Ravensblood Forest you're by my side, but are you still with me?

@Merrick <3

the trio of them (traveling in three, to astara's dismay) had left neverwinter, making slow progress north. astara shared no love for the crone that led them now; more than once the blistering heat of her gaze was set to caiaphas' spine, in rightful fury.

he was hers, and never once would she let the witch forget it. astara had more trust for leaping in a shark's mouth, than all the trust she had for caiaphas. she watched merrick possessively, often staring -- her sharp eyes passing from crone to boy as they conversed in that blasphemous tongue that spitefully eluded her.

she, the constant shadow, was left behind in these soft-spoken meetings -- having never spoken, given there was little use for it.

and now there was a use -- that bitch was going to steal her boy, her man, her merrick. an ugly hatefulness grew in astara as jealousy overtook her. it lingered in her stare, in the sneering purse of her lips. it emanated from her heart, as corrupt and as foul as rot.

it overtook her senses like mold; growing dark and insidious and fast -- until all her thoughts were a network of woven paranoia she could no longer keep at bay.

he would grow tired of her and think this woman better, astara was sure of it. he would leave her, finding favor in a woman that could converse when she could not; astara's heart fell and then roared, her blood pounding -- suddenly she found herself coursing after her beloved, envisioning darkly the horrible things she would do if she found him intimate with that hateful witch.

<3

whether or not, the only intimacy merrick found in caiaphas was her willingness to validate those darker parts of him, as he had wished indra might. but the dead one had turned away, where the crone gave acceptance. merrick was by turns fascinated and perturbed in her presence, but his nightshade need not worry herself with such things.
a selfish creature by nature, the boy had drawn inward, and so remained untouched by the seed of worry that had sown itself in the blackened fields of his lover's heart. here he paced after caiaphas, casting a one-eyed gaze round for any hint of a following they had not accepted.
content to fall back now and let the old woman flicker ahead, merrick frowned at the slinking violence of the shadow, pausing to reach out toward astara with a low whine and a twitch of his ravaged ear: what plagued her so?

congrats on 300!!!!

merrick's figure prowled ahead, slowing. astara's long strides carried her swiftly to him; in mere seconds the pitch of her fur pressed against his dark flank, black meshing into copper -- the transfer of heat and her scent left deliberately among him. he was hers -- she preened the back of his coppery spine, almost too roughly. out of the corner of her eye she watched the crone that moved ahead, daring her to glance back and see merrick, and how she folded 'round him -- for he was hers alone.

content in that moment that her possession was clear, astara pulled away -- yet not before doling a swift snap of her teeth at his muzzle. it was a rough kind of love -- not ungentle, but no delicate thing to be carefully handled either; it was strong and robust, keen and sharp to all users. astara's indigo gaze fell upon merrick's auburn sights for a timeless beat, as if attempting to read the thoughts that lingered in his mind.

thank u!

she was rough, her love was rough. merrick bore it all with stoic love, neither preening in return nor shrinking while she razed him with her selfish gestures. to belong was enough; he knew the nightshade was truest to him as well, the full measure of her love buoyant beneath the jealousy of her burning gaze. 
now here he turned sharply to grab her muzzle with firm jaws; not to make himself lord and prince over astara, but to welcome her into the darkened corridors of his love once more. were they not vigilantes, and he wounded, and both led by an assuming harridan, he might have spirited his cruel-eyed bride into the weald to join hotly with her once again.
as it were, merrick merely nipped her shoulder after a moment, pressed the length of his body against her, was silent in the cold air.

seized in merrick's jaws, the serpentine coiling of astara's body momentarily stilled. she pressed her ragged throat to him, pushing back as he flanked her -- catching briefly that spark of a quickly extinguished flame in his gaze.

having learned to read him well, astara understood. her gaze rested upon him knowingly a moment longer, before she dipped her darkened crown and made to stride off. only once she had placed some distance between them did she turn back around, eyes already gilded by the huntsman's bloodfervor. she would hunt for him now, as he was wounded -- should he be hungry.

hunger he did, both for flesh and for other things. he smirked at the nightshade, bidding her go off upon her own path while he wandered after the far-ranging caiaphas.
his thoughts wandered to the crone ahead, and then to his mother. who had found her remains, merrick wondered idly to himself, wishing he could have been there to drink the shock upon that discovery. or had the wheeling vulture plucked out her staring eyes, made a meal of her tender cheek-flesh?
the image repulsed merrick; he wanted the last thought of indra to be the beauty of her fading eyes as at last she saw his nature, at last he curled in a semblance of tortured peace against her breast.
at last, at last, at last — merrick spun about, trembling, for the rush of red near the edge of his vision was surely she returned to exact a vengeance.
but there was nothing.

astara roved, parting from the soft fur of her beloved reluctantly. the snow to her feet was cold, but the hunger in her belly fire: she hunted, head low -- and missed the demons that tormented merrick so.

she returned eventually, with but one small token hanging in her jaws. one mouse she had eaten -- the other, meager as it was, was delivered to merrick with a click of her sharp teeth. she had noted at some point his trail happened to coincide with the crone's; this elicited a flare of fury in the melonii - one that was smoothly hidden by a masterful smile. the bitch would get hers -- but first, astara would get her's - she slid to merrick's copper-burned fur and imparted her scent upon him (a reminder to that old bitch to piss off), depositing the curled mouse at his feet with a look of coldness returned to her eyes.

astara returned promptly, and he mingled his fur with her own, biting softly at the proud arch of her throat. his, hers, his hers his — they two belonged to one another as did no one else in the world. "thank you," merrick murmured to his frigid nightshade. they needed this old woman, whoever she was.
or perhaps he alone needed her, and astara knew this.
merrick, on a whim, glanced ahead, to the tracks the blackheaded she-wolf had forged before them.

astara observed as merrick made for the mouse. it was a small meal, pathetic even -- but astara had shared what little she had with him, which in turn had delved her bond to the boy even deeper. day by day, astara's possessiveness -- bordering on obsession -- deepened; as if a slowly flooding pool fed by a nearby blackened estuary.

today, he was hers. tomorrow, she would make sure he remained hers. jealousy had since made an ugly bed in her needled heart; she did not yet question his fealty, but she did question the motives of others, and guarded her boy with pious jealousy befit an overzealous and belligerent hound. catching the direction merrick's gaze had been cast, a spark of that insecure covetousness contended with the good-will in her heart; she hated that bitch, and hoped old age or an erring fang would drop from the sky and end her presence in their lives. merrick was hers, and she loathed the admiring glances she often covertly observed, wishing to covet merrick's affections as hers alone.

swallowing the hideous bile that rose to her throat, astara offered a thin smile  -- and motioned merrick to the trail his attention lingered upon.

merrick did not love caiaphas, and in the days to come, he would realize that he truly only needed astara. she had made of the boy something warmer than his cold flesh, however; caiaphas had presented herself in a motherly way that looked past the handsome charm merrick had cultivated to the monster serpent fitting to burst his skin.
and she had not blinked.
and astara had not blinked.
they must be kept close then, the both of them; to be seen and not abandoned served merrick in a way undescribable. he set off along the trail, inviting the blackbird close with a grin.

she was unhappy, but hid her malcontent well. her face was smoothly bland as she stepped behind merrick, yet her mind was anything but. convoluted thoughts, mostly involving the wicked little she-wolf, swirled in astara's mind.

oh, how glad she would be to end that wretch's life.

in silence the pair moved on, following -- astara never far from her soulbond. the moments passed, astara's plans grew, and they gradually closed the distance that yawned between them and the wayfaring crone.