Fox's Glade a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr
hell is empty and
all the devils are here
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Ooc — Mochi
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#3
Wardruna kept his ears keenly alert for any noises: be it the click of his prey’s joints as they moved or the footfalls of others. Eventually, the northerner’s pursuit of the lone deer that he still hopes leads him to the rest of the herd forces him to cross paths with another but …not what he was hoping. Wardruna’s steps slow and then they halt altogether as he fixes the woman in his right, jack-o-lantern eye, his black leathery nostrils flaring take in her scent. Lone wolf, though as much is evidenced in the protrusion of her hip bones. She is small and almost…frail looking. Not unlike the thrall he has at home though this woman would appear to be a bit older than the northerner and his proclaimed woman, though unlike Noma this woman’s pelage is of the finest alabaster and though she is what he might call underweight she is another lovely thing. Lovely, but mutilated and decorated with what appears to be feathers and old blood.

Wardruna's eyes glint with dark hunger. Not a hunger of the stomach. No, a different but familiar hunger.

For the moment, Wardruna’s tracking mission is put on hold as he studies her, ghosting forward, letting out a low chuff to garner her attention ( that is, if he did not have it already; and if he didn’t he certainly wanted it ). Noma was enough of a risk but … it is certainly far from uncommon of the wolves of Jötunn Spine to have more than one thrall. Wardruna’s had to adapt his life and his skills around the hyphema ( the pooling of blood in his iris ) of his left eye, to resulting blindness in it, the flesh around it marred where the fur refused to re-grow and yet the northerner saw no reason why he had to forsake his culture, too. In the Spine pack thralls had been a rite of adulthood and the number of thralls a wolf “owned” was a validation of power. A display of dominance in and of its own self; and like with Noma, Wardruna had set his sights ( for better or for worse ) upon the alabaster female he believes the gods have led him to.
your hands are wet
with blood of an empire.
you lick it off.
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RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - by Wardruna - October 28, 2017, 12:53 PM