Blackfoot Forest and dawn comes
Saatsine
Hunter
194 Posts
Ooc — grim
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#1
All Welcome 
currently present: @Gjalla @Meleeys @Marina -- @Stærk's death thread -- otherwise all welcome! continued from 1. do you feel ashamed? and 2. battle

the squawk of the raven. eerie, the tolling cry of death's bell. black feathers flying to sky when wings flap in thundering agitation, heralding the arrival of something foul.

one-eye.

the acrid strench of blood and bile; rancid, clinging to his nostrils like a plague. for a moment, he buries his nose into the thick of his chest fur, reeling himself to step at the side of gjalla. pressing black fur to raven fur, bristling at the sight that unfurls.

dead man walking comes crawling from beneath the fallen tree. squeezing a drenched, freezing and malnourished form through the crack; blackfell winces at the sight. wounds pulling taut from the pressure, ripping open scab, bringing blood pulsing in steady streams. blanketing the snow.

the woman is nowhere in sight. had the fucker killed her?

it is several seconds of displayed shock that freezes all in attendance at the grim sight. then, war is on. a snarl bubbles from the lips of the woman at his side. the wind is chopped by the macabre sound of the raven cawing, twisted laughter. stark is a cornered beast baring fangs, and he launches first. boldly seeking to claim gjalla's throat in bloodied mandibles.

blackfell acts. seizing the man by the scruff, hauling his weakened, battered form upwards. take his throat.
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Saatsine
Bloodhunter
mother winter.
156 Posts
Ooc — rue
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#2

Mature Content Warning


This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: graphic violence. this will be a continued theme throughout this thread; proceed with caution.

the raven’s cry pierces the space, a sharp, jarring note that rattles through gjalla’s chest like a war cry, urging her to battle. the scene unfurls before her—a grotesque display of desperation and ruin. the snake emerges from the hollow like a corpse dragged from its grave, his once-sleek form reduced to a trembling, bloodied husk. scabbed-over wounds split open, spilling crimson onto the pristine snow. he looked like a drowned rat, almost.

the stench of him clogs her senses: blood, bile, anger, fear. it reeks of decay, and yet, he crawls, clinging to some shred of defiance, some sliver of hope that he might escape the jaws closing in around him and trade his fate with hers.

the snake gathers whatever crumbling strength he has to coil, aim a strike to the princess. he is foolish for it—lunging at her with a last-ditch snarl. his jaws snap toward her throat, bloodied and desperate, desperate to meet teeth to flesh, but he is too slow.

blackfell is on him in an instant. massive jaws clamp down on stark’s scruff, lifting the wretch as if he weighs nothing, tearing him away before he gains any ground. the snake snarls in protest as blackfell hauls him upward, shaking him like a ragdoll before thrusting him into the snow. his pleas fall on deaf ears.

she had waited months for this day. an age old hatred reborn for its finality, the end. months she was forced to be idle as he tormented his kin, her spirit-sister, hungry for a power that would never be his. it was her turn, now, to abuse the power she was given. ruin him as he ruined others. she would take pleasure in it.

take his throat. she could see the message in blackfell’s eyes. soon. he would suffer first.

“you don’t deserve a quick death,” she spits, hot breath fanning over his bloodied muzzle. “you lie, you steal, you scheme, for no one’s benefit but your own. a godless serpent spitting poison, clinging to birthrights that were never yours, clawing and scraping for power for your ‘golden blood.’” her claws splay over his cheek, creeping close to his single golden eye. “your blood is poison. you are poison. do you think, if i took your eye, you would see the gods?” her voice softens, then, but there is nothing tender about it. it is cold, curious. mocking.

he claws at the snow beneath him bloodied paws scrabbling for purchase, but there is no escape. not from blackfell. not from her. certainly not from death. gjalla’s other paw presses down on his ribs, pinning him in place, her claws digging into his flesh.

“no.” she tells him. “you will see nothing. you will feel everything. no gods are coming to save you, stark. they are laughing at you.” at his cowardice, his idiocy, his never-ending hunger.

her claws draw over his final eye. she can feel the gush of blood beneath her paw, tearing flesh, tearing away his sight, for he did not deserve it. he deserved nothing.

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norse;“ · common; · “valyrian;
79 Posts
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#3
@Star Eater for mention

no, he rasps.

you don’t— he coughs violently. blood curdling in his throat, poisoning his white maw and cheeks and teeth. his head lolls, but he forces his gaze—his single, desperate golden eye—up toward her. still, squirming, lashing, trying to be free of the constraints which hold him. which bid his death. that call for his exile; the bastard he cannot reach, holding him by the scruff as if he were a disobedient pup.

you don’t know what i’ve done for my family, there is anguish and fury in voice. what i’ve sacrificed—what i’ve endured—

the pain.

the pride.

the jury.

the justice.

his words are slurred, poisoned by his own fate. if i am poison, then you are a coward. you... and morwenna... his head slumps. i stayed. i avenged my family. i...

it is only now he realizes. realizes that he remembers. remembers it all. memories, come crashing in, wheeling in his mind like a flood breaching it's gates. held back. pushing forth. he chokes, on his own divinity, his blood dribbling. the ichor of a martyr to stain the snow.

there is a raging cry when her claws split his face. stealing from him his dignity, his pride; gone with his eye and the rush of blood from his new, emptied socket. he spits one last defiant breath through bloodied teeth. he is a mangled beast. clawing, toiling, thrashing in any attempt to grab her. but her hound will not allow it. oh, how he loathes her.

