[Flashback] Obsession (Ulric)

[Mao]

He moved like a caged dog, a reared viper with fangs bared for the strike, but Mao stood with her own display of animosity. Bloodied fangs bared in a low growl. He was the only obstacle between her and her prize and his aggression infuriated her. The rage boiled, bolstered by the scent of blood and flesh, nursed by the tendrils of hate that constricted her mind. Her eyes flickered from the axe to the shield, to his stance where he stood. Her brow furrowed, "You mean to hurt me? You would slay me?" She hissed, "I'm no simple beast, human. I don't beg your forgiviness, I don't want it. You should all petching rot for what you do. For what you are!" The fur slipped from her shoulders, the cold of the relentless night dulled by the hot blood that caked her. The axe came swiftly, but Mao had a sliver of a second to jump back as it came slicing down, tearing the skin on her calf. The cry tore from her throat, hands grasping the pulsing blood that dripped from her leg. He wounded me.... He wounded me! Her pupils reverted to slits in her frenzy, the sheer, overwhelming enmity no longer containable. "You will DIE!" She shrieked, and in a burst of brilliant lights sprang forth the body of a panther, her pelt as black as the wooded abyss, her eyes like two flaming emeralds. And from her jaws was expelled a vicious roar. The great cat circled the warrior, growling menacingly, searching and searching for an opening, a weak spot, something that would hinder him in the ensuing battle. She raked at his shield and shimmied from his axe, but each swipe of her claws was aimed at his own legs, until the cat fell into a burst of speed to circle around Ulric and pounce upon his back, jaws aiming for his skull.

[Ulric]

“Shapeshifter,” he spat, the word laden with disdain, as the treachery lurking in her jade eyes was revealed, the curse echoing in his ears. You will die. There was fear, though. Every man felt dread, whether he desired it or not, but the cruel, tautly choking fingers that closed around his throat were melting away, driven back by the scorching rage that coursed through his body. Even so, he kept wary, deflecting a swipe of those large, viciously clawed paws with his shield, and poking at her eyes with the axe’s spike. “Won’t,” he growled back, a roar bursting from his own chest, dying in a rush of heady laughter.

Shyke, but isn’t this fun?

The panther was fast, enraged. That he knew, but fighting such a beast was far removed from his expertise. There were tearing claws to evade, the snap of jaws. There was a burning fury, a tangle of darting limbs. And yet, he whirled deftly over the icy drifts, the disc of his banded fir interposing, turning this way and that, ever trying to turn the lunges in his own favor. Can’t let it get through, he grunted, drawing back to evade the swiping claws. He hacked, a vicious, scything cleave, and then spun, lashing the backswing just over the beast’s snarling face. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Take me down, try to ravage my throat? He crouched, poking for the eyes again, but the beast was already leaping around his back. The claws sank through the scales of leather, scoring his flesh, sending a wave of agony through his body. Abruptly, he felt the hot, reeking breath on his neck, the hot seep down his spine.

Desperately, he spun away, swinging his shield to knock away that madly snarling face. His thigh struck the ground, and then he was rolling back to his feet. “Skewer the shyking thing,” he growled at Rogir. “Do I have to fight by myself?”

Rogir ventured a weak, half-hearted thrust of his spear, the cruel bonds of fear wanly reflected in his eyes. However, the shock came not from Rogir, but Jarun. Keening madly, a frothy crimson leaking from his broken nose, he charged absent judgment, swinging his sword widely, viciously. Fool.

“Oh, petch,” Ulric lunged forward, hewing at the beast’s face, trying to drive it away from Jarun.

