but wistful. Nay, unfeeling, but savoring the rich juices of endless pain. Expecting, a limit? No. No limit. Drowning in an ocean inside, still currents of whirling collections. Can you hear it? Those voices are so loud. No explosion. There was no deciding moment. Tick. Tock. The shards of skin lived on, digested into the beings of the world. Counting seconds, in time with the beat of the head. One. One. One. Then, it stopped. Suspended, the world shall not wait. All moved on as the spider stayed put, spinning its web, the smile twitching but never falling. Are you the angel's face? Shiver, shiver, the air is spicing. There was a burst, a fluttering, a scream, a cry. A whirl. A silence. Feathers fluttered around the twisted corpses, hanging suspended from the branches, twirling on the wind. Spin, spin, only one in the throat. Breathing, cawing, pleading through the open cage of teeth. There was no expression, eyes blankly vacant, form bland. The frantically pulsing of heart was desirably, flavorful, euphoria filling the chambers. Through the thin layer of skin, the feathers glossy against his tongue. There was no metallic to taint. Taint? A bird cannot whimper as an equine or mammal, but it shrieks and cries enough to sate the wickedness, beckoning it forth as the heart continues. Sinew, under his teeth as they ground once, making the bird falter. It died by itself. At its own fault. He did not even have to kill it. The heart's beat quickened, a crescendo so lovely its own, then sputtered to burst. Silence, and cold. The jaw did not relax, but swallowed. The confines of stomach would serve as grave. Coldly with intention build it swam through the slid of throat, and once more the stallion stood, ticking. A river of feathers and corpses in his wake. There was none to sate the spider save the fly. Yet the fly was nowhere to be seen.

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[sibber-chow]

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[bg=black] The mare was alone again, wandering the diverse plains of the island for something, anything to preoccupy her time. She had not spent an extended time with any soul since Jimmy, and that encounter hadn’t really been long in itself. When the self-entitled saint had left her, things reverted back to the way they had been before their meeting for the most part. The only difference was that he was now a memory with every other passing moment, but a wonderful memory, one that stood out above most others. In time, Desdemona imagined the significance of their encounter would fade like others had. And, while she hoped to see the angel-faced, son of bitch again, she said she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell too long on him or anything in the past. A moment happens… and then it’s past; if she dwelled on any past moments continuously, then every coming moment would be wasted. Yet, wandering alone, so very alone, made it difficult to preoccupy her thoughts. She’d never realized how alone she was until she met him. As she walked into these rumored lands, Des became more vigilant. She knew the threats this place carried and that was precisely why she came. The mare needed something to break away from the mundane lest she become the monotonous drone society expected of everyone. And, while she wasn’t the least bit frightened of what she would find, she wasn’t going to let any damn fool get the upper hand, if she could help it. The smell of blood drenched out Jimmy’s sweet scent and she couldn’t help but scowl. Whether she’d admit or not, which she wouldn’t for it would be admitting she was giving up some of her liberation, she hated losing that contact with him. Luckily, her mind was too distracted by a form in the distance to fall back into thought of the saint right now. Blue eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out what the hellion was doing amongst the blood and feathers, but from this distance it was hard to tell. Maybe, a little closer? It isn’t that Des really cared for a fight, but the mare was terribly bored and when there wasn’t another option she became careless, even self-destructive in attempt to preoccupy herself. characters|| Desdemona word count|| 381 muse music|| rev theory ooc|| oh god. please don't eat her, spyyyder.

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[Storeh]

