Blackbeak Bluff arachnophobia has left the chat

fangs nip and pull; not enough to draw blood but fast enough so that her own fangs, poised to snap at his scarred muzzle, deliver an empty threat to empty air. he is silent and she lets it spread, hang heavy in the balance between them as piercing emeralds burn into his crown. fangs slip back behind lips and he looks up, this time with desperation colouring his voice - something entirely disconcerting emitting from one resembling a harbringer of death. his gaze is wild not with bloodlust nor the will to demonstrate control but instead with a desperate search for affirmation, one she considers a moment while silence falls again. "better off? no. I survived and I grew, and there is nothing fufilling in that, but it is life." fulfillment was not something one considered while alone against the winter. she sought the burn of blood against her palatte and to preserve her own by taking those lives of others. above all she was entirely free to do what she wished, a form of which she'd sought for so long only to find that a life without duty nor bonds became a life of mediocrity.