Kildeer Rest [m] ford

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: conception, heavy themes of assault

she comes in fire, driven by a single ordinance.

instinct vies with fear. she is to do this alone.

her summoning cries are saturated with need.

a timeline directs iza. he must come. now.

tartok is known for force, but it is patience that stays their collective and proverbial hand, now.

he roams.
kukuvrak hunted now for an offering; something to bring favor to the aim of his people.

he hears a rallying cry as if in response to his thoughts—and so he comes to intercept the bitch, circling her and her need. she did not hold much interest to him physically; not ugly, not pretty, something in the middle.

the more she cries the more attracted he becomes. he draws close and probes her for scent, knowing she could not be tartok—and being a man, it really didn't matter.

she does not have long to wait.

iza trembles. there is a shadow on the horizon and it comes to encompass her.

a man. taller. made from nightfall. 

her ears quiver; tail is a singsong swish. friendly. inviting. 

playful.

for now.

she is no threat.

her wanting is obvious, and in the moment not even her desire matters. she tempts him and makes it clear what she wants.

kukuvrak has never known how to play nice. his world was one of common desperation. the physicality of warriors, not lovers.

if she tries to run, he knows he can outlast her.

his intensity frightens her. she mouths his chin to dispel her nervousness.

part of iza wants to shy away. another part is grounded, waiting for something she does not understand.

but she anticipates.

iza is ready. her kiss becomes a nip of insistence.

the moment she clips him with teeth, he is grabbing for her. playful antics of the foolish woman being met by the challenge of his chest, ramming; his own teeth, grappling at her.

he wants her here and now—but more important to him, the game of it, was her own terror. wanting her to try, and being the reason that she fails to escape.

the feeling of power, as he pushes her to the dirt.

his response confuses iza. she steps back with a whimper, ears folding. he is on her, his larger frame set with teeth, and she is thrown to the ground.

was this not a courtship? didn't he want her?

he smells of pack, she realizes belatedly. he could not be a mate to her.

appeasing licks of her own muzzle seek to placate him as she tries to find her feet. the desire is hot and fierce. but no longer for this man.

against the earth iza scrambled backward. if a chance came, she would run.

the bitch realized too late that she now danced with something bestial. the open invitation was all that kukuvrak needed (if he even cared for that). he knew that tartok needed bodies—that the woman was a vessel for that purpose.
this was the work of Sos! he was gleeful in his own realization. the coagulated sheep blood now dragged chest to hips across her, marking a claim in the name of his god.
kukuvrak relented for only a moment, witnessing that breath of freedom, that hope which lurched through the woman as she thought, 'freedom?!'.
but he was upon her again, teeth to her nape, forelimbs wrapping her middle. laughter barked from him as he felt fur being torn free and after adjusting his grip against her writhing, kukuvrak knew he was not far from his prize.
if she hoped to survive this she would give in. he would not stop—it was Sos who worked through him now.

he does not stop and he does not relent.

after a brief fight, instinct holds her for him. sensing how close he is to wanting a kill stills iza like prey.

maybe she is.

she signals with desperation in all lines of her that there will be no fight. her body calls for one thing and he wants another. 

his teeth hurt. she summons her will and yields.

the end of her struggle brings a new frustration to kukuvrak. yes, it is what he wants. yes, he will obey the natural law that tells him, relent. however he will take his time to garner from her everything he desires.

as he ekes his pleasures from her body, he envisions each of the tartok women in her place, and each of his cousins from his home, and so on.

he imagined the spirit of Sos entering her body as an oil slick; his contribution a tar stain, inking every child she was to carry. this, beyond all other thrills, brought him to the end.

kukuvrak stood over her after, breath ragged and chest clean.

likewise iza felt the corruptive rot of his end assure the beginning of her own.

he saps her energy. he drinks her soul through his ravening movement.

now his breath is hot above iza. she does not stir. carrion for birds. if he wants her again, she will relent. 

smeared in reeking blood, she can no longer find her own scent, and it is kindness.

her body has not stopped trilling its want till this moment. but that is a deception and a betrayal. 

he could stay and keep on enjoying himself; the thought crosses his mind more than once. she is practically lifeless in the dirt now, and while this appetite isn't fully satiated he finds himself turned off by her corpse-like state.

maybe he will find her again? she would not go far, he presumes. not after all of this.

moving from her in the manner of a cattle wrangler having been saddled too long, kukuvrak stretches knots from his legs and rounds his shoulders.

bending so his face is near to her own, he murmurs a thanks in his gutteral language, and then finally pulls away from her.

she should feel so lucky to have him! to carry now the manifestation of Sos. there is a spring in his step as he vanishes from her.

when iza can no longer hear him, she rises.

she runs.

she whirls. she searches.

running again, turning. searching.

this pattern is repeated for hours north. she curves west around the glacier and continues into the evening.

her body aches. its fire threatens again. iza ignores it, for she will not call a second summons.

iza remembered the word he had breathed into her face. it cannot be forgotten. beneath the stars over the taiga beyond the ice mountain, she catches her breath and tastes a vague tinge of salt on the wind.

west. west on shaking legs that beg for respite.