Fairspell Meadow she picked wild flowers

Warning - Mature Content

Navy stretched out overhead, dampened by the thick plumes of storm clouds that stood illuminated in the light of the moon. The meadow was bathed in a dull light. It stretched across the snow like an eerie blanket; shrouded in a faded, ethereal blue. Not a sound could be heard. Nothing in the world seemed as though it could disturb the winter cloak of silence. Nothing, save for the quiet crunch of paws sinking through the snow. Each poke of his feet left a melodic trail of ground giving way beneath the dark traveler. His pitch face was held close to the snow. Sharp titian eyes darted to and fro, searching.

The scent of wolf lingered on the air. Ithrik's gut churned with voracious desire. He had withstood for long enough, and it had been too long since the fiend had tasted flesh of his kin. There was nothing more tender – nothing more sweet. The furs along his neck rose. Goosebumps gathered along his skin, and he could feel a stirring in his gut that navigated itself to his pelvis. A glazed expression had fallen on his face. He traveled onward, appearing to be lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts.

The pain in her heart failed to halt her movements, the ghost - so lithe and elegant - was forever walking. Alone, yes, but she found she did not want to accept anyone more into her cracked heart, for it never ended harmoniously. Knew was gone, Storm was not - he was there, somewhere, and the very whisper of his name upon her tongue or seething into her mind caused ripples of fear to shiver down her spine. Storm - oh, she hoped he would not discover her once more. Would not hurt her for running away from him again, would not force her into anything she would fight against like he seemed so desperate to do. She wanted nothing more than to see that charcoal brute fade away into the darkness, where she could not see him any longer. But the image of him, his face, his snarl, it was burned into her head.

Swiftly the dove's white paws moved against the snow, orbs like the ocean itself focused pitifully on the ground. Such a broken, tired little thing she was. Each step like the thrum of her heart that fluttered in her chest, still tightened as if a hand was grasping it and squeezing every last ounce of life from within and hiding it away some place she could not reach. Her own mind, her heart, was teasing her over the stability she wished she could have. The love she wished she could have.

Knew - her soul begged for him. Why did he leave her alone to lead her pack, leave her alone to rise up and stand tall to give hope to the wolves who followed her, when she could not even handle herself and her own thoughts? He had gone and in his place came the familiar yet stone cold presence of Storm, returning to a world she thought he had departed from. A world she had hoped he had departed from. But he was out there, she was certain. She must remain cautious... despite the lingering idea that followed her like a darkened shadow - she could, indeed, end it all. She could let go of the sorrows that tied her to the earth, the pain that traced her every move. And yet, she didn't. She wasn't brave enough - a coward, yes, that was what she was. Afraid even to remove the hurt from herself, simply there, struggling, simply a ghost.

The scent drew her from her pointless thoughts, fur as white as the snow itself ruffling in the wind as she sought out the owner. There - a dark figure. For a split second her heart shuddered as though knives were being plunged inside, ripping it from her chest until it lay bleeding on the ground. Storm. But no, a second glance assured her that it was in fact not Storm, but a stranger. The pale wolfess halted in her tracks.

The night was crisp. As the clouds flowed overhead, bringing the promises of snow within the next week, they dappled the ground in darker splotches. Ithrik weaved in and out of the light and shadow with a set purpose in his march. Ink cloaked legs carried him like a frightful creature, stretching out against the pale moonlight and casting a stilt-like appearance. The fiend did not pause to admire his own daunting presence.

The boogeyman could feel the chill of the breeze against his skin. His mind wandered once more to the fresh scent of strangers and he began to recall the sweet taste of their flesh. Ithrik was fond of the tight sinews and unexpected chunks of fatty tissue. The underbelly and privates were particularly savory. He wondered if he should save those portions of his next victim as a treat. Thinking of his last, the fiend was disappointed that she hadn't lasted longer. He had anticipated she would have lasted him for at least a week. Ithrik had gobbled her up in a matter of three days. He would have liked to taste her again.

A crunch sounded near him. The hound turned his skull abruptly and locked his sights on the plush white coat of the female. She stood quietly, eyes on him. Ithrik's limber frame swayed in place. His nostrils flared as he drank in the scent that she emitted. Tangerine eyes roamed her pale figure with a gut-wrenching thirst. Though she was a short distance away from him, the spook was not at all deterred.

