Filth in the Beauty [Rubedo]

[Kenren]

The connection of this blood is eternal. You cannot finish suppressing the desire. The pain was nearly unbearable, and it was almost as if the howl of the blizzarding winds echoed her deep need. She was sure, outwardly, that she looked feral. Rabid. She hadn't meant to come onto pack land, she truly hadn't. It was too dangerous, especially during a storm this bad. But it was the incredible storm and her inability to find other wolves, given they'd all hunkered down, that had driven her hunger to the point of dire need. She'd wanted to be strong when she'd done Chaos' final task, but the whole thing was spinning forward on its own, and now was her chance to find the alpha she sought. Any alpha, anyone with the type of strength she wished to hold herself. Blood that, inadvertently, would make her infinitely stronger. Or so she believed. So she hoped. She didn't know the names of those that dwelled there, but even through the swirling snows there were signs of inhabitants. There were wolves here, and wolves meant there was a leader, and that was who she had to find. If she could keep her thoughts straight enough to do so. Ezra wavered, her stomach cramping unbearably and forcing her to breathe through her teeth. Dizziness accompanied, and she stumbled to a stop rather than falling on her face. She snarled in frustration, then threw her head back to howl. And howl. It would be incredibly hard to be heard in this gale, but there was no other option. She'd wait a bit, until she could hardly stand it, then she'd move again. For now she huddled near a tree, thinking that this was much less pleasant than her last visit here. She'd been fed, and the weather had been bright, and she'd completed her task easily. But these were different stakes, and she wasn't stupid enough to think they might not recognize the scent she'd left then. She'd deal with that if she had to. Gods, this was miserable. But it would be worth it. When she was the thing all feared in the night, the boogeyman they told their children about, then she'd be satisfied. There would be no one more powerful. Not because of physical might, but because of fear. Even in her current state, she shivered at the thought. Yes, this was nothing. This was bearable. Soon. speaking

CODING BY TEMPEST.

[Lirriel]

[googlefont=Montserrat]

[attr="class","god"]

[attr="class","god2"]

[attr="class","god3"]Bowed down to get the kings overthrown

[attr="class","god4"]And I'm all alone and the fire grows

[attr="class","god5"]

Winterfang announced the first breach with a furious howl. The storm, spun from the betrayer’s own lips, rampaged across Rubedo’s territory. It brought with it biting chill, driving snow, and, worst of all, the sensation of sinking. Here was Rubedo’s own foolishness tossed in his face like a bit of old carrion. He had been too focused on the accumulation of his old power, scattered to the corners of Somerset, that he had never begun to consider Winterfang’s absence.

Until recently, the White Forest had been almost warm, and he had even attributed it to his own returning godhood. And surely the sun had spoken as such, surely his body spoke as such – Dionysus said he ran warmer than freshly-spilled blood, hotter than the rough skin of a sun-lit stone. He was feverish in their most intimate of moments.

And he burned. He had burned, and it had been a reminder of his fall, of what he had once been, of what he could be again – and the effort it had cost him to raise those fiery pyres had been exhilarating and terrifying and frustrating.

Rubedo had wondered, in the quiet aftermath that saw him nose through soot and charcoal, nudging at the remnants of his great display, if perhaps – but, no. He had banished the thought before it began to form. He was a deity, barely contained in a mortal’s body. To expect a flesh-and-blood vessel to avoid fatigue when wielding a god’s might was not dissimilar to forcing an ocean’s waters into the constraints of a river’s path. It was expected that his power would be uncontainable, that it would seek to destroy this body that could be burned.

He was living, breathing fuel for so long as he possessed this mortal body. He must take care in remembering his own wretched weakness.

So it was that Winterfang’s storm screamed around him, buried in a bed of pine needles that Dionysus and he had arranged into comfortable bedding. Now Dionysus slept beside him, shrouded in a deep slumber, and Rubedo cast him a look that was almost fond as he carefully stepped over his massive mate.

With hesitant steps, he approached the entrance to their den, a shiver running through his body as the blizzard continued to vent its swirling, white rage. His ears were pitched forward, red eyes straining to pick out something within the endless snow. He caught flashes of green, the dull mahogany of three stripped pines, bundled close together.

His eyes, still soft, still uncertain, abruptly sharpened as a shrill cry rose above the blustering winds. His teeth ground against each other as the forlorn howl tore through the gale, a beseeching, lonesome sound.

Rubedo breathed deep, remembered the fire that curled in his belly, only ever a tug of the mind away – though it would take more than a tug in this weather; it would require the bleeding of his spirits, the tempering of his will, and that was a dangerous game to play when faced with an unfamiliar voice.

But he was a god. And he would face Winterfang with a mouthful of fire.

He sprung into the blizzard, instinctively seeking places where the snow had packed down upon itself, providing a firm foothold that would break underneath his weight. He ran toward that echoing cry, his ears straining, his eyes straining – and he only saw her because she was a white lump against the rough brown of a tree’s skin, and he knew the snow had not yet had enough time to form oddly-shaped heaps.

He strode toward the huddling wolf, his tail raising up in a war banner, pushing for the posture of a creature in its element – in truth, he was far from it. The embers that ran through his blood provided minimal comfort in this savage snowstorm, and he longed to set the sky alight once more with the sweeping, leaping flames of his fiery soul.

As it was, he drew closer, enough so that he could see her clearly – and he took note of the state of her, his black lips twisting momentarily into an expression of dissatisfaction – before he pointed at her with his nose and stepped away. “Follow me or let this storm bury you.”

