Swiftcurrent Creek your heart [m]

“”

Silence.

They were infinitesimal and savage, godlike beings that trod down the grasses and stirred the loam into mud with the slow weep of their wounds. At length, the moon unfurled her ivoried banner across the heavens, and they were caught up, enraptured by the play of glistening light across each pale hair.

For how long they had moved across the land, the madman did not know. A being conscious of its fleshly self would have noted with growing horror the lacerations upon the sole of each paw, where the stone lips of countless mountains had worn away the skin there, and thus the stained beast left a trail of crimson smudges in his wake.

But now they had come into the god-sphere — he walked without pain, untouched by fear, even as the gentle bite of night air swept tufts of dead fur from a pelt blotched hopelessly black by months' old blood, even as the click of bone against bone in the body that was propelled solely by the infernal light of Sos sounded painfully into the night.

Icewater eyes skimmed the night, plying its shadows with an empty stare; slow moments slid past as the shaman turned his attentions toward his companion. Silk and moonbeams, madness turned to glimmering honey — she was his. Blood of his blood, long since removed from her dam, the name of which the pale man could not remember.

He appraised her for a long breath, pupils expanded beneath the plant he had fed to the both of them before they had departed. Its bitterness still flickered vaguely across his tongue, and he lolled it in a halfsmile, though he made no true effort to reach toward she who was fully locked into the crystalline palace of her own mind.

And so, turning forward, he led them again, hips jutting and ribs razor-edged against the tattered grasp of bloodied fur and skin that was his lot. On the horizon, the moonglow beckoned, unearthing a copse of trees from the nightfall, and it was toward the verdant stand that the madman sidled, never once casting a glance behind himself for the soft footsteps of his comrade, for he sensed that she would come despite the murmured urgings of her tortured mind.

How often she heard her friends now. So fondly listened to, so raptly; a lovers words whispered on their last breath. She listened to them, rapt, hungry. (Tell me more tell me more tell me more...) But she was patient, always patient; it was they who had earned that, no others. Clarice respected them as she could no other being. She was theirs, always. They knew it now in the leanness of her figure. How, so much like her father, her bones jut from her skin. Puss oozed from old, self-inflicted wounds—WE SPEAK TO YOU, CLARICE, THROUGH YOU! SHOW US YOU CAN HEAR—but they were healing, brown clung to the edges of them. She knew how to heal; she had learned much. Her absence this time was for her father, her promise to not leave him thus far kept. The voices did not demand she stray, so she lingered. Only he could see Sos and the spirits as she could; she, his protege, successor, followed him to see for herself. And o, he could; she never doubted it.
xxxxxxxClaaaariiiicceeeee.... A whisper in her mind, a beckoning. She does not pause in her movements, she need not stop to hear them any longer; they speak to her as they please. But her ears shift, a hint that she is listening, a hint that something is heard, shifting slightly, falling backward in reverence, then leaning slightly forward in attention. The madwoman does not falter in her step any longer. She is confident in her otherworldly abilities, her God given gift, and it shows even despite her frailty.
xxxxxxThe devout woman breathes in the air. Enough. Consume. We stay. Clarice moves quicker now, moving beside her father. Clarice is wolf even despite her wild beliefs, but she postures for a brief moment, tests, allowing her ears to remain erect and her strut to remain confident, proud. They say to end the fast, she rasps, To consume. It was no test. She had seen their tests in deranged visions, and had passed them by making them real. The truth was in their voice, mighty, strong. They had taken much from themselves, and their sacrifice, realized. They say that they stay! The girl is thrilled, overjoyed; they had never left her, but behaved as the tide would, receding sometimes only to return. But to hear them say it—
xxxxxxIt was cause to celebrate.

“”

Lecter did not respond to her posturing as she moved to his side, though his daughter's words swept him from his reverie, and he focused the infamous icewater glare upon her. And yet, he did not speak, for to say a word would be to shatter the illusion of peace they had wound about themselves. A flick of one scarred ear and the rolling shift of his balance urged her toward the trees; lip lifted and hackles threatened to spike along his shoulders if she did not obey.

Clarice was not his to truly command, but somehow he fancied that she would heed him, at least at the times of her choosing. The shaman thrust his shoulders and head into the earthy darkness cast by the close-clustered branches; he chuffed in approval before entering. The threat of snow was in the air, or rain — he did not know this land, or he did not remember — and he cast his glance heavenward to the unsealed canopy.