Without warning, the wolf with the pitch face turned his compass and began on a march toward the light coated female. His eyes danced like a fire, searching her frame for the sweetest and most plump portions. Ithrik would eat those first.

Still. She stood deadly still, as though not made of flesh, rather hardened snow like that of the ground's white cloak. Her body tensed, flashes of Storm deciding with a malicious surge to show themselves before her as if she had summoned them herself. But she hadn't, and she willed them away.

Dark blue eyes locked onto the orbs of the stranger as they turned and settled a silent stare onto her frozen form. Run, part of her mind screamed at her, a voice so strangled and pained that she winced at it herself, unaware that the other wolf may have seen her flinch. The other part of her did not care - could not care, for if she was to die then so be it.

It was normal for her mind to assume the worst, but the dove was not in any state to be seeking conversation, nor did she want it. She wanted to vanish, to disappear into the fog and become one with the earth and the wind so that she had to bear the tragedies of life no longer - but as the stranger took a step forward in her direction, her heart pound against her chest painfully, even stronger than before. She matched his approach with an anxious step backward, face only blank.

"No," The whisper fell from her lips, a single word that was always circling around her mind but now had the drive, the force, to release from her maw.

The pale woman moved a step backwards, as if she were debating on whether or not she was to retreat. This was good, as Ithrik could smell the fear that seeped from her pores. His mouth watered with delight. Meat always tasted differently when the prey experienced high terror at the time of their death. The wariness would grow and would choke her; it would reek and turn sour, going from concern to dread. Ithrik's pace did not slow. He marched toward her with an intent guise.

Moving to close the space between them as swiftly as he could, the devil entered a trotting gait. His tongue lolled from his open mouth, dribbling slobber into the coarse dark hairs along his chest. The length of his ears was tuned forward in just enough time to catch a muttered plea of, 'no.' If he were a humorous hound, Ithrik would have laughed.

In the last few moments that they shared a stretch of space between them, the devil darted and gaped his mouth wide in an attempt to latch his rotting teeth to the nape of her neck, or whatever else he might be able to grip. It would matter very little, as long as he did not break his hold on her tender body. She had seemed intelligent enough to be wary of him, but had not attempted to flee. Perhaps she wanted to know; she had a desire to understand what it meant to be part of something bigger than she could ever imagine. Ithrik felt himself growing hard at the thought of slurping her up. His hackles rose and his breath fell from his lips in a rasping gush of air.

The male ignored her softly spoken command and so she took another tentative step backward. Her ghostly frail figure one might have been able to spot trembling if not for her thick pelt of moonlight fur, though she felt the fear rapidly developing into anger bubbling up in her stomach for although his attention was on her form, the words she had mustered so much courage to speak had been ignored.

Thump. Her heart, she felt it pound in her chest. Truly, she did not care if death was her only option but she had one more task to carry out before her time. Mawk, Cebra, their young - she must wish them well before she contemplated the decision to part from this world and accept the darkness she knew was waiting for her. Not yet.

The stranger, intimidating alone with the malicious glint in his orbs filled with twisted shadows. He was not to be trusted. He sprung forward, jaws wide and teeth sharp - thump, her heart seemed to plunge downward. The dove hoped beyond hope that this was not a wolf seeking flesh, or blood, or something else. Her luck was poor when it came to encounters as such, for already back in slightly younger days she had made a narrow escape from a vampire, and one too from a supposed rapist. Her legs almost trembled again at the fear. But no, she would not give this man here the pleasure of seeing her submit to the terror that she was working so hard to disguise. And her way of disguising it was anger.

She jumped to the side, though his teeth caught on her neck as she dodged his movements. When she landed her furious blue eyes back on his own figure she felt blood trickle down her neck to her throat as the dripping liquid stained her white fur and all of it's apparent purity a dark red. A snarl of her own split through the air, sharp as a knife. Not yet, she repeated in her head. For Pige was not ready for the gentle arms of the darkness to embrace her for the rest of eternity. She would put up a fight before she gave her last breath, she refused to let her life be stolen away from her grasp today. It was not her time yet. True, it was, that she might be able to flee the scene but that would only give the man a sense of satisfaction, and she did not want to give him the pleasure of having frightened her half to death.

