(no subject)
The blood is so thick in the air that it's impossible not to taste it. The scent hangs on the limbs of the trees and coats the wall of the face of the cliff they were camped against like it was painted on. Blood had been spilled, the perpetrators of the brutality back at the stable lay on the ground, unearthly still. The kind of still that only comes with being completely dead. Everything once in them oozing out on to the dirt, leaves and the patchy grass that had been their home.
There's a lot of blood in a wolf-dog. Not as much as in a human, but enough to get the job done. It always seems a lot more when it's spread out like it is, splattered, like a demented Jackson Pollock painting.
She had helped do this.
The fire semi circle that she had created to keep the animals trapped had dwindled and finally sunk down low to the ground, nothing but smoke and the odd glowing embers, winking and dying, the only witness to this act of brutality. Those starving embers reaching out for the last bit of anything in order to survive. It strikes her that all things possess that drive to survive, even the innate, though that's just their nature, not necessarily their psychology. For as hateful and as vicious as fire is it doesn't possess a will like man, it just does what is in it's nature. Consume, devour, burn.
She feels like fire.
She feels hungry and desperate, sick, and mad from the sight. Not because of the horror of it, but because she is starving. The kind of starving that makes her stomach twist in turn with hopeful nausea for a drop of something red and sweet like honey. It doesn't matter if it's mongrel blood, it's blood and it soaking into the ground, going to waste, is the highest form of sacrilege. The more she tries to resist it's siren song the louder that song becomes and the less control she has.
This is a test.
Her Master is testing her, trying to see if she is truly a monster, or if she can handle herself.
Where is her Master?
It hardly matters, it doesn't, not even a little bit. With this hunger, better a death beast than a living, and her feet move, fast, swift, outside of her control toward the nearest slowly cooling corpse till she is feet away. That's when the ground explodes in front of her and she stumbles a step backward.
"Margaret," the voice is a crack of a whip in the silence of the forest.
Her Master's voice.
She regains her balance and moves forward again only to be stopped by another blast and another back peddle of feet to safety.
"Margaret!"
He is losing patience, she can hear it in his voice, the growing anger even through the red haze across her brain and vision.
She should stop. She should obey her master.
The demon loves this torment, the fight between the lengthening teeth in her mouth that ache to sink into flesh and her want to obey the man who's voice cuts through trees like they were saplings. The demon inside of her howls and she screams as she moves forth again.
His next shot hits her in the side and her body is flung across the killing fields into the the rock wall. The pain that shoots through her knocks all the red vision from her sight in exchange for bright bursts of white pain that send shock waves from the top of her head down to the bottoms of her feet. It's a purifying fire, giving her something to focus on instead of the hunger that soaked into her bones and brain to control her movements.
When her vision clears he is walking toward her, the tall, dark haired Master with his gore drenched sword, jaw clenched. He has to be somewhere between furious and concerned but she can't read it on his face, that impenetrable mask she has only been able to break down a few times, mostly out of surprise rather than cunning and brute strength.
For a moment she wonders if he'll finish her. If he regrets this exercise, if he sees the folly in his attempt to try and train a bastard, halfling red court monster. If he has seen what she would be like under the smallest bit of stress in the real world and finds the risk to let her out on her own to be too great.
"Margaret," his voice is as cold as ice it turns the sweat rolling down her back and beading up on her upper lip turn frigid. The shiver that shakes her is unsuppressed and sends another wave of agony through her. He steps forward when her slowly clearing eyes turn up toward him, all that midnight black retreating back into her pupils.
His booted foot presses against her closest shoulder, sending her injured one back into the rocks that broke her in the first place.
"You will obey my words. You will contain and control yourself." While he speaks the pressure of his foot increases till she is gasping in pain, eyes and mouth wide, her usual darkened skin tone as white as a sheet of a ghost. Both her brain and the demon is screaming, howling, snarling in torment and in impotent rage.
How dare this mortal magician take rule over her! This weak bag of bones and flesh that is nothing compared to the power and the might of the Red Court. She could crush him like an ant, she should, it is her birth right.
If her Master is scared, he doesn't show it, his dark eyes are hard as flint and locked on to his writhing and gasping pupil in the dirt. He is the one in control, to suggest otherwise would damn himself and his student. There is a few more seconds of pressure before he ends his short speech.
"Do you understand me, Margaret?"
There are no words, the pain has stolen all of her breath and brain power, all speech is as foreign to her as the day she was born, but her head nods up and down, cheek rubbing against the stone that she clings to like it was her mother.
"Say it, Margaret." The pressure of his boot eases just enough for her to take a breath in and for the searing agony to ease down to a dull roar of torment.
"Yes, Master. I understand you."
The boot falls away completely and he takes his eyes off of her for a second to scan around the battle field while she collects herself. The opportunity presented itself and he doesn't regret taking it. She wants to be a Warden and a Warden will see blood and mayhem and he will not be around to hold her leash, she must be taught how to control her instinct and urges. If she can't it will be the end of her and at least one other person, if not more. These were just animals, this is just the beginning, one day she will have to end a human life and how will she handle that? A soft whine and rustling in the bushes. His sword point levels at his still gasping, fallen student as he dedicates more time to staring in the direction of the noise.