[atrb=border,1,true][atrb=width,394,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=#000000] Sweetly the melody sung to sink into the fleshing of the ears, drowning the little notes that dance upon the breezes- sing! Where has all the melody gone? That wonderful little bit of ticking that makes the song worth the melancholy little wonders that the world has yet to offer. Little matters as a tongue is racked across the scarred tissue that serves as the maw's own lips, the tortured cries of desperation and demise still ringing as though to tune the silhouettes. This little dance means more than just the crown as the blood pours from these superficial wounds to coat the bloodied ground. The hellion lowers his head to sniff at the tainted earth, tongue scraping against to savor those last little beads stuck in clinging. More, there is the need once more, still aching, reaching needing for the beating of heart under skin. Does the spider need more than the corpse to drain of the blood? The struggle to keep alive what indeed has already died. Meaning, to give meaning to the lusting after the blood-yet. Yet. A pause, the ticking has stopped, and the scent of metallic scorching is present with something else. Slowly, carefully, gracefully, and beautifully, the patchwork flesh raises the tendons of his neck, the dish of his nostrils flaring towards this scent. He can smell the blood pulsing underneath her skin, the ticking of hear heart as though the most timely of the clocks. Oh the smile, the feathered smirk that pulls apart that wretched skin, so coated and painted with the idleness of crimson. Did he say he wanted more? Who was there to answer his prayers, a silent thanks to that horrible god as the tail sways in pendulum fashion. Swish. Swish. Perfect, just as you have wished. Isn't she just a sight to see? Arched curves and pride in steps. Click, footfall, each a trifle closer, and those pumpkin eyes watch, intent, and interested to see what this being will be. Click. Click. A smile for them to share, the smell of her already crawling under his skin. The stag can feel the warmth of her crimson brushing against his frame, the grinding of her joints as the crumble under the pressure of his jaws. Lovely, she is lovely, and even lovlier shall she be. He lowers his head just a fraction, with all the due of respect, his body turned right toward her as though to pay attention. Will she give him a smile, will she give him a scream? The walking corpse of his frame, spilling out all the crimson. Flesh, give me flesh. Tear me to ribbons, though I never did say that I would be playing nice. 'Come here, my love.' Spyder, he tempts, with a purr, the gentlest of meanings behind that demon of a face, never one to be a charmer by the blood he can't erase. The patchwork marquee of his wonderless a pelt, will there be a warning she so listens to that rings throughout her head? He waits once more, the idleness of fortune, with a wonder. What was this? Moment. Trail. A razor-bladed smile carved deeply into the bloodily torn maw of the stag as crooked ears waited for the words. Bloodshed? The thought made a giddy bubble of giggle billow in his throat. The bitter crimson slid farther down is throat as nostrils flared to bask in what he had created. A shiver quickly quaked along the wake of his spine, deeper and depper into the flesh. Mare, mare, what's your game? Will you come closer and play with me?

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[sibber-chow]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,489,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=black] Steadily approaching nearer and nearer to the tattered form, intrigue and disgust were ever present in the sparkle of her gaze. The blue orbs, yet, showed no sign of fear from the creature despite his mutilated form, nor did they show sympathy, just a sickened interest. The strong metallic scent was overpowering, enough to knock one off their feet as it hit her in layers like brick walls. But, was it the scent that caused her stomach to curdle or the sight of so much torn flesh, exposed tissue and leaking crimson? And, why wasn’t she wise enough to get the hell out of the forsaken lands? Well, she’d asked for something to preoccupy her mind – she’d got it and then some. The closer she got the more recognizable the figure became. Yes, beneath the gore and grime was a soul she’d seen before, in her father’s lands non-the-less. For some stupid reason, this gave the mare a confidence and haughtiness over her previous caution. She had her dished crown high as if she had bettered this poor brute because she had gotten out while he had not. He still reeked, beneath the odor of metallic, of the foul aroma distinct of the inferno territory. But, why was he here and in such a state if he was nothing more than the everyman. Pausing in her tracks, Desdemona wised up slightly. Perhaps she should tread a little lighter. This brute hardly looked mentally stable as he stood amongst sprawled feathers, some even slithering from the corners of his mouth. Eyes narrowed as she tried to figure this guy out. Normally, horses were easy enough to read. St. Jimmy had been a rare exception and now him. However, she could tell this was no new St. Jimmy. He was trouble and trouble was a thrill – unfortunately, this time it was a quite self-destructive thrill she’d wandered into. An odd feeling in the pit of her gut tried to warn her. Des had not heeded warnings for so long that she didn’t even understand this feeling and as such dismissed it as unimportant. Then he spoke and for whatever reason it pissed her off. Why the hell was he so damn cocky? Cockiness wasn’t normally something that got under her skin too much, but he seemed in no shape to be! He was battered and bruised among a sprawled mess, yet eyed her as if she was but a new little trinket. And, what likely bothered her more was that he was from her father’s herd; he was the enemy. Snorting, the mare did come closer with pompous little smirk lining her maw, “you seem to have some nerve. Tell me, then, what is it you want?” The mare was inches from his face, her eyes piercing into his own with her own sick little amusement. characters|| Desdemona word count|| 494 muse music|| avenged sevenfold ooc|| she dumb. x)

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[Storeh]