He held no interest in a conversation that left them both within the storm’s wrath. She was a stranger, yes, and she had the look of a demon, but he knew one more minute outside the comfort of a cave or burrow or some sort of shelter would drive him to throw his own flames back against the storm. And, though it slid sourly down his throat, he knew he had not yet acquired the power required to truly beat back the Winterfang’s winds.

He was mad, yes, but he was not foolish.

[attr="class", "godling"]tags: Kenren
words: 803
notes: xx
credits: ria p @ dawnthieves

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[Kenren]

Her throat burned with cold, as every drawn breath welcomed its harsh dryness deep inside of her. But she couldn't stop, because she was feverish with need now. Like a will-o'-the-wisp existed only to draw wanderers into a murky embrace, so she would lure her prey to her, because it was the only option she had left. She needed them to come. She needed help. She needed to tear something apart. The howls became more forlorn, rougher, less wolf and more spirit. Her eyes hardly blinked, and ice formed on the pained tears at the rims of her eyes. But it wasn't for naught, as soon (though to her it felt like ages), a wolf appeared through the swirling snow of the storm. She ached to leap, to attack like the starving animal she was, but she was distracted in the moments before he drew close enough to speak. A tug inside of her, like the right chord being struck on a finely-tuned instrument, and in a moment she understood that that was Chaos' message to her. That this one was prey that would please her demands. "Follow me or let this storm bury you." As if she could do anything else. Even as he turned his back on her, she imagined she could feel the warmth of blood beneath his skin, the sound of a pulse in her ears - though that, of course, was her own. She unfolded her aching limbs, eyes never leaving his retreating form, and she caught up with him quickly. A shadow, clinging perhaps too close to a stranger, head disrespectfully nearly at his hip. But part of her wanted him to turn on her, because that would end her suffering. It would be painful, maybe even deadly, but she couldn't think of many things worse than her current pain, and at least a fight would give her the blood she so desired. "Quickly, I must speak to you," she rasped, perhaps loud enough to be heard as she was so close, and she hated the desperation she could hear in her own voice. It was everything she hated to be, but she reminded herself that even this suffering would only lead to greater power. Regardless of the outcome here, as long as she could walk away for her life, she would be impossibly stronger. speaking

CODING BY TEMPEST.

Lirriel

[Lirriel]

[googlefont=Montserrat]

[attr="class","god"]

[attr="class","god2"]

[attr="class","god3"]Bowed down to get the kings overthrown

[attr="class","god4"]And I'm all alone and the fire grows

[attr="class","god5"]

He had thought her a foolish wanderer.

But mere seconds in her presence had instilled a spidery sense, a forewarning, at the base of his skull. It traced cold, whispering fingers down his neck, and his fur rose high – let the stranger think it was simply a way to ward off the cold.

She was quick to follow, and for that he was almost kind when she impertinently thrust her nose near his flank. Rubedo felt almost off-kilter in her presence, but he knew it could not be that dehydration, that sickness of the mind and of the body – she was too clean for that, too pristine. Her mouth did not foam, and her breath did not stink of death and dying. But she was too – feverish, his mind supplied helpfully.

And yet she does not burn.

Jumpy, edgy, as if some great beast was working its way out from beneath her skin, was slowing burrowing toward the surface and its eruption was imminent.

He wondered, in that detached way of his, if she might birth a spider or a butterfly.

It was only the cold that kept him from grinning at his thoughts; he glanced back at her, something like a scowl spread across his face, and swatted at her with his tail.

“Do not press so close,” he told her, though the storm was quick to snatch away his words. He could only imagine the blizzard was eager to showcase proof of his living to his godly brother, wishing to be nuzzled and praised like a young cub.
If the wind thought Winterfang cared anything for it, it was pathetic indeed.

As it was, he broke into a ground-eating lope, both eager to escape the storm and antsy to put some distance between himself and the she-wolf that stuck to him like a cocklebur. But her words gave some hint toward her apparent desperation, and he tried not to resent her too freely for the closeness she kept.

That she must speak to him – he wondered how she had come to know of him. Rubedo had been careful, working to gather followers in such a way that other packs might not know of his plans. Because he knew something of packs, knew that they would believe him mad, a tyrant to overthrow – and he was yet powerful enough to truly showcase his godly might.

So how did she know him? More importantly – and again, there was that sensation, the slickness of oil rolling uneasily in his belly – what did she seek from him?

He could not yet grant her a true boon.

Perhaps, he thought, she was as mad as him.

Eventually, they came near the den he and Dionysus had commandeered. But he purposely turned away from it, instead heading toward an indent in the ground that they had been digging out in their free time. While wolves did not naturally sleep in burrows, it became something of a necessity in the coldest forest of the land, where the very ground itself conspired to leech the warmth of life from your bones.

Compared to the den he had been nestled within earlier, this small cavern was cramped and chilled – but it provided something of a respite from the snowstorm that howled outside, and it allowed him a nearness to Dionysus. Should the female be an agent of his brother, he would not hesitate to call upon Dionysus to slay her.

As it was, he pushed himself to the furthest corner of the cave and allowed himself to crouch down; the natural heat his body gave off would warm her, in time. If she proved herself a polite guest.

“And why would we speak?” he asked. She had said it earlier, as they fled the blizzard, but he picked up the thread of conversation again, curious to know why she had sought him. “What would bring you to wander in the middle of such a storm?”

[attr="class", "godling"]tags: Kenren
words: 658
notes: xx
credits: ria p @ dawnthieves

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