The bitch is heavily pregnant, clearly wounded and in the stress of the battle has gone into labor. She whines and drags her useless back legs with her as she tries to find her mate or members of her pack, already well gone. Free of the bush and in the cool shade of the nearest tree she collapses to tend to her impending pups, what's left of them.
The sight makes Marget cold all over, sweat drenched clothes and hair clinging to her as her clear sight lands on the desperate mother. Without the demon and Red Court cheerfully clouding her vision it's hard to watch. The world around her is painfully clear with humanity ruling her mind instead of monster. It dawns on her, slowly, that perhaps the only reason she got this far without breaking down is simply because she didn't let herself think, she took the backseat to the demon who is far more proficient in these matters than she is. Who delights in pain, blood, and death, who revels in it like a drunk with a cask of wine.
"Finish her. I want none of these beasts left alive." Her master's words are final, his rule is law and she should obey, that is what she agreed to, that is what this lesson is about. Laws and death. This is life, this is the path she has chosen and this is what she must do to prepare herself for what she will face in the future.
But she doesn't want to.
Because it makes her soul hurt.
Cradling her injured left arm to her chest she struggles to her feet and staggers a few steps, knife in hand. Just do it, just do it, just do it and get it over with, end her suffering, clearly she is in pain, she won't be able to raise pups like this anyway. Her chest rises and falls with thready breaths, lips parted to help the intake and exhale with hardly any noticeable difference, it all gets caught some where in her throat never to reach her lungs and heart. The world spins, tilts, one way and then the next like a carnival ride.
"A puppy? May I keep a puppy, Master?"
"Do you think you deserve one, Margaret after how you behaved?"
"No, Master." The last self control is used up in order to keep her voice from breaking, at least with her back to him she can let the tears roll down her face unchecked. It all hurts. Her body, her soul, her mind. It hurts from the physical pain, from knowing that she has disappointed her Master, for knowing that there will be more extinguishing of life's light. It isn't the first time that she will question the path she has chosen, but it will be the first time that she wishes that her humanity was gone, when she realizes how much easier this would be with no thought or feeling to hold her back; with the demon fully in charge.
The bitch whines louder and bares her teeth when Margaret approaches, lifting her head and attempting to rise in order to defend herself or to retreat. The last and final attempts are nothing more than a waste of effort and stand no chance against Margaret or her blade. It hardly matters, even the dying beast knows the futility of her efforts, that doesn't stop her, it's the nature of all beasts and there is no escaping.
There's a lot of blood in a wolf-dog. Not as much as in a human, but enough to get the job done. It always seems a lot more when it's spread out like it is, splattered, like a demented Jackson Pollock painting.
She had helped do this.
The fire semi circle that she had created to keep the animals trapped had dwindled and finally sunk down low to the ground, nothing but smoke and the odd glowing embers, winking and dying, the only witness to this act of brutality. Those starving embers reaching out for the last bit of anything in order to survive. It strikes her that all things possess that drive to survive, even the innate, though that's just their nature, not necessarily their psychology. For as hateful and as vicious as fire is it doesn't possess a will like man, it just does what is in it's nature. Consume, devour, burn.
She feels like fire.
She feels hungry and desperate, sick, and mad from the sight. Not because of the horror of it, but because she is starving. The kind of starving that makes her stomach twist in turn with hopeful nausea for a drop of something red and sweet like honey. It doesn't matter if it's mongrel blood, it's blood and it soaking into the ground, going to waste, is the highest form of sacrilege. The more she tries to resist it's siren song the louder that song becomes and the less control she has.
This is a test.
Her Master is testing her, trying to see if she is truly a monster, or if she can handle herself.
Where is her Master?
It hardly matters, it doesn't, not even a little bit. With this hunger, better a death beast than a living, and her feet move, fast, swift, outside of her control toward the nearest slowly cooling corpse till she is feet away. That's when the ground explodes in front of her and she stumbles a step backward.
"Margaret," the voice is a crack of a whip in the silence of the forest.
Her Master's voice.
She regains her balance and moves forward again only to be stopped by another blast and another back peddle of feet to safety.
"Margaret!"
He is losing patience, she can hear it in his voice, the growing anger even through the red haze across her brain and vision.
She should stop. She should obey her master.
The demon loves this torment, the fight between the lengthening teeth in her mouth that ache to sink into flesh and her want to obey the man who's voice cuts through trees like they were saplings. The demon inside of her howls and she screams as she moves forth again.
His next shot hits her in the side and her body is flung across the killing fields into the the rock wall. The pain that shoots through her knocks all the red vision from her sight in exchange for bright bursts of white pain that send shock waves from the top of her head down to the bottoms of her feet. It's a purifying fire, giving her something to focus on instead of the hunger that soaked into her bones and brain to control her movements.