[atrb=border,1,true][atrb=width,394,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=#000000] Each little tiny spark, these wonderful sparks that lit up the inside of her eyes, trickling like the slow rivulets of crimson that poured through her veins. Besting by best of fire, the flames that kindled the ignorance of an innocent soul. Invincibility was not all it seemed, invulnerability something picked through until it became no more than a facade. The cracking of flesh as the maw was stretched tighter, the slow droplets beading as the eyes widened with the words carefully falling into the lines of his mind. The droplets so slowly, tauntingly, dripping to the hard earth below their feet. The closer she neared, the more Spyder could just <i>smell</i> the wonderful crimson that was flowing through her veins, the pulse just below that soft caressing flesh. He could already feel the tear of it upon his teeth, the sawing of the ribbons as he tore for the prizes. The metallic wounds that made him more than just the raving equine, sadistic to a fault. A question to cascade. Simple. Couldn't she just picture the most beautiful portrait of it all, him tearing her flesh from her bones and feasting on this so supple of treats. The blood, just the warmth, as pretty as the windchimes he heard in the deepest of his dreams. A giggle, soft on the rise for the joke was on the humor. Jokers, the spider is so clever to wait as the fly falls so steadily into the trap, unknowing of that which is so eagerly awaiting. Snicker, giggle. Playful and deadly, the cloud orange hues that tell you more than you needed to know. Did you not see the wounds, the bloodstains, the corpses in my mouth? That smell is more than just the decay of a casual passerby. It is the rotting of you in my mouth. 'You.' The word so sweet and gentle, underlined with the anticipation of boiling blood in his veins. Beat. Beat. When is there to be the burst? The stallion could see it now beyond the flecks of her ashen skin, so paper thin, without the hinting of true intentions. Can I have a taste? His lips parted into a wonderful smile, genuine to the fault of his own little wonders. Wonders to whom shall we then implore? His jaw parted swiftly, the maw spreading to show the crimson stained lines of his teeth, the scars on his maw yawning to seperate into the distinct halves that marked his jaws. So many times. So many days. So many battles to earn these scars. Do you have an idea, little fly? Do you have a clue? This feast I am about to have, the happiness you shall give me. The joke is on you. Swiftly, in a clean motion, he dove for the tender flesh of her nose, just as he had done a million times before, and shall do a million times again, least the kiss of death finally catch him in the end. Going down, falling with the taste of blood and the tearing of flesh! Lovely! Perfect and beautiful! And end to be painted in a thousand shades of grey and red. Snap, tear, lunge, charge, snap, tear, lunge. The pulse of his mind, the song of his soul, the fire of his eyes kindling this spirit, the routine of the ages, the dance of the quickest, the demon who serves only the thickest. Bite. Bite. Tear me to ribbons, tear me to shreds, wear my skin and wind me down to bed. He wanted the taste of the blood, the rush of the teeth, the snap of her bite, the gasp of her lungs collapsing, the blood of the ones she was descended from salvaged from her still-warm flesh. The draining of the soul as it fled from her body, the music of her dying scream. The only little thing that kept the Spyder going, that kept him spinning his web, that kept him from being like all the others, corpses waiting for their chance at the bed. He wanted to kiss her yes, he wanted to feel her yes, but he wanted to do it in the most wonderful of ways. Tear. Feed. Or starve. The world is eat or be eaten, and the hellion brute knew this more than others, the thousands of scars on his pelt serving only to prove he had survive. He had never lost a fight. Click. Click. Drop. Scrape. Bite. Kill. Die.

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[sibber-chow]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,489,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=black] The mare stomped a hoof in annoyance as she stared down the bloodied bay, waiting ever so impatiently for his retort. He had said the wrong thing to be the wrong person that he was and thus Des gave him less tolerance than the majority. As he finally spoke, her ears went flat against her skull making a quick assumption to what he had meant; yet, it was worse than that in reality. She’d never cared for most suitors as she thought he had intended, but she’d normally toy and tease with them for a little while before crushing their hopes. It provided a bit of amusement, but she was hardly in the mood as of late. Having found someone she could connect to, those little games were hardly as fun, or maybe, it came down to where the stallion’s allegiances resided once more. Before she could rebuttal with a tart little comeback and make her leave in a bothered huff, she saw a demonic smile curving his lips and baring his crimson spewed ivories. Had the stench of blood and rotting carcasses not been overwhelming before, it certainly was now. Hissing at the smell and sight, she started to turn away instead of even giving him the dignity of another word, but she hadn’t the chance… His teeth locked down upon the flesh of nares and a shrill whinny escaped her throat. Blood oozed from the point of impact and gushed into her nostrils and it became quickly harder to breathe as he held tight. Blood, too, spilled from just above her mouth. Gagging and spewing out the crimson liquid, the mare violently tried to rip her way free of his hold. And, finally, she had pulled back. The flesh of her muzzle was ripped away in spite of a few dead, clinging slices. She began to cough as blood started gushing out with each heaved exhalation. “Shit, shit! Damnit…you… you fucking bastard!” Stepping back a few paces, the mare’s orbs narrowed on her attacker. What the hell was she to do? Run? Hell, no. Bloodied maw panted heavily as she watched him. With a defiant snort, which hurt like hell, the mare reared, legs thrashing the air to land as many blows as she could at his already bloodied skull. characters|| Desdemona word count|| 398 muse music|| avenged sevenfold and atreyu ooc|| ouch. xD

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[Storeh]