Feast,” he muttered, tasting the foreignness of the word. It had been some time since his belly had bulged from the gorging of flesh, and the primality of his species asserted itself with a rumbling growl. Settling his gaze on the gossamer girl, Lecter felt his lips curve in a decidedly unfamiliar bow; these days, only she had the power to bring amusement to him, or a rusted chuckle to his throat.

Sos clawed suddenly at his mind, seeking entry; the madman's breath caught in his chest and he coughed, choking on the claws of the Dark Bear. Eat. Consume, came the snarled whisper of the Black God, and while Lecter bent his head in pleased service to his deity, his cold gaze found and beheld Clarice.

Lynx had whispered sundry things to him, and Lecter found himself in silent awe of Her words, Her whim. Nares flared and he reached to lip the fur of her cheek, as if assuring himself that she was indeed existent. The shaman's tail flagged at his heels; he let out his breath in a wounded fashion, and he turned from her, from Lynx.

Clarice watched as her father shifted, and she humored him; but she bore her fangs in his direction, displeased with his assumption that he was her better any longer. Clarice would rather think herself his equal, but his age warranted him something, and she was of his blood. If ever she obeyed a physical being, it was him, but it was inconsistent. Her loyalties lay within her deranged mind and the whispers she always heard. His gifted daughter. So detached from things owed and the physical world.
xxxxxxAt her fathers words, she nods, sure he would know himself soon. Her clairvoyance was only for the metaphysical, the things unseen; but she could not read those that breathed and moved and touched. His smile earned a delighted expression from Clarice, whose own eyes that matched his own seemed to flash excitedly. Clarice fancied them healthy, but to any onlooker it would be clear the opposite was true. She was eager to indulge again. She could not deny the usefulness of this fast, how it made the voices speak desperately. And now, louder than ever.
xxxxxxShe twitches as she feels another presence. She can make the outline of the figure, but it is transparent, not her own. Clarice looks away, respectful of the thing, the moment, numb, utterly numb, to everything. Quiet, she listens, hoping to hear; but these words were for him, and not for her. She is irate by this, but understanding; she would know, soon. He did not hide things from her, perhaps could not. They were the vessels of the world beyond, the voice given to speak for those deaf to their cries. The wounded sound was met with the tilt of her head, Hm?

“”

She sensed the nearness of his Totem; her impatient breaths alerted him to the mental acuity she had cultivated both at his side and upon her own searches. Clarice prodded him gently with an inquiring sound; Lecter's ears fell back against his skull momentarily. Lynx's instructions were not sounds to which words could be put; Sos growled from his pedestal within the shaman's head.

Savagery would beget savagery, and a witch-wolf would only spawn other worshippers, unfit for any task save the total sacrifice of their own desires to the Dark Bear. His hackles did raise at length, now, though it was not through irritation with Clarice, but a brief breath of apprehension.

In time, the moonlight cut through the interlocked verdancy of the branches, and brought a slow burn to her silken pelt. Lecter watched as the eldritch glow painted itself across features of her body he had not before noticed, heightened the curious mad glitter of her eyes.

The muscles in his jaw tightened as Sos lengthened Himself, melding His ethereal form to the willing fibers of his prophet. Lecter hissed a breath of agonized pleasure, jaws parted with the great weight and breadth of his deity. Moments slid by into nothingness, but at last Sos snarled his comfort and will.

The icewater eyes had taken on the darkening hue of his God; the pale madman bristled, tongue lashing across his yellowed ivories. And his glare was savage, feral in its intensity as he scrutinized Clarice, questioning silently her commitment to the whims of Sos.

He is different.
xxxxxxShe is mesmerized by the transformation, by the darkness, and her ears—for the first time—fall backward, reverent, understanding—
xxxxxxSos, her head lowers, her father but a puppet. It is only to Him that she would bow; the Loa garnered her respect, but pieced her together, made her, she was of their essence. A piece of Sos was within her, but she was not Him; she was for Him, and was a willing vessel herself. Only once had He possessed her, but he had spoken to her, and she had seen Him.
xxxxxxShe knew Him to be here.
xxxxxxAnd she waits for His command, His decree.

