Deepwood Weald [m] bodies

marina i am so so sorry

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she will not find her daughter. not here.
he says nothing until her back is turned toward him, until he can watch the plume of her tail bounce as she walks, can see the delicious curve of her hips and the warmth that waits for him in that sacred place.
you remind me of my daughter and yet it is not nearly the same.
when he strikes, he aims his blow to the space between her shoulders; the caress of his tongue is for the scruff of her neck. he must be quick lest someone from moontide come for her. his claws dig into the hard set of her throat, and he feels the sharp pulse — but he is careful not to puncture, not to sever. there will be no proof of his touch save for memories imprinted upon psyche.
as his nose bumps against her ear, he utters one simple phrase, embellished with lust: pray to Him, and He will listen.