[atrb=border,1,true][atrb=width,394,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=#000000] The colorful edgings of jagged smile, broken like puzzle pieces as torn to shreds by the razors teeth, each drip of crimson paint upon the neverending wall as though the newest addition to the dance of the demons from below. Splatter with the tones of squealing wake, music to the ears as though dancing had gone once more out of fashion. The stallion drank in the sweetest nectar of life, staining himself farther as the audios ceased to matter, pupils dilating as adrenaline surged into the chambers of his heightened flesh, pulsing under the patchwork edges of the saturated stitches of skin, sawed so helplessly together. Ears flattening as the laugh rang low, maniacal to a fault as the charade ceased to be as thought, as flaunted so willingly projected. Glowing soul through demonic eyes, the wire-tipped edges of your baneful smile, malice growling to feed the beast merely with the hatred in your eyes. Cornered, back to the wall, smearing the blood down as I lick my lips while consuming the trendils of your flesh. I swallow, I swallow you whole. Focus, the narrowing of the path onto the discrete pathways of the woes of the torn skin of the mare. Anger. Feed me so deliciously with your anger. The fight has just begun, my sweet, the tempting of your wildfire, the bliss of your ignorance. The situation, all the chips on the table, all of the odds stacked in my favor as you make a careless move. Needless to say she got me once. Needless to say she got me twice. The sharpened points of her hooves slicing so cleanly through the flesh, the pain budding so brilliantly in my chest. I wanted to taste her again, the warmth, the metallic tang. It was a woven dance, in a intricate trance, the narrowing of the savage mind. What he was made to do, what he was made to see, the shredding of a pretty little pelt to ribbons, the teeth scraping across her flesh as he danced about, dreaming of the blood he wished to rise to the surface in his wake. Trapped without knowing, clawing to fight something invisible. There is no way to win against that which is the battle. Nostrils flaring across the scars of his own pelt, breathing in the tearing of his skin with measured snapping of his teeth. Then, the aim once more, the aim for her neck, not the bottom for the killing point, but the crest of the top to twist. Measure, delicate, measure as he may, he knew what he shall do. Feint. Feign. Which way shall I go my little princess? How can you win this battle when it has only just began? Where is the fire? The flame you so flaunted. I wanted it to be bearing across my skin, yet all i get are these careless sparks! The laughter that escalated in disappointment at the way things could have been, the collection of the rolling tides stained bright red by the things she had said. what a day, what a mouth, what a way for the stallion to say that there was no true way out of here alive. Mess with the fire, expect to get burned, though the truth of that was yet to be seen. Burn, ash, paper thin to body as the teeth once more clasped for their mark. The roadmap of scars burned into his flesh, searing the skin opened by what may, though the clumsiest of opponent may bring him pain, there is a need for the weight of a challenge. The laughter, the smirks, the giggles, bringing the strands of curses from her ruined mouth. Such a pretty thing on the outside, such a delicious thing on the inside. Tear her open, cut her open, bask in the wonder of this glorified wonder. To take away the beauty, to create something more! Glorious! The spreading of crimson to paint the landscape from the shades of dulled grey. The aching in his chest being toward with her emotion, the stubborn anger that made the laughter bubble from his chest, that kept the strikes coming even when they could be through. He was toying, he was messing, he was playing, and he could have already consumed her whole. Yet it was so much more delicious. So much more wonderfully savored to play with the prey, wrap it up and dance with it, before ending it all with a clean swipe. Demons may charm, stallions may play, but this little Spyder was in it for the end. The End. Her end would dawn in crimson, the most brilliant of paints. He could already feel the life under her skin fading, draining, he could tangibly imagine her death, prolonged with skill, as he made another strike.

