Deepwood Weald feel loneliness as a predator

Kerberos’s path takes him deeper inland, away from the coast where he has made the beaches and saltwater his haunt. The sea is as much as a comfort to him as it’s always been but there is a looming darkness in the depths of the constantly churning water that he never noticed before. He sees less and less of Atka now, but turns his thoughts away from his deities. He’s not ready to acknowledge that Atka’s hold on him is practically non existent these days; such is a truth that the Aok is not ready to face. Thus, he lives under the creation of a lie that he knows to be a lie but is still able to convince himself is truth. The call of the sea grows quieter the further away he travels from it and when he can hear it no more he casts a forlorn glimpse over his shoulder before trudging forward. Still, he does not go terribly far from the coast. A territory over, in truth. He has yet to formulate any sort of solid plan on what he intends to do through winter and supposes he could do what every one else does: find a pack, settle down. He’ll be six years in the spring: he’s got half of his life yet. He’s just begun to enter that “silver fox” stage of his life.

He moves through the Weald, sparing a glimpse at the tangle of spindly limbs above grateful that they block out the worst of the snows — though admittedly the tall trees do little to buffer the wind, though the red and green ferns dusted in snow that has broken through the ribcage like canopy above offer a small bit of reprieve. Regardless, he barely feels the frigid nip in the air. His coat has grown shaggy for the winter months: thick and heavy and coarse both from nature and because of his salt water baths. The water has grown too cold for that now, though, and it will not be until spring when the earth warms and the days are warmer yet that he will bathe himself in the Sea’s waters. Hot springs would have to suffice for now though he likes having the Sea with him no matter how deep inland he goes.

Kerberos’ stomach lets out a low grumble as he scents a fresh kill and he maneuvers his way to where the blood is splattered with crimson blood: a jugular wound he detects. A failsafe, he realizes as he approaches the scene. The deer was elderly, arthritic by the judge of the turning of and gnarled knots on the joints of it’s legs and had likely died where she lay judging by the position of her body. Sea green gaze sweeps over the treasure he’s stumbled upon and his tongue draws across his jowls in hunger. Kerberos scents at the air for any other carnivores nearby as he approaches with caution. A lone coyote feasts from it’s torn open belly. Kerberos approaches the kill with the intent of bullying the coyote away; or of killing it if it chose not to take the diplomatic approach. It surrenders after a few moments of a dominance struggle between them, judging that it would not win a fight against the Aok and drags the innards away as it retreats. Kerberos rounds the corpse once he is sure the coyote will not be returning and sinks his teeth into the flesh to eat his own fill.

584 words

His interest in the Wilds swells and ebbs like the tides he was so familiar with now. One moment he is there, ready to establish another pack on its harrowed grounds. The next, he wanders away, disinterest blowing him away with the breeze. He goes south this time, away from the encroaching chill that creeps from the north. His fur is perfectly suited to it. But it was never a transition he truly liked in feeling. Winter brings so many wonderful things to him — camoflage, disorientation, weakness, an easy trail, a jarring pale canvas for the paint he splatters upon it — but he does not like the chill. He especially doesn't like the chill when he is alone.

But he returns. Because there was always something in the Wilds going on, contrasted with the utter nothingness for leagues beyond it. It was like an island, an isle of intrigue and abundant prey and interesting people that he could never shake from his mind. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go — he had no family here, no slaves, no enemies here that knew enough about him to kill him on site. A part of him nags, urging him to break the Wilds from his heart. The Brotherhood could still be looking for him, searching for the strigoi who killed one of their own. They weren't one to give up a grudge, even after all of these years. He should keep moving as he had for his adult lifetime, dancing from one hunting ground from the next. But he doesn't.

It is the scent of blood that leads him to this place. Away from the shore that he so frequently haunts. He ignores the call of that black wolf Constantine in the Ravensblood Forest. He had no true interest in joining that pack. It was a mere triviality, to see if they would hold his interest enough for him to change the pace of his life. They hadn't. A pity.

But back to blood — that sweet, dulce, smell that he could already taste in his mouth. It is not the scent of wolven blood, lupine, but he knows that a kill will attract others. Or has already attracted others. He ventures towards the scent, quiet in his steps, gliding like a cloud of mist over the deadened grass below him. The scent grows in intensity and so does his senses — heightened with the prospect of prey, of blood.

The scene is set before him, already in play. A small scavenger, a coyote, slinks away from the kill, leaving a wolf to feast upon the remains of some freshly dead ungulate. He is hesitant. The wolf is large, coated in sand both dry and wet. He circles around the kill, watching the coyote scamper further away before approaching the wolf and the kill, clearly not his own but stolen by brute force. He makes sure that he is visible with every step he takes to the man, his body neutral, mostly uninterested in the carcass. He wants to see how this will play out.