“”

And as Sos murmured once more his will, his desire, Lecter felt the sharp blade of horror pierce his heart, but he could do nothing against his God; claws gripped the loam in one last protest before the Dark Bear absorbed his shaman fully. Thus in thrall, the pale witch watched with blossoming pride the bowed head of his supplicant, and rumbled a low sound of approval within his throat.

It was Sos who lifted Lecter's body in slow strides toward Clarice, puppetting the body of the shaman. He was removed; he could not cease his steps, nor could his emotions, shoved together into a jumble, cut through the will of his deity.

And so His muzzle lifted, and traced a gentle line from Clarice's brow to the corner of her mouth; He set His jaw alongside her own, intending that she look into His eyes and know His might and His power.

It was not the soft kiss of a father that Lecter placed upon Clarice's virginal mouth; it was the possessive taste of a God who had looked down upon a mortal who pleased the carnality of His lecher. Icewater eyes, now grown dark with the presence of Sos within Lecter's mind, shone with a demands, and brief affection intermingled with an utter and all-devouring lust.

Rapt. Enraptured. She could not read her father then, but she could read Him; and there is pride in her, too, evident, but not so much so as to offend Him. Her ears shift, and there are no words, no whispered murmurings in her minds. He is here, in her presence, for her. She breathes him in as he nears, and even the smell of her father is different to her.
xxxxxxThere is no revulsion at his contact; she is bewildered only by the thought that his desire here is different from the times that he desired sacrifice and death. Now, what? She does not think of lust, does not understand it; she is young, for all of her knowledge gained she does not know this.
xxxxxxAnd so she waits, averting her eyes, leaning toward the pale, bloodied man both for the comfort of the man hidden within and to feel Sos.

“”

The innocence of her response, her bewilderment, encompassed in such a savage little form, seemed to arouse the Dark One further. She yearned toward Him, and He met her with the feathering of His lips along the proud curve of her throat, settling into the hollow where shoulder met neck. There He dropped a firm nip, not intending to harm her, nor draw blood, but see the leap of pain within her eyes.

He curled himself alongside her, tail arching briefly; he sought to sweep his mouth from her shoulder to the gossamer curve of her ribcage, and onward to her flank after a fashion, but her mouth beckoned him, and he pressed teeth and tongue to her own, a low growl pouring forth.

This was a realm Clarice had not explored, nor would she have ever, perhaps, if not for this possession. After all, Sos was the one Clarice had given herself to; her mind was His (He knew it to be so), as was her body. He possessed her father for a reason she did not yet understand, still she strove to hear his message, unused to the (rough) affections being administered to her.
xxxxxxClarice felt no pain here, even as He sought to see it in her eyes; she was eager, her mind clouded, voices murmuring. He is here, He is here; He has come for you! For her. To meet with her. Clarice felt the pride bubble within her throat, emerging in a guttural sound as fang and tongue clashed against her own. Her gaze sweeps to cross his face, then falls downward, curious; she was no woman of wiles, of wit, to entice her God; but He knows she lives for Him, and that, she thinks, was what brought Him to her, His most reverent daughter.

“”

Her confident eagerness in the face of that which she did not understand inflamed Him; he at last pulled his lips from her own and preened her shoulder with uncharacteristic gentility, keeping their bodies settled close to one another as he moved inexorably toward her loins. Lecter's eyes cleared momentarily, enough to note and understand what Sos intended, and though his jaw tensed with sudden rage, he was at once both ashamed and aroused by the sight of Clarice's untouched body angled toward him, her unknowing want sweet within the eyes of his Lord.

But Sos soon roused Himself; He pressed toward one moon-gilded flank, dampening the fur there with smooth strokes. And all at once He was behind her, fangs leaving runnels through the fur of her hip; He murmured softly to her, but desire was fast breaking His control.

Love was not for Clarice.
xxxxxxDeath was for Clarice. She brought it, time and time again; hexes, poisoning, the knife that pressed into your back a thousand times. A passionate blade. But here that was useless. She waved it left and right, thrust it blindly, (Iwouldkillforyou,Iwillkillforyou,) but it was useless, here; and so she turns to look to him as he drags against her, half-registering his murmurings...
xxxxxxSos was for Clarice. Her eyes are bright, sharp, as she turns her head, licking her snout. He can hear her, Sos can always hear her. (What can I do, what can I do?)