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[sibber-chow]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,489,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=black] The mare’s hooves, painted with blood, came to the hardened terra with a thud. The glint in her eyes spoke of rage over fear, only feeding the stallion’s thirst. She could see the want in his eyes to attack again, she could see him strategically pinpointing his target. She hadn’t much time to move before his next onslaught was launched. An anguished snarl rippled through her throat as his teeth once more clamped against flesh. This time, they dug away at her crest, more blood oozing from the wound. Eyes gaped as he twisted the torn flesh, a tingling sensation of sheer pain traveling through her body. Her heart throbbed and her breaths continued to heave, blood oozing into her mouth and nostrils with each wheezing gulp of air. Her knees tried to buckle under, but adrenaline began to surge as she saw her life in danger, allowing for a second wind. Her eyes gleamed desperately for a counterattack and were diligently punished and rewarded. Her raw maw lurched towards the stallion’s neck. It cause her more pain as the flesh in his maw splintered from her bodice in completion from the movement. But, she found prize as her bloody maw sought the side of his neck. Teeth clutched with sweet vengeance before a sweeping toss of her head pulled the gash down his neck further. Stubborn defiance to give in, to succumb to his authority, to heed the warnings everyone would have wanted to give, and the instinct to survive were what drove the mare in this deadly dance. She was blind to reality and thoughts no longer bogged her down for she hadn’t the time to face either. In spite of her pain, there was an odd exhilaration as she fought for survival. However, this feeling that she had sought would be the death of her if she kept at it. Even if she survived today, were she to continue this destruction, she would be slain. One stray thought managed to seep into the struggle as she pulled her maw from the battered brute. ‘Whats worth fighting for thats not worth dying for, anyway.’ Dear, St. Jimmy. Dear, misguided youths. Did they really know what was worth fighting for? At this point, did she even know what she was fighting for? Licking her lips free of a mixture of his blood and hers, the mare charged. Her body crashed into the stallion’s in hopes it would bring him down. She wasn’t sure it would work given her moderate stature. In any case, she strived to at least knock some of the wind from her counterpart, all the while, her teeth sought to graze his flesh wherever they could touchdown. And, as she gave way to animal instinct and her thoughts took a back seat, the wind began to howl and twirl around them with a deep fury. characters|| Desdemona word count|| 290 muse music|| atreyu ooc|| derp.

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[Storeh]

[atrb=border,1,true][atrb=width,394,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

[bg=#000000] The nips on his skin were light as rain, falling from the teeth of another as though with the grace of an assumption lost long ago. The rain was served with the fruits of crimson, timeless to cradle the dance of this so lost of arts. There was another shift, a tick. Click. The flicking of a switch, and the gates of the mind where opened, the clouds lifting with all the sensation of a clap that allowed Spyder to dance with the true nature. Like claws down the length of the spine, like hooves racking across the flesh, the little chills of apprehension that were shaking him so to the skin. Though filled with the juices of life, he mouth began to water, the pumpkin of his eyes so violently glimmering as a twisted smile curved up his maw. There was no shame in this game, the maze of a lifetime, the wounds that were the deepest bringing forth the best misery of pain. A love for the glory as he moved with the assurance of step, the door to his mind slamming shut with all the finality of a trap. The snap of lightning across his coat that came with the whipping of wind as humor drained from his features, drawing for a concentration uncannily distorted. The attacks he took were not at the random, a timed snapped of the teeth while he sough to avoid the heaviest of her blows, allowing the fea the charm of scraping patches. No matter how heavy the crimson was flowing now though, Spyder was not blinded by the pain he was in, but seeking the prospect of sharing it with another, with the loviliest of creatures before him. Dancing with the devil as he plays with his tail, the fire not present yet the touches still burn. The collection of flies upon their moldering bodies as rows of hide where ripped to the air, the crunching of skulls as it was all the shifted of natures. There was no fear that drove him forward, the edges of his vision sharped by his exhaustless wind, preparing with eager stance as the fea took to charge, colliding as though her bodice itself could serve to tear the stallion in two. What luck that would be. What a charming day of luck. Cradled without escape to the anchors of his bloodied form, the stag sought latch himself to the mare's neck without the hopes of letting go. It had been a foolish move to run headlong, as though he would have fallen right over when the brute was no lightweight. The pressure in his jaw unlaxing, mounting with the ache that still lay unreleased under his skin. A yearning for the final precious moments, the slow rivulets and trickles down his throat, the warmth that slowly fell into his stomach. Yet the fight was euphoria! The struggle so perfect! The melody of snapping tendons that brought for the joyous pains. Spyder was feeling alive soaked in the crimson splatter. Deliciously alive! The pain that was always coming, falling, clawing away at the pelting. A shaking fit of contorted disire racing down his spine as he twisted, a fit of utter hysteria! The laughter, smooth and thick from his throat, pulsed through the air as though the running of the dead to march. Each of her labored breaths was encouragement falling on the stag's tilted ears, the plight she wished so to return. Encouragement for the deeds already serrated into his flesh, tore open again to suffer the wound. For the moment he needed her. The thickness of her blood falling across his skin, running through his veins. Cracking open his head. Yearning that came with the sweltering cries for violence, a deadly bite, clench for the streams of darkness already lapping about them with the fingers to collect across the ground. Vultures sitting amongst the ruined bodies, watching the two with their orb eyes, waiting for the call to be uttered, sputtered, with the crimson bubbling from the chamber of a throat. Demons, I could know. My friends, I could tell. Friends. Feast on this that I have created, spirit away my flesh and carve your names into my bones. No introduction to split the greeting, the graveline fashion more suitable than the headstones that I have crumbled. The mare was just another, just another fea, no matter how powerful she sought to make. Make. Fight, the splintering of a head, the ringing of a laugh, the touching of the blood, the mixing of the skins. Do you enjoy it my dear? The curving razor edged smile that so graces the skin of my maw, did you notice the millions of pocketmarks that litter the expanse of my pelt, the walking of the corpses around me, the ticking in my head. Joyous ticking! Telling me to break apart your bones. Bones? The blood, the bones, splintered and cracking, breaking and snapping as though there had never been another sensation to share. Sparkless embers as I pound myself into your felsh, teeth sharpened across it. Spyder was malicious, precision in doing what he had only know, though it would seem as though the stallion could never tire. Relentless, without the aid of self-control, the demented patterns of his smile.

