Wheeling Gull Isle wet

*is embarrassed at how late this post is* 
I took some crazy liberties in this post, if you’re cool with it!

The man’s fireblight gaze danced upon his pupil as she deftly cleaved head from body; the man did not love blood or delight in his presence — he simply understood the role lifeblood played in ceremony and ritual and loved it for that purpose.  His attention slipped from the ghostlike woman to the corpse that lay at her feel and his hackled raised as a rush over stood him; he could feel is physically as much as he could feel it in his soul, rippling across his skin and encouraging the brute to arch his spine dominantly. The spirit of the felled creature rushed to join those of the collective conscious; and Komodo know he would be able access the hare’s many wisdoms later on. It was a life gone, but forever entertained in the divine butterfly effect that ruled their karmic existence.

She had finished her task and finished it well, and Komodo was proud that she had folded into the ritual so honestly and with such rawness. The angakkuq could not resist and drew towards her, as if pulled by an unearthly presence, a low grumble formulating deep from within his ribcage. His head was held low, swinging from side to side as would a predator hunting its prey, his paws gripped at the earth and propelled his form forward, eyes flashing; he was wild and clearly caught up in some otherworldly state. The shaman stopped off at the carcass, free of heart and head, nearly unrecognizable from its state before. Komodo dipped his maw into the thick red paint that pooled about its body, staining his pale maw to a deep crimson. He rolled his maw against the torn flesh and pooling blood until it clung in a thick lawyer upon his muzzle, which dripped as he continued towards her — a macabre, sanguine trail of leaving from the slain to the beautiful women who also dripped in its blood. Surely, they looked villainous in such a state; but the gods were not fair and they were not clean and all too often they demanded such things in order to sate their tumultuous inclinations.

The man closed the space between them and placed his thick maw behind the woman’s ear — burying his bloodstained nose within her feathered pelt and hauling in her scent. He allowed her feminine perfume to seep into his brain [which already addled with the strong currents of energy flowing about them] and the suddenly rush of strength fueled his next steps. The shaman used the blunted end of his muzzle as a paintbrush, besmirching her alabaster coat with a line of crimson that began from one jaw, ran over her shoulder and haunches and over the other side of her body to rest underneath her ear. He traced around her body, admiring his artistry as he went, and allowed himself to relish the peaks and valleys of her musculature. All the while, the voice that was not Komodo's chanted "Dei creatura, sal, i exorcízo te, in nomine dei patris omnipoténtis, qua mundavero vos per viventem deum verum dei, et iussit ut sit sancta et ministrorum pro utilitate populi qui sunt ad fidem amplectendam cogatur ." and breathed against her. If such an intimate hand was inappropriate, the brute could not pick up on it. He was not in control of his movements, for he was a puppet of the gods at that moment! — and at that same moment, it was exactly what the gods wanted.

He was fairly certain she would not rebuff a god.