"Fuck off," Gwen hissed through her teeth, a sharp intake of breath following. Rarely would one see the once adoring alphess curse, but the only way she could find to deal with her desperation, her depression, her anger of the world that had grown like a mutation in her chest, was with the anger. Once upon a time, she'd never been angry. How ironic it was the her first love had been the one to break her so... much. Knowing everything he may or may not have done, and everything she knew he had done, it was enough to make her feel oh so small in this world of sorrow. Worse, perhaps, she knew she was not in the ideal shape to fight, and her strength was lacking. This wasn't a good scenario to be in, and she felt prickles of doubt at her own abilities.

The pale wolf moved swiftly. It seemed that she had successfully anticipated his imminent lunge. She darted to the side. His fang clipped her neck and drew blood. This created a shark in water effect. The scent filled his nostrils and the patchwork brute shuddered with delight. It was always more fun when they attempted to flee. This would provide him with a better experience overall. The sharp tinge of metallic crimson that filled the air was intoxicating. Ithrik could hardly contain his excitement. A short snicker slipped from his mouth as he watched her move to the side. A defensive and angry expression had crossed her features. 

That anger seemed to have filled her to the brim with a new fire. She cursed at him and the hound could do nothing more but to laugh at her again. Did she believe that words would be detrimental to him? Surely she should have imagined that she was not his first victim. The devil was well rehearsed in the art of hunting prey. She was nothing more than his next tally. But Ithrik was eager to cross that mark. 

The vile hound began to circle her. His eyes held her own with a raw intensity. The fiend was entirely amused by the reactions she was affording him. With another jolt, Ithrik moved forward. This time, his gaping mouth was aimed for her shoulder. If he should miss his mark with his fangs, he was hoping he should be able to knock her from her feet with the force of his body. Both eyes danced like fire in his attempt. 

She was caught, then, between the burning desire to flee and the rage that scorched her chest - did she make an escape when a free moment came, or did she continue her display of pure frustration? What good would come of remaining here? The odds did not appear to be in her favour and so the logical answer presented itself to her.

Run, her troubled mind had made a decision and yet it seemed she was too late. Sharp teeth collided with her white shoulder and a large weight was shoved against her lithe body, collapsing harshly to the ground. With almost a gasp, a shocked exhale of frosted air releasing from the dove's muzzle, she awoke laying in the cold snow. Already the ground was stained with blood and the beauty of the snow was cursed with dark red as it seeped from her neck, and now her shoulder it seemed.

The ghost was trapped now. The hound above her had succeeded in his attempts to knock her down, and she stared up at him. In her chest, the anger was swiftly replaced with an icy cold fear, heart increasing the rapid beats that shook her body. She should have run. In her ocean eyes there seemed only blankness, a hollow emptiness that only one lost could possibly hold within their grasp. Yet despite her lack of expression, the shivers that took hold of her figure were enough to give away the fear she tried desperately to mask.

Odds did not dissuade the vile hound, in any given circumstance. He lacked the inhibitors that would otherwise tell him he was in a dangerous situation. Most caution had been lost long before his arrival in the wilds. Ithrik thrived and existed only on the immediate desire that he felt. His mind was calculated enough to get him what he wanted, and he would do almost anything to get it. This was such a case; he saw something that he desired and he would stop at almost nothing to get her underneath him. The taste of her flesh against his tongue would be rife with fear and anger; it would send him over the edge.

The devil wasn't wrong. When his fangs sunk into her skin and the first beads of blood began to swell and leak onto his writhing tongue, his eyes rolled back into his head and he groaned with delight. Her body crumbled beneath his weight and he fell on top of her, moving to wrap his legs around her upper half. He would hold tight until he had finished. All at once, that fear flooded his system and he could almost feel himself inside of her already. The decay of terror that had brought her to the earth was enough to make his legs quiver out of anticipation.

A snarl escaped from the back of his throat as he attempted to thrust at her rear. Each push of his body brought him to yank backwards with his teeth. Through her ribs, Ithrik could feel her heart thrumming wildly like a war drum. He relished the sensation for as long as he could, aching with the need to bury himself inside of her and leave her bleeding in the snow. 