how he fucking hates her pretentious guts. she had poisoned morwenna. turned her against him, her only brother! her kin, her blood! the blood they shared was that of fire and it raged eternally, and it was the war between kin that would be her undoing. he had vowed he would haunt her, and it is with his blood that tampers his fur now and spills upon gjalla that it is true. it will be.

a furious, rotten, hiss: the seven may laugh at me, but they will never weep for you.
Saatsine
Bloodhunter
27 Posts
Ooc — Vami
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#4
Meleys reveled in the kill. Her excitement shown in the lolling of her tongue, the pep in her step, the gleam in her expression. Hunting one of her own kind meant no matter for her. In fact, she was certain she would come to enjoy killing this wolf more then she would the caribou. She loved the caribou: respected them, praised them, walked as one of them. They were her life essence. Hell, it was like the Lanzadoii to choose to march with the herd even if it meant abandoning their own pups and Meleys had - many times. This man? She would enjoy inflicting a savage death. 

When their target is in their sights, Meleys follows the path of Blackfell, swift and determined. Two large wolves cast in shadow decend upon the other wolf. One holding fast to his scuff and Meleys at his back end, her front legs straddling his hips as jaw as set upon his backside to hold him there. With each struggle, each jerk, she would bite and shake, tearing into him bit by bit. 

She hungered for his flesh, impatiently awaited his death and a growl slips past a mouth filled with him as the pair argued and squabbled, as though to find a just purpose in all of this. Fuck their family drama. Fuck their home land politics and fuck their gods. They were Saatsine now and this was the vengeance of Lanzadoii!
[Image: 90506919_CmucwQJUZL8YNV9.png]
Meleys has a heavy accent. When words are in italic, she is speaking in Lanzadoii.
Saatsine
Hunter
194 Posts
Ooc — grim
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#5
can move stark to the end of posting order so meleys can go again before he dies!!

blackfell does not speak. he does not need to. gjalla’s justice is absolute, and his role is simple—executioner.

when stærk thrashes, spits his venom, blackfell does what he was made to do. he silences him. the moment gjalla’s claws steal his final eye, blackfell’s grip tightens. his fangs sink deeper into the wretch’s scruff, grinding against bone, shaking him like the useless carcass he already was.

he does not stop there.

as stærk spews his last curse, blackfell wrenches him sideways, slamming his ruined body into the earth as gjalla and meleys swarm him.

again.

again.

a wolf does not need his eyes to scream.

he feels the brittle snap of ribs, the wet gurgle of breath drowning in blood. gjalla will have the final blow—her right. but blackfell will ensure the bastard knows what it is to be prey before he dies.

the raven caws above them.
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Saatsine
Bloodhunter
mother winter.
156 Posts
Ooc — rue
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#6
he has no place in this world now. not in her world, not in star eater's.

the sounds of his suffering are like music to gjalla’s ears—wet, pitiful, filled with the same fear that had once been the source of his power. the serpent, so confident in his schemes, so sure of his future, reduced to a broken thing, squirming and gasping for mercy that would never come.

he is arrogant, even in his death.

she leans in closer, her claws retracting and digging deeper into the soft tissue beneath his fur. “hann telur sig vera píslarvott,” she chuckles, flits her gaze upward to blackfell so she can catch her breath. “Þú veist ekki einu sinni merkingu orðsins.” her eyes flicker back down to the empty socket where his eye once gleamed, replaced by thick scarlet running down his cheeks. she does not feel remorse.

he continues to claw at the earth, desperate for some way out, but there is no escape. blackfell’s grip on his scruff is unforgiving, and meleys’ savage assault keeps him pinned. he is prey now, and the pack has come to collect.

'the seven may laugh at me, but they will never weep for you.' her lips curl into a cold, cruel smile, and she laughs again. she leans in, her breath warming his face. "þá er gott að við trúum ekki á sjöuna, já?"

and then—without hesitation, without mercy—she strikes.

her teeth tear through his throat, sinking deep into his skin and splits his flesh. the sound is horrific, a sickening crunch of cartilage giving way to bone, the gurgling choke of breath as the blood begins to pour, hot and thick, down her throat. his body convulses beneath her, the frantic thrashing becoming desperate as the last of his life slips away. his blood coats her fur, sticky and warm, but there is no satisfaction in it. merely the finality of justice, the destruction of a man who thought himself a god.

the taste of his blood is foul—bitter, poisoned with his lies and schemes. she reels back after a moment. he clings to life, just barely.

"do what you wish to him. leave his face."

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norse;“ · common; · “valyrian;
Saatsine
Bloodhunter
27 Posts
Ooc — Vami
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#7
Back and forth, one side and to the next, they thrash the wolf. He is tossed and set down upon again, the wolves playing with their victim like killer whale toyed with their foot. Blackfell throws him again, bones breaking, hard snaps in the winter air similiar to that of wood in the quiet. 

Gjalla tears his throat, he surges there and Meleys does not go for another fatal blow, instead fine with allowing his final moments tick painfully by him as she rips him apart while he still lived, for whatever lingering seconds he may live. 

When it was all said and done, Meleys would be carrying a fluffy white (yet bloody) tail back home with her as a prize.
[Image: 90506919_CmucwQJUZL8YNV9.png]
Meleys has a heavy accent. When words are in italic, she is speaking in Lanzadoii.