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[sibber-chow]

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[bg=black] Thought and feeling became muddled in the struggle. They were still there but pushed to the back burner – something she had learned to do from the very day she was born. And, if you did it long enough, it became an adaptation. Tricking herself into the idea that the pain wasn’t there to keep her going, to keep the mare from caving under. She didn’t know how she would fair in this battle, and that it had been a battle worth starting, but it is where she was, and it was against everything she stood for to just give in. The mare only flinched as the stallion’s teeth connected with her neck again. This time, the jaw was locked tight and she could feel little escape. All she could do was carve her own teeth into his in return. Tightening the pressure of her grip, the mare pulled and twisted at the flesh she had managed to obtain, digging deeper and deeper into the tissue. As the wind howled, a robust silhouette came from the distance. He approached with a slow, quiet gait for one of his stature. The tank of horse approached from the side of the duo, ever vigilant blue orbs narrowed upon them. Orpheus snarled, his lips curling up to bare his ivories, as he neared them. As he approached, the vultures hobbled to the side – not wanting to leave for fear they might miss the meal. A mistake for one whose reaction time was just too slow. The pan-sized hoof of the beast came crashing down upon the back of the feathered scavenger, but he didn’t even look down as the bones splintered and blood tainted the ivory of his large pillars. As he bellowed a murderous whinny at the two, the painted brute wasn’t sure who he was angrier with. A good father would have likely gasped and run to the immediate aid of his daughter, but it could be assumed the stallion wasn’t the example of fatherly perfection or anything close. And, perhaps, he might have been kinder had the ungrateful twit not left his herd. Orpheus was good to hold grudges even, no especially, against those of his own blood. Shrieking his war cry again, the hellion eventually locked sight on Spyder. The brute knew the creature had no sense, but he would give him a chance to be reasoned with. He would hate to make his most psychotic and experience and therefore most deadly warrior unable to serve his duties. However, no matter how angry he was with Des, he wasn’t going to have her slain at this buck’s hooves, not yet, at least. “Spyder, get away from her. I don’t really give a damn who you choose kill, as long as they are not members of my herd.” Eyes narrowed temporarily on his daughter, authoritatively commanding that she wasn’t free – she was a part of his herd. And, for now, the mare was too preoccupied with crimson tainting her maw to retort the issue. Immediate gaze turned back on his friend and enemy, Spyder. He knew that the brute was either going to attack him or keep going after Des, and as a much more experienced fighter than his daughter with his sheer size to boot, he was ready. characters|| desdemona orpheus word count|| 548 muse music|| avenged sevenfold - not ready to die ooc|| dun dun dun. orphy to the rescue! sort of...

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[Storeh]