She was helpless in this moment - a ghost trapped amongst the snow that so perfectly matched her coat, even the stains of blood that painted the fur of her neck and shoulder a shocking red. So wild was her thrumming heart, so pure the terror in which she stared up at the figure holding her to the ground, oceanic eyes dancing with horror as she fought off the tears that threatened to spill and display clearly how hopeless she felt. You cannot even defend yourself, a voice taunted in her head, stinging her thoughts bitterly as her eyes squinted tightly shut for a moment. A heartbeat. Then once more they were open, facing the beast that had control of her figure.

She had not anticipated the groan that escaped his maw, and uncertainty spread out across her features, though it did not overule the fear that she was still desperately attempting to mask. Her life, it was in his hands now - an idea that she was incredibly, uncomfortably aware of. What was he going to do to her? What did he want with her? The dove, shot down and bleeding amongst the icy chill of the snow, gulped and waited tensly for the male's move. 

But his movements brought her another aggressive wave of fear, washing over her and leaving her gasping as she attempted to wriggle away - this ocean of fright was not wanted, was not accepted by her heart that pounded against her ribs as though a raging war was commencing within her chest. Again her eyes squeezed shut, and the pale girl attempted to forget about what he was doing while she continued to wiggle in an attempt to perhaps free herself from his grasp.

There was no doubt that she would be able to feel every rise and plunge of his heart as he pressed himself to her back. He did not care that she writhed beneath him, or that her body was oozing the scent of fear into the air. The vile creature was so full on her trembling, withering nightmare that he had lost most of his rationality and was thrusting against her with a rapid and unabashed swinging of his hips. He did not care if he met his mark. Ithrik only cared about the violent means in which he was able to relieve himself of the itch that had settled underneath his pelvic flesh. Every eager push of his body against her own was another that brought him closer, and so he beat against her at a reckless pace. His rotten teeth were still latched to her nape in an attempt to hold her close to his body.

When at last he had finished his deed, the devil collapsed onto her back and heaved breath through his lungs with a raspy sound. His eyes flickered over her for a long moment before he pulled away from her frame and released a quiet chuckle. “You taste lovely,” he rasped, flashing his fangs to the woman in a sickening snicker that pulled on the edges of his leathery lips. The stranger's blood was still washed inside of his mouth and he could taste it with every swallow. Before long, he would want for more and would attempt to climb on top of her again.

Ah, her attempts to free herself showed themselves to be futile, and the rapidly fearful thrum of her heart began to contribute to the violent shakes wracking her body. The ghost continued to struggle beneath the man, a wild thrash led by the desperate desire to flee, despite the knowledge that her escape was unlikely. He began to thrust against her pale, svelte body and the bloodied dove's face morphed into a combination of panic, disgust, and a heavy weight of uncertainty. She was stuck.

Eventually, somewhere during this horrific act, she lost the will to struggle and her movements ceased. There was no way for her to remove herself from this situation - she was not a fighter, and was not strong enough to break free from the boogeyman's grasp upon her nape, nor push away his large body. She simply let it happen, eyes squinted tightly shut and mind whirling as if she was trying to imagine another situation, a better place, a happy place. 

Finally the deed was over, and the thrusting halted - Gwen shivered, trembling beneath him. Her oceanic eyes shot open at his words but the girl made no comment, fear overriding each sense she had and claiming it. The flash of his fangs only worsened her terror, the wounds she bore long forgotten and pain numbing from the cold of the snow around them.

You're welcome to archive it or stick a closing post on there. <3

There was a familiar satisfaction in tearing another living creature apart that had settled in the pit of his stomach like a rock. He was elated with having found a mark for himself, and his body slacked against her own, almost peacefully. The devil knew that he would not have another in him, so he slunk from her frame and pulled himself away, lowering his muzzle to guard his neck. They never fought back after such an action, but he wanted to be sure that she would leave him be. Once his legs were moving him, and his paws hitting the earth, he missed the trembling that he had felt while sprawled atop her body. He missed the way her limbs had quivered as he finished inside of her. It was such a delightful feeling that he believed he would release her and attempt to hunt her down again at a later time. Perhaps, when she had recovered and was feeling strong again.

Without another word to the pale female, Ithrik turned and left her where she was. He did not bother to know her name or her home; the devil was riding on too big of a high from their encounter. The taste of her still filled his mouth and he wished that he had pulled a trophy from her before leaving; something that he could have relived their moment with. Making a mental note to hunt her down later, Ithrik vanished into the darkness and sought his nephew once more.