When her vision clears he is walking toward her, the tall, dark haired Master with his gore drenched sword, jaw clenched. He has to be somewhere between furious and concerned but she can't read it on his face, that impenetrable mask she has only been able to break down a few times, mostly out of surprise rather than cunning and brute strength.
For a moment she wonders if he'll finish her. If he regrets this exercise, if he sees the folly in his attempt to try and train a bastard, halfling red court monster. If he has seen what she would be like under the smallest bit of stress in the real world and finds the risk to let her out on her own to be too great.
"Margaret," his voice is as cold as ice it turns the sweat rolling down her back and beading up on her upper lip turn frigid. The shiver that shakes her is unsuppressed and sends another wave of agony through her. He steps forward when her slowly clearing eyes turn up toward him, all that midnight black retreating back into her pupils.
His booted foot presses against her closest shoulder, sending her injured one back into the rocks that broke her in the first place.
"You will obey my words. You will contain and control yourself." While he speaks the pressure of his foot increases till she is gasping in pain, eyes and mouth wide, her usual darkened skin tone as white as a sheet of a ghost. Both her brain and the demon is screaming, howling, snarling in torment and in impotent rage.
How dare this mortal magician take rule over her! This weak bag of bones and flesh that is nothing compared to the power and the might of the Red Court. She could crush him like an ant, she should, it is her birth right.
If her Master is scared, he doesn't show it, his dark eyes are hard as flint and locked on to his writhing and gasping pupil in the dirt. He is the one in control, to suggest otherwise would damn himself and his student. There is a few more seconds of pressure before he ends his short speech.
"Do you understand me, Margaret?"
There are no words, the pain has stolen all of her breath and brain power, all speech is as foreign to her as the day she was born, but her head nods up and down, cheek rubbing against the stone that she clings to like it was her mother.
"Say it, Margaret." The pressure of his boot eases just enough for her to take a breath in and for the searing agony to ease down to a dull roar of torment.
"Yes, Master. I understand you."
The boot falls away completely and he takes his eyes off of her for a second to scan around the battle field while she collects herself. The opportunity presented itself and he doesn't regret taking it. She wants to be a Warden and a Warden will see blood and mayhem and he will not be around to hold her leash, she must be taught how to control her instinct and urges. If she can't it will be the end of her and at least one other person, if not more. These were just animals, this is just the beginning, one day she will have to end a human life and how will she handle that? A soft whine and rustling in the bushes. His sword point levels at his still gasping, fallen student as he dedicates more time to staring in the direction of the noise.
The bitch is heavily pregnant, clearly wounded and in the stress of the battle has gone into labor. She whines and drags her useless back legs with her as she tries to find her mate or members of her pack, already well gone. Free of the bush and in the cool shade of the nearest tree she collapses to tend to her impending pups, what's left of them.
The sight makes Marget cold all over, sweat drenched clothes and hair clinging to her as her clear sight lands on the desperate mother. Without the demon and Red Court cheerfully clouding her vision it's hard to watch. The world around her is painfully clear with humanity ruling her mind instead of monster. It dawns on her, slowly, that perhaps the only reason she got this far without breaking down is simply because she didn't let herself think, she took the backseat to the demon who is far more proficient in these matters than she is. Who delights in pain, blood, and death, who revels in it like a drunk with a cask of wine.
"Finish her. I want none of these beasts left alive." Her master's words are final, his rule is law and she should obey, that is what she agreed to, that is what this lesson is about. Laws and death. This is life, this is the path she has chosen and this is what she must do to prepare herself for what she will face in the future.
But she doesn't want to.
Because it makes her soul hurt.
Cradling her injured left arm to her chest she struggles to her feet and staggers a few steps, knife in hand. Just do it, just do it, just do it and get it over with, end her suffering, clearly she is in pain, she won't be able to raise pups like this anyway. Her chest rises and falls with thready breaths, lips parted to help the intake and exhale with hardly any noticeable difference, it all gets caught some where in her throat never to reach her lungs and heart. The world spins, tilts, one way and then the next like a carnival ride.
"A puppy? May I keep a puppy, Master?"
"Do you think you deserve one, Margaret after how you behaved?"
"No, Master." The last self control is used up in order to keep her voice from breaking, at least with her back to him she can let the tears roll down her face unchecked. It all hurts. Her body, her soul, her mind. It hurts from the physical pain, from knowing that she has disappointed her Master, for knowing that there will be more extinguishing of life's light. It isn't the first time that she will question the path she has chosen, but it will be the first time that she wishes that her humanity was gone, when she realizes how much easier this would be with no thought or feeling to hold her back; with the demon fully in charge.
The bitch whines louder and bares her teeth when Margaret approaches, lifting her head and attempting to rise in order to defend herself or to retreat. The last and final attempts are nothing more than a waste of effort and stand no chance against Margaret or her blade. It hardly matters, even the dying beast knows the futility of her efforts, that doesn't stop her, it's the nature of all beasts and there is no escaping.