Fairspell Meadow she picked wild flowers

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.