| mirror my malady;; prp Sabra | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 25 2013, 08:29 PM (46 Views) | |
| Billy | Jun 25 2013, 08:29 PM Post #1 |
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Alpha dog.
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The pungent smell of mud and dirt is too wet and piquant to be a ordinary passerby. The hunting dogs may have turned nose and kept to a poorly soggy trail had they been normal dogs. But there is something obviously otherworldly about the way they jitter across the wood. Black following blonde, nose to rib bone and knuckle again. Sounds that upon scrutiny, sound like acquiesce and stray thoughts. Morbid and brutal, probably. The kind of things animals would say if they could talk. Light reels backwards, stopping mid bound to catch something -- and something she does. The arrow-headed Lachesis brushes leg against her brindle companion and grins, and then she is off again. A dangerous switch of tactic and shift of prowl. Off the way there is a man, stumbling and screaming for help in a state reservation far from prying eyes. He'd underestimated those in hot pursuit, mistaken for branching wolves. Thumbing through books and the internet he'd learned all about wolf hierarchy and hunting tactics. With that combined with a thirst for survival for a mile and quarter he'd evaded their descent. He would have kept on too. Outrunning them, tricking them, gobbling them blinded into the hunt with starving bellies -- to desperate for consideration. Had they been normal dogs. There is a strangled sound of fight as the first cryptid falls onto him. She catches the upflip of his cocky heel - ripping into tangles of vein, skin, and muscle chaotically. He stretches but flails beneath her-- and then the second one is there. With much more salvaging attempt. A wolf of kill instead of torture, squelching out all chance before it'd been born. Long after he's gone, the first one ugly and cock-eyed is still chewing at that leg. Alligator teeth and roll, a gimpy tail that wags, stops, wags again until between the both of them there isnt much left of the poor vagrant explorer. This is their territory, and no cop could outlaw the bitter law of the wild. Hunt or be hunted, eat or be eaten. But even as the sky ribbons through dusk, moon, and dawn again it's only then that creature becomes man, and man's body rounds with that of it's own. Maybe the blonde, gap toothed with blood smeared across her body and chest from a failed struggle, is not quite horrified. But she seems penitent, panicked - "We have to hide the body," she says to no one in particular, although there is only a carcass and a peppered sage eyed hunting companion in proximity. Eerily calm in comparison. |
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2:49 AM Jul 11