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[bg=#000000] Commanded. Tethered, by the brute was sworn to boot with the request so amply unaware of the threat so maliciously inclined. Savage? Yes. Beyond the inch of tortured mind, the want so sweet of what to do with the aching growing so hauntingly behind those tainted eyes. The relief of pressure as his jaw unlatched, unhitched from the tender tearing of the softest of her flesh. Nostrils flaring as he purred, crimson dripping from the canines and teeth already so stained by these days, the purr borderline vehement as it was torn from his ruined maw. Taking a measured step to appraise the wonders of his work, the clear signs of whom was worse for wear. Could see feel the pain settling into her bones, working over the cogs and spindles of her so frail and fragile a mind. A coo once more to offer, the crouching circling of predatory fashion never ceasing as the Spyder made his way to the side of his supposed counterpart, the trendils of his tail lashing like a cats. Lithe, graceful, the deadliest of creatures as he cast his gaze to the pitiless creature he had attacked. A shame for shame, for the daft little thing would now have to live with those scars forever shaming her beauty. So sad. Spyder did not laugh, not did he smile, instead his whipcord slashed once more as he gave a distasteful glance towards the buzzards before coming to rest on the brute. Master? A smile deliciously curved up a single corner of his mouth, eye sparking brightly at the hint, a thousand shades of wrong on his flesh. Wonder. Wander. Will you be the next. Turn your back and show me what it means to be a man. Insanity be vigilant, for the coward may have a new face. 'Shame. I should have pleaded mercy and given her a few more scars.' Surely this one must have known what the Spyder could have already done to the snippet little snapper so caught and struggling in his web. Deranged little smiles cast at the thing, turned his ruined so cracked head to gaze once more upon her. Charmed. So charmed by the way she chooses to fight, what more could anyone have wanted for blood. Moonstruck and dogmatic, the fleshing caught in his lips, ignoring the draining of his life's blood as the vulture grew hungrier, shuffling closer as he stood like statuette, unmoving as he gazed upon what he had been called off of. Patience. Waiting for the movement. This is not as over as you would like to think. Think of what the two of us could be if you would just let me show you. Smile. Not demented. Smile. Not deranged. Smile. Let me convince you I'm not insane. A bloody bay so bloody badly wants to play. A struck dog on a lease, choosing to pace without motion beside the one who holds the muzzle, the rein. Strike me again and you shall have your chance. I might be a demon, but they should call me death. Do you even notice what is in fashion today? The coals of eyes that so eagerly wish to burn your skin. It will hurt for today. It will hurt for tomorrow. And you will be the one who will live with the scars. Look at your face and think of me. Send me those who wish to earn your favor, and we shall see where they end. No, not today. You might die tomorrow. Can you hold off against the suffering kindled by these crows around us? I want to laugh, but my face is vacant as the mind I cradle so close. Hero. Hero. Call me a hero, for is it really that bad to die, little thing? Remember. Orpheus. Orpheus. The hellion to turn his gaze to Orpheus, wondering where the line of command will chain. The vultures are gathering around Spyder's feet, picking at the flesh that falls from him like snow, lapping at the blood drops as he stands. Orpheus, what do you want me to be now? Smile, give a little smile. What do you want me to do with our daughter, the pounds of her flesh must be paid. Sparking these pumpkin eyes with desire for the toll of blood. More than a few birds with have to do, for now they peck at my hooves, sheltered by my shadow. Orpheus? 'Lessons.' The single word as though a hushed whisper as the hellion looked into the lead's fine eyes, wondering if he shall ever see the light drain from them. Laugh, I want to laugh, but I can't when there is a word hanging between us. As if in rapturous intent by the birds carrying on about him, Spyder lowered his head to them, their little trails not stopping for this had happened before. So many times had they waited for his deeds to be done. So many times had he fed them so nicely. He closed his jaw around one of their necks, looked at the mare, and silenced it. Blood poured from his mouth like a fountain, and he wished he could do it again. Instead, he let the carcass fall, watched the other vultures deacend upon it, and smiled to himself at the thought of humanity. Humanity? The world was a cannibal, and soon it would eat you alive.

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[sibber-chow]

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[bg=black] The stallion was surprised by the bloodied bays reaction, but more so was he skeptical. Saying nothing of the matter, the stallion stared at his daughter with little emotion as she panted, blood oozing from her multiple wounds and tainting her pelt. In turn, the mare moved a few paces tall before raising a defiant tiara and damning her fate, “I’m not in your damn herd, bastard.” Snapping his teeth at the mare, intentionally missing her flesh by inches, the steed offered her a warning for the attitude – a warning in which she took no heed to. Had anyone really expected otherwise? “Perhaps, you haven’t thought this through. I’ll give you one more chance, Desdemona. Come back to my lands or you are on your own as an enemy of the Inferno herd. This is your last chance.” “Oh, well, in that case, fuck no.” The mare tossed her head in defiance. She knew she was in no condition to push the limits. But, this, her freedom, hell, it was worth fighting for. Orpheus wasn’t surprised when his daughter denied him. He wasn’t the least bit stunned that the mare was abandoning him. It had happened so many times before. Orpheus had always been a dark-hearted brute, but there had once been a hopeful glimmer in his younger years – there seemed to be some capacity to care and to love and to be something other than a heartless bastard. Time had tragically warped that. From a young age, he’d been abandoned by everyone he loved. Of course, some circumstances were his fault, some forces that could not be reckoned with, and other times it had been the other parties fault but he fell blind to the specifics. In his eyes, they had all abandoned him, and he had been the fool to believe he even had the capacity to love. He did not. He was just a molded, cold sociopath that had realized it was time to give up the façade of their being normalcy within him. What he wanted, nay needed, was power and control. From his father’s long absences, to the departure of brother and mother, the death of Cheza, the cruel games of Danaiya, and departure of his only son, he had slowly been morphed into this heartless beast. And, Desdemona’s denial, her abandonment was the one chance to fuel the dwindling flame left in his heart. She crushed the flame until there was nothing but ash, not even the slightest spark left to be rekindled. His eyes narrowed with severity upon the mare he used to call his daughter, and she knew the look in his eyes; she knew the rage that was likely to ensue. Without thinking about it, her lips curled into a tart little smirk as she bid him a sarcastic good-bye, “as pleasant as it has been, pops, I’ve got more important things to do.” That was a total lie. With a quick glance at Spyder, the mare turned heel and bolted. This was the only chance she was likely to get. And, if Orpheus didn’t stop her, she would be getting away from a deadly situation with her pride in-tact. It was official: she never had to go back to Inferno or Orpheus’ tyrannical authority again. Hell, he wouldn’t let her had she wanted to! Offering a sinister look to his battered counterpart, the stallion hissed, “well, you heard her Spyder. She isn’t in the herd. If you see her again, ever, kill the bitch.” His gaze turned skeptical again as he studied the stallion. He had expected his appearance to have turned to a brawl, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the brute would take advantage as he turned his back to him, turned vulnerable. After all, the brute had just robbed him of a kill. Chuckling beneath his breath, the painted stag turned his back to leave the brute even with his doubts. If he attacked so be it. Orpheus could fend for himself. characters|| desdemona orpheus word count|| 666 muse music|| atreyu ooc|| six six six words. divine. -cackles-

