[Flashback] Obsession (Ulric)

[Mao]

Winter 80th 508 AV Fallen twigs cracked beneath her paws, sending critters scattering to their dens. The air was damp with the remnants of snow now washed from their perch on foliage by the showering rain hours before. When the great cat lifted her wet nose, there was only the scent of soaked leaves and earth, and a distant taste of smoke. She had wandered for the better part of the season throughout the winding woods and rolling hills of Syliras. In all sense of the word she was lost. A child who not only lost her family but her innocence as well; warped into a maddened beast. A low growl rumbled through her throat, echoing in her stomach as well. There was no game to be found in the dense, cold atmosphere of the Syliran wildlands. They smelled her scent long before she'd arrived, and no human meal had stumbled its way into her mouth as of yet. So she prowled through the brush dripping with liquified snow. Dew clung to her coarse black fur, pale, luminous eyes searching and searching and finding nothing as the hours rolled on. The kelvic smelled the smoke before she'd laid eyes on it. A distant flicker of red amongst a copse of trees. Campfire... Her girl's mind whispered fervently, Food. She stalked slowly, her inky pelt camouflaged against the realm of darkness granted by the trees. The panther crept close enough to glimpse into the camp behind a thicket. She could smell the tantalizing aroma of flesh, of the hot blood that lay beneath. Her stomach gave another low rumble, mouth watering. Patience.... The whisper echoed in her mind, witholding her desires. The mouse will fall into the fangs soon enough.

[Ulric]

Ulric jerked a stick through the fire, sending up a bright swirl of cinders, vanishing to reveal a scatter of embers on the stony earth, bleakly fading. The man hated nights like these, when an inky murk reigned over the trunks crusted by frost, the winging of bats a harbinger of forlorn dreams. By all rights, they shouldn’t even have been out here. Their place was in the caves, away from the skirling gusts that lashed cruel against his face, making him hunch deeper into his furs, crowd the meager tongues of flame with a turgid, jealous intensity. The trunks were bare, birches and aspen, mostly, silver fading to darker shreds of gray. Then, set apart from the others, jutting from boulders carpeted by a splay of jade and purple lichen, there was the menacing bulk of the sentinel pine, the vast trunk scoured to char, sullen, protruding branches just like a child’s stick-thin arms. The work of an errant streak of lightning, no doubt, though why the pine had earned such disfavor was beyond him. There was only the fire, and the cold.

And thus, we banish the memory of beating hearts, he scowled, The tender brush of hand against cheek. The icy fist of winter beckons, though the pipers play, and the drums thunder on, raging through the night, to the very gates of the abyss. They call us, even now. They are ever desirous of our presence, the watchers clad in leather and banded mail, for the last gasp, the shudder of taut breasts against our chests, the acrid, choking clouds that can’t conceal the reek of putrefying flesh.

We didn’t even raise a pyre.

Men died. They were just carrion, really. The crows would feast, cruel beaks tearing away pink hunks from the carcass, and the worms would end the task, leaving only gray, mocking bones stretched in the semblance of man. And then, of course, they’d be carried away by abrupt rains, or buried deep in the ground, covered over by dead leaves, passing out of memory. The bones of the earth.

Ulric poked at the fire, weary eyes seeing a moth in the flames, dancing until the wings burned away. Pop. Fiery ruin didn’t sound so abysmal. Rogir was hunched away from him, leaning on the shaft of a spear, while Jarun droned under his tawdry blankets, a great, sculpted nose bristled by flaxen whiskers. Didn’t even bother to care for his sword, he gave a dismal grunt. He’d seen it before, a speckle of rust spots, and a notch near the plain hilt. Didn’t matter if he couldn’t afford any better. Such lads were cheap, their eyes bright with yearning, their words bold, fanciful, though halting if not bolstered by the sour stink of wine. They perished quickly, just as wheat before a scythe, as though they’d been just a dream. The bards would never sing of them, the revenants that clung to the false prophet, war.

Sooner or later, everybody goes back to the mud. Bones of the earth, lads. Bones of the earth.

Ulric cast a sidelong glance at Petifyr, gloved hand toying with the haft of his axe, his features heavy in the orange glow. Petifyr, the maker of trinkets. Petifyr, the grossly fat. Petifyr, the abysmal, puking drunk. Petifyr, the haughty liar, a mound of suet and