Kerberos is not a bully …or at least he had not been once upon a time ( so very long ago now ) — though he wonders if it’s truly bullying when he was subtly giving the coyote a choice: leave or become the meal? — but time is not a stagnant concept. It flows and writhes and twists and the innocence and nivety and compassion of a sullen youth become the victims of time and are easily ebbed away. Kerberos is not remorseful for ensuring his continued survival …at least not in this instance. That coyote made off with plenty of food for himself and Kerberos believes that allowing him to retreat with the innards and his life is a generosity. As Kerberos tears at the meat that will sustain him ( oh! But it is far from what he truly desires ), splattering his muzzle and chest in blood and bits of gore he becomes aware of approaching footfalls. Kerberos’s hackles bristle, salted with the remnants of the sea that he carries with him so that he is never far from her regardless of how far he actually goes, his ears splaying flat against his skull. At first, he thinks it is the coyote foolishly returning but he knows that isn’t the case: the body is much too heavy to be that of the coyote.

Kerberos’ lips curl back from his teeth and crinkle with a low warning growl aimed directly for the silver-white male that appears through the snow dusted ferns, the Aok’s teeth stained crimson with bits of flesh stuck to his teeth and lips. I eat first, his body language broadcasts boldly. The other man’s interest does not appear to be in the corpse but Kerberos lets out a secondary warning rumble to accommodate for it all the same. Kerberos’ posture does not relax but he quiets the series of rumbles in his throat as he tears a chunk of liver, chews and swallows it. “Should I be flattered?” The Aok inquires then, glimpsing over the swell of the corpse’s body at the other male, assuming that if it is not the corpse that holds the other man’s interest then it is Kerberos himself. Perhaps he is wrong in this assumption and yet he makes it nevertheless.

382 words

The coyote, and soon it is out of the strigoi's sight, but it had long been out of his worry. The fresh blood that eminated from the corpse was enough to keep his attention. Though the pulse had long since gone, there was enough of it — the stench drifting in the air — to keep his mind in a trance. The longer he stayed in the carcass' presence, the more lost he was. Slowly, with subtle telltale changes, his expression went from neutral to longing, yearning, for too many things at once, but most of all: the blood. He remembers the first time he experienced it — the foggy grasp of something not quite hunger, not quite lust, but some different category that set his fur on fire and dashed away all judgement. It had not occurred when he was fed as a child with scraps and vomited chunks of flesh. His first experience with blood was when, as a adolesence, he followed the pack during a hunt. The moose — or deer or elk, it had been some large proud creature — was not yet dead, staring defiantly at the wolves surrounding it, even as crimson marred its pelt, dripping from its neck and shoulders into a pile. He had remembered an urge to run to the puddle and bathe in it and lick from his damp pelt, but before he could surge forward some caretaker stopped him, chided him. 

This time was similar to the first, except there was only one wolf instead of a pack blocking him from perfoming his urges. The man was lathered in the liquid, red staining his mouth and teeth in an enticingly delicious way that made his knees weak, though he stood as firm as he could. It was the contrast, he supposed. Athanasius had always loved the way the crimson color of blood was accentuated by pale colors, and the way that the aphrodisatic liquid looked on the man's pale sand-and-cream fur made him, for lack of a better word, swoon. 

Words slipped from the predator's mouth, and Athan blinked once, then twice, before letting out a soft breathing Hah, It was both a laugh and a release of the pent up energy within him. I suppose you should be,

short post is short. T-T

Kerberos tears another chunk from the liver, attention divided between the stranger and his meal. Though it is the stranger that currently holds they higher ratio of the Aok’s attention. As much as Kerberos would like to enjoy his meal it’s not the succulent and forbidden pomegranate that he so desires. It’s mediocre. Yet, it is still edible, it is still meat and some sort of meat is better than no meat at all. It sustains him just the same and he supposes that it’s rude to look a gift horse in the mouth — or more accurately a gift deer. A gift reluctantly given but a gift nevertheless. “Then I will take the compliment so that you may tell me what it is you truly want?” Kerberos inquires after he tears and devours yet another chunk of meat, sea-green gaze sweeping over the stranger in a brief assessment.

A smile crosses his face. It is stricken with emotion, a tell-tale longing that was mirrored from his eyes to the crooked smirk that stretched across his visage. He licks his teeth, briefly revealing the curve of his fangs, before catching any strands of saliva that threatened to drip from his mouth. To watch, He wants to lay down on his stomach, become comfortable, but it would obstruct his view. His body language is very relaxed, but still tense with desire as more blood splatters on the man's face. He let's out a slow shuddering breath. Is that too much to ask for?