Blackfoot Forest the pyre & the vagueness of sainthood

playing fast and loose with baal's timeline; for the sake of accuracy/not assuming things i'm going to say this is before his redhawk caldera thread.

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: gore & violent themes.

A light snow began to fall at some point shortly before sun fall, when dusk painted the sky in a mural of pastel colors. He’d glimpsed at it before he shrugged into the deep shadows of the forest. The unearthly, ghostly wails do not bother Baal, though they are distracting at first he finds that it’s easy to tune them out. The light snow layers upon his back and he shivers beneath his thick and coarse winter coat. It does little to keep him as warm as it should without the proper insulation of meat and fat that he has shed during his travels. Baal’s search for an alcove or hollowed out log big enough to fit his tall albeit rawboned frame for the night lends a potential distraction from his mission. His steps halt with a hesitance and he bows his head to sniff at the relatively fresh scent trail, lifting his head methodically to sniff at the tree the coyote rubbed against. A tuft of sand colored fur caught in the bark catching Baal’s eye. His stomach lets out a low rumble; a demand to be fed. It has been a few hours since he’d eaten that plump squirrel and so far he’d managed to keep it down. A coyote was not the fruit of eden but maybe …just maybe it was close enough to satisfy the nightmare. If substituting a pomegranate for an apple could be considered close enough but it would suffice, he tells himself. It would suffice because it has to. He cannot feed on his own ilk; he can’t do it again. He cannot slip up when he’s been so meticulous about abstaining.

Baal’s not in a state for a sustained chase or a real tussle. He knows, as he stalks the scent trail, that he has probably one realistic shot at this. If the coyote fights back he will accept surrender and leave and if it takes to the chase he will have to let it go. The odds are not in Baal’s favor, yet, he takes the gamble regardless. It could be the jackpot and he could come back worse for wear. Risks are what make life fun, brother, Hann used to say as Baal laughed it off nervously. He never was much of a risk-taker unless he was coerced into it either by Hann or Cupun. Risks weren’t safe and Baal’s always been comfortable in what was safe. It was risk that had caused Hann’s death and it was risk that inspired him (so foolishly!) to dare to raise his voice as his sister, to argue with her, to fight her. He’d never had a chance at beating her, he’s been an omega for so long that he eventually surrenders, he eventually submits: he always does. Except …he hadn’t. Not that time.

Baal realizes he’s stopped walking, realizes that he’s reached the end of the yellow-brick road and before him the coyote he’d been stalking slumbers. Baal moves, slowly, steps as quiet as he can manage, sliding his paws through the snow as opposed to stepping upon it to circle the smaller canine. Saliva pools in his mouth and drips from the corners of his mouth as his pupils dilate. This design could not be rushed because he only got this one chance. It was scrappy looking: tufts of fur clumped together, it’s muzzle greying with age. An old man versus a gaunt man. The coyote was curled in on itself which meant that this was not going to be an easy kill. His throat was protected but enough of his flank was exposed that Baal could tear into it before awareness set in which meant this death would not be a merciful one. The nightmare did not care; sentiment and compassion were not things that it knew but Baal; Baal was empathic and therefore he would suffer with the coyote.

And he did suffer. Every second, every wail of agony that drowned out the ghastly wails from the deep shadows of the tree was painful to hear as Baal tore open the coyote. It was like he was tearing into himself: the soft noise of sharpened teeth tearing at the coyote’s flesh caused sympathy pain to radiate through his side as if he was being torn apart. Baal tries to shush the beast as it yelps and whines and screams through blood bathed teeth. Baal trembles with horror and regret but knows that it’s too late to stop now. He cannot go back and he must do the merciful thing and end the coyote so they do not suffer anymore. His stomach roils with a brief wave of nausea before he grasps the coyote’s jugular in his jaws and bites down on it, tearing into it, feeling relief the moment that the coyote stills and it’s life leaves it’s body. Baal leans over and wretches into the blood stained snow. It is a necessary evil. He needs to eat. It was nothing personal and he hopes that this torture will sate the nightmare: that the ache and desire will stave off for a bit, will give him a reprieve.

It is only after Baal is sure that he will not be sick again he begins to nose and tear at the innards, teeth devouring his meal like a man starving (he is, essentially) now that it is just a corpse and no longer feeling. There is nothing left to mourn of it. Now, it’s just dinner.