“”

It was the God she wished for, and she did not pull away, but neither did she seek Him with the yearnings of her body. Perhaps it was because they had not yet been awoken, and He paused for a long moment before he nudged the feathered plume of his faithful worshipper aside and plied with soft strokes the virginal gem hidden there.

Again Lecter swam from the depths of the Dark One's prison, and was assaulted with the taste and fragrance of Clarice! he could not fathom it, and cursed bitterly the sweep of ardor burning in each of his veins. Sos dallied in the warm country for several moments, ears sweeping forward to catch any sound that the silken witch made, before in one fluid motion He gave vent to his lust and desirous possession, and drew her firmly back into the circlet of his forelegs, though enough control still thrummed that He held back the full domination of her body — for the moment.

His ministrations continued. It was then discovered that Clarice was not immune to lust; as he approached her, her tail swayed, her back arced, her eyes so bright, clear, and cold brightened. She quivered, (wantwantwantwant) not quite knowing that she anticipated, but she waited on bated breath—
xxxxxxShe was possessed within his arms, and Clarice yielded to Him, pushing back, wiggling wantonly against him without quite knowing what it might do; heat rose, pounded against her ears, A Blessed Union roared within her mind, and she hungrily whined, the note low, needy, (take take take)... There was no sentiment, no sweetness here; her love for Sos was presented in full as she moved beneath him, waiting. She looked back to the man behind her, seeing not Lecter, but Sos...

“”

She writhed beneath him, and the God growled His acceptance of her, acquiescing to her request with a tightening of His arms around her young waist, the violent thrust of His hips against her own; her pain would bring Him pleasure, and in the next moment the pale muzzle had sank downwards to grip the flesh and fur of her ruff and drag Clarice back against him.

Lecter cried out against the atrocity committed with his body, but he too felt the burning lust of his Dark God, and conceded with a brief anguished remembrance of her lovely face that the sensation was beyond all that he had known thus far, the forbidden meeting, the knotted tangle of father and daughter in the swamp-black ardor and encouragement of Sos' own roar.

She did not withdraw even as she felt the pain of his entering the temple of she, Clarice; she let out a strange sound, coping, struggling, until pain faded as it often did in the spike of adrenaline and now, lust.
xxxxxxBliss.
xxxxxxShe knew it then in their union, Him with her, and she does not mind in telling so with her voice (truth be told, it cannot be helped), and the murmuring of his name, Sos! Sos, repetitive, accepting, adoring, pining and needing.

“”

The girl chanted her acceptance, firing the harsh battering of her delicate form with His bestial lust, the sweet sound of her lips wrapped 'round His name provoking a hoarse moan from the bloodstained lips, who give her flesh reprieve momentarily. He was the God, the Dark One, the Demon Bear; He vented himself upon her savagely and without mercy, until at last His body tightened and Sos granted Clarice the divine rush of His dark seed, gritting out the last syllables of her name into her mussed fur.

It was then that the Dark One receded, sated for the time being, and it was only Lecter within the tortured mind, the pale witch bonded to his beloved child with the clasp known only to lovers, and he gasped in panic and terror and guilt, but fought the overwhelming urge to tear from her. His body shook with the residual waves of his God's climax, but also with the fearful hatred of himself that had begun to mount inside his head.

In time, they were parted, and Lecter moved swiftly away from Clarice, choking on the vile scent of their union, the smell of her virginal blood, hot tears stinging his eyes and his legs suddenly weakening, unable to hold him.

She did not know if she bled from his fangs, she could not feel anything but blissful warmth. But soon it ended, and soon, they were parted, and soon, He was gone.
xxxxxxShe does not understand the wrongness of it, because she believes wholeheartedly Sos had been the body which had been atop of her, not him, her father, His vessel; she peers at him for a long moment, curious. What was that? For surely there had never been any more birds and bees. What has Sos chosen me for?

“”

She approached, but he could not look upon her; he did not want to see the marks that Sos had placed upon his daughter using the shaman's own body. Clarice questioned with the innocence of the mad, and Lecter's ears flattened momentarily. “I do not know,” he answered falteringly, “but you must meditate on His...blessing,” he instructed, icewater eyes staring unseeing into the distance.

“Now I shall sleep, my child,” Lecter murmured gently, a wave of black guilt and exhaustion overcoming him heavily; he sat in the snow, then stretched out his length prostrate against it, still unable to look into the beautiful, inquisitive face of his child. “Leave me now, or sleep here, or do what you will.”