[Mao]

The shield struck her in the face, a blunt force that rocked her back, claws outstretched to catch her fall. She snarled and hissed, tail lashing wildly, warm blood trickling from the scrape on her temple. Petching bastard, I will tear you apart. The great cat was so focused on the warrior she had deemed the prime target that the spear had come as an alarming poke. She gave the man an infuriated roar, while the other aggressive human with the mutilated face accosted her with his own weapon. Do what your nature tells you. She growled at them all, backing from one to the other, barely missing axe and sword and spear by mere inches. Almost desperately, she turned and bounded toward a tall looming oak nearby, its trunk nearly indecipherable in the dark. The panther clawed up its barked length with as much efficiency as one of her kind could, and allowed the shadows to conceal her beneath the foliage. The heavy branches groaned under her weight, but she would not remain there long. With target locked, the great black feline leaped from her perch and collapsed onto the maddened Jarun, powerful fangs crunched into his face, shattering his skull. There was an explosion of red, a shower of crimson that splattered the frosted ground. The sword, however, had sliced into her shoulder, sending a burst of pain down the length of her front leg, blood seeping from the jagged wound. Redirecting her attention, the panther snarled at Rogir, tasting his fear. Run, you pathetic creature. RUN.

[Ulric]

They nearly had her. They would’ve if that fool hadn’t lunged with his spear. The shaft jostled his elbow as it swept back, a curse on the end. You petch, Ulric growled, sliding on the icy drifts. “Stay back,” he roared, whirling to face the darting panther. He’d thought she was fleeing their cruel iron, frenzied by the agony of her rent flesh, but as she tore madly at the rough bark, raking away great, flayed shreds as she snarled higher into the branches, he began to frown, eyes widening.

Son of a whore, he spat, but by then, there was barely any time to react. She’d never give up so easily. Then the panther was plunging.

Ulric edged the gaping Rogir out of danger, his shield clanging on the rusty studs of a leather hauberk, then flung himself away. There wasn’t an instant to spare, for there was a crunch of bones, a spurt of red. The spray coated the drifts, luridly, and just like that, they were a pair.

Shyke. Not laughing any longer, he glanced tersely at the ruined, lashing face, the panther’s wetly gleaming snout, ravening fangs. The jade eyes flashed not toward him, but to Rogir. That’s right, he frowned, they go for the weak.

“Rogir,” Ulric rasped, casting a sidelong glance at the lad, “You’re going to move back, slowly. Keep her away with your spear, but don’t petching lunge in, eh? If you can, get your back to those flames.”

“Ungh,” Rogir grunted.

Ulric’s tongue scraped over cracked lips. “You’d be a fine rug, shapeshifter.”

[Mao]

The human did not run like she wished. Did not flee for his life so that she could sink her claws into his back and ravage his corpse. The leader, the warrior did this. Turned him away from his fear to face her. She, the bloodied feline with the gashes deep and throbbing, against two that were in better shape than her. She crouched low, tail swishing back and forth, the agony of her wounds dripping in a pool around her paws. But his words enraged her and with a hiss she whipped her head around to address him with a vicious roar. It is YOU I will skin, human. How DARE you. Her madness spurred her on, rearing up on her hind legs to swipe at his mocking face, the blood from her wound splattering across the frosted ground. Soon we must flee. Soon, for our strength dwindles. He must die. HE MUST DIE!

[Ulric]

Ulric gave a cough.

Jadedly, he hacked out a gob of phlegm. The fire is dying, he thought absently. He began to trudge back, careful not to stagger over a heap of frost, a tangle of briars. The gusts were at his back, making the fur cling at his legs.

Go on, snarl.

The panther lunged.

Rogir, the utter cretin that he was, wouldn’t take heed of his advice, or perhaps fancied being a heroic fool. Ulric kept back, readying for a last, brutal swing. And now you perish, he growled, and began to whirl. However, the spear was jerking past his shoulder, vainly trying to skewer the beast’s flank. Nearly taking out his eye. He couldn’t help but falter, and then the beast was upon him, raking at his upper arm, scraping over the bronze bands.

Ulric bit back a curse, a purple stab of agony.

Shyke, he snarled, deftly spun past the snap of her jaws, trying to bash with his bulwark. Then he leapt back, hurling the lad away, to the powder. The spear went awry. “Stay down, whelp,” he spat, sticky fingers grasping at the red, streaking cuts, his eyes dark, angry wedges.

“Hungry?” Fuming, he jabbed at her snout, then at the weepy, gurgling, dying heap of blubber. “You want to eat, you change back to an ugly girl, and we do it by the fire, together. I've not tasted walrus for years.”

“If not,” he grunted, “I’m going to eat your heart.”

OOCAwful, but whatever.