Wheeling Gull Isle Some feathers I stole from the birds

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Visceral descriptions under tag! Tried to keep it vague but just to be safe!!

It was a terrible idea but the only one that made sense to Mou as he watched the cooling body of his once-friend; they did not have time to argue of the morality of things, or judge the situation beyond the immediacy that those wriggling bodies presented.

Yes, they were alive — Mou thought he saw something shudder behind the wall of flesh and he held conviction in his next course of action. Maegi struggled and stumbled away from what remained of Niamh, a mess; Mou hummed a soothing note for her, for them, for safe passage of whatever piece of Niamh remained.

Maegi's pleading look was met with a worried expression of Mou's, but he nodded. He would do it. She could clean them and warm them after.

He took a shaking breath and then, with preternatural calm, set to work.

He did not know how to begin until he had repositioned the mother's body. She was stiff and cold, with parts frozen in place where she had tucked them.

Pulling at her scruff felt like ripping grass out by the root.

When his teeth sank in to skin it was like leather — tough at first, then well oiled by a thickly dripping ichor.

He had to be quick, careful, respectful, brutal; when all was said and done Niamh no longer looked like Niamh and likewise Mou, who had been a ghost before he began such desperate work, came away painted in shades of carmine.

Once the work was completed there stood Mou, and there sat three bundles as bloodied as he — nested in the putrid grass.

Welcome to the world, whoever you are!