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[Storeh]

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[bg=#000000] A raven's cry to shallow grave, mistaking fortune as spindled corpses of luck. Pumpkin eyes with clever reprise as though the entire world was the humorless trio, or maybe the parade of a devil's quartet, never mind still the leaking of blood. Delicate and sweet as a child's hand laughter smeared across his maw, eyes narrowing with the chill across his pelt. Scars. Walk with them until your flesh is mine once more, bear my mark, a mark of a demon or far worse set still to come? Fate. Fate of moldering body drained so splattered as art to blood. A trail taken with confirmation signed with the seals of crimson, the pandora's box eaten alive as though a parasite. Parasyte? Spyder. The flashing light show of shattered glass continued as the brute's back was exposed, the nicks in the flesh of times to brawl making the other hellion wonder. Rip? Would the skin be as tasteless as the rest of his shimmering pelt? Click. A command to turn the hound loose once more was as sweet as it ignited the blackened tears of his mind, yet no movement was made. Just laughter, creme and silk boiling from his throat as though made of music box rhythms. The crescendo of pitch for the war had began once again, the world begin his cradle for the dead of bastard dame. A hangman's noose or deathly fire, neither would far cry to do. Charming as the notion was, there was still the statuette of stance. All this talk about killing was making him hunger. Tilting the ruined edgings of his cranium, as though shattered as it was by cracks, the torn ears pricked forth as though in intent of capture. Yet the bird was wounded, tearing herself apart as she ran with those broken wings, and he hoped she knew there was no escape. The scent of the decay he caused was enough to mark her out as silent. No more than a reminder of her fate by the scars left by his teeth. Spyder would find her again, a delicious thought that made him wonder if this was such as wonderful a game as it settled, deep into the calling marrow of his bones. The long arch of his neck turned to observe the retreating form of Orpheus with a tangle of wonder at the bony blood stains across the winking inkbolts of his white skin, thinking of the hound on the hunt. What was the call to be baying? Was it time for him to howl. Instead, the brute cast a orange-tinged eye back forth with another smirk upon the scarred flesh of maw. Remember. Would the little fire remember whom she had been burned? There was of no use that she could do to him, pathetic the state she happened to fight then the cowardice towards another less than sparking. Capture? This act was not his doing, tone monotone as well as distant, with an aura of preacher speech to child. Measured. Composure. A rigid statue as splinters formed underneath his skin. Eyes widening at the burning sensations. There was a growing feeling so sweeping, tangling through edges of cracks. Flickering nail bites, scampering feet. Hair standing on nearsighted end. Spiders crawling under the flesh, seeking escape. Leaving traces of tainted. A quake, a thousand! Mind flashed as teeth lashed out to tear chunks of his flesh. Tearing! Tore! Get. It. Out. I. Feel. Them. Under. My. Skin. Crimson arched through the air in time with his squeals, and snorts, bites of stained skin collecting in the branches entangled. Embedded. Polished teeth where gleaming, eyes teeming with shreds, dripping acid to the floor as he turned once more to the path which she had taken. Mare. Fare thee well. Bare the creature for all to see, the flashing pictures in those terrible eyes. Such horrible things! So many more to be done. Whole. WHOLE. She was still whole, infecting the world with the fire so cradled in her flesh. No. NO. Shame. Shame. More. More. Soon this be all adored. Already, the need to caress the skin with his fangs built. Built. Threads of sinew graced his maw in tangles. Mats. Then, with motions swaying as if in tune. He walked. Yes, he walked. Away. Humming. Singing. That same song. And he thought of Ashia, of the seed he had poisoned her with, which just made his song all the more sweet as it caressed the polished air. I shall rack you across the coals myself just to see you burn.

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