Weilding Power
Date: Sunday, 8 October
Time: Throughout the Day and ghosting into night
Place: The Cozy Home of Mr and Mrs Bill Weasley
Characters Involved: Fenrir Greyback
They were fools, all of them. What had he to fear from wizarding rules, regulations, confinements? Aurors with their hot-silver wand-hilts were nothing to him! They had to see him to hurt him, and he had spent his entire life learning how not to be seen.
The Dark Lord had been nothing but a tool. Oh, yes, the snake-man had believed the reverse, had believed that he, Fenrir Greyback, most feared Werewolf in all of Britain had been the 'tool', but he was wrong! Fenrir only did his bidding when their purposes coincided. It would not have been long before Fenrir would have tasted the copper-tang-hot blood from that throat.
Once again his own plans had been thwarted, but Fenrir was not discouraged. He had decades ahead of him to start again.
For now, he was playing, toying with those who had thwarted him. Vengeance was sweet, a pleasant condiment to accompany the serenade of screams and salty flavour of viscous-thick blood and juicy throats, with the sharp, acrid scent of fear like ambrosia enveloping it all.
Fear. Delicious terror. Like a lover deliberately drawing out the build to ecstasy, that the climax might be as shattering as possible, Fenrir teased his victims - his TRUE victims - sometimes for decades, merely to feast upon the cornucopia of fear in all its scrumptious variations. Suspicious worry - was that really Fenrir's Mark? Angst - what do I do? Dread. Horror. Trepidation. Dismay. Panic.
Each had its own flavour, its own scent, its own unique characteristics to relish.
The beautiful wife of the Weasley man had some of the strongest flavours he had ever scented, as though that which made her not quite fully human also made her more full of life.
He had savoured her grief-tainted-fear for months after the taste of her sister had long been forgotten, bright-hot and oh-so-sweet.
The quaint location in which they had chosen to live provided plenty of hiding places for someone as cunning as himself. He shunned Wizardkind, yes, but he was not incapable of using magic when necessary, and he held no compunctions against using 'human' magic against them. He could conceal or even eliminated his scent; he could Apparate; he could use glamours and concealment charms self-taught over the years.
No mere human wizard could ever be a threat to him.
Like an addict needing his next 'fix', Fenrir wanted another taste of the Veela-woman's fear. His 'mark' had now been shown in the papers enough that he had no doubt she would recognise it, even if she had forgotten what it looked like written in the blood of her sister.
He watched her routine. Hiding himself when she came out into her garden, he found a concealed location en-route back to the house, carved a rough facsimile of his 'mark' onto a soft stone with the sharp edge of one jagged fingernail, and tossed the stone out onto the path. She could not fail to see it on her way back into the house - perhaps had heard it land when he threw it - and she would know it had not been there a moment before. Grinning savagely, he stationed himself down-wind from her, hiding amongst the foliage, and breathed deeply, waiting for that sharp spike of delicious panic to reach his sensitive nose.
Days he had been lurking about the house as the 'cute' couple went about their daily lives, as though nothing could reach them. Now, he was ready to begin his play. Nothing was so scrumptious as bliss turned to fear.
Time: Throughout the Day and ghosting into night
Place: The Cozy Home of Mr and Mrs Bill Weasley
Characters Involved: Fenrir Greyback
They were fools, all of them. What had he to fear from wizarding rules, regulations, confinements? Aurors with their hot-silver wand-hilts were nothing to him! They had to see him to hurt him, and he had spent his entire life learning how not to be seen.
The Dark Lord had been nothing but a tool. Oh, yes, the snake-man had believed the reverse, had believed that he, Fenrir Greyback, most feared Werewolf in all of Britain had been the 'tool', but he was wrong! Fenrir only did his bidding when their purposes coincided. It would not have been long before Fenrir would have tasted the copper-tang-hot blood from that throat.
Once again his own plans had been thwarted, but Fenrir was not discouraged. He had decades ahead of him to start again.
For now, he was playing, toying with those who had thwarted him. Vengeance was sweet, a pleasant condiment to accompany the serenade of screams and salty flavour of viscous-thick blood and juicy throats, with the sharp, acrid scent of fear like ambrosia enveloping it all.
Fear. Delicious terror. Like a lover deliberately drawing out the build to ecstasy, that the climax might be as shattering as possible, Fenrir teased his victims - his TRUE victims - sometimes for decades, merely to feast upon the cornucopia of fear in all its scrumptious variations. Suspicious worry - was that really Fenrir's Mark? Angst - what do I do? Dread. Horror. Trepidation. Dismay. Panic.
Each had its own flavour, its own scent, its own unique characteristics to relish.
The beautiful wife of the Weasley man had some of the strongest flavours he had ever scented, as though that which made her not quite fully human also made her more full of life.
He had savoured her grief-tainted-fear for months after the taste of her sister had long been forgotten, bright-hot and oh-so-sweet.
The quaint location in which they had chosen to live provided plenty of hiding places for someone as cunning as himself. He shunned Wizardkind, yes, but he was not incapable of using magic when necessary, and he held no compunctions against using 'human' magic against them. He could conceal or even eliminated his scent; he could Apparate; he could use glamours and concealment charms self-taught over the years.
No mere human wizard could ever be a threat to him.
Like an addict needing his next 'fix', Fenrir wanted another taste of the Veela-woman's fear. His 'mark' had now been shown in the papers enough that he had no doubt she would recognise it, even if she had forgotten what it looked like written in the blood of her sister.
He watched her routine. Hiding himself when she came out into her garden, he found a concealed location en-route back to the house, carved a rough facsimile of his 'mark' onto a soft stone with the sharp edge of one jagged fingernail, and tossed the stone out onto the path. She could not fail to see it on her way back into the house - perhaps had heard it land when he threw it - and she would know it had not been there a moment before. Grinning savagely, he stationed himself down-wind from her, hiding amongst the foliage, and breathed deeply, waiting for that sharp spike of delicious panic to reach his sensitive nose.
Days he had been lurking about the house as the 'cute' couple went about their daily lives, as though nothing could reach them. Now, he was ready to begin his play. Nothing was so scrumptious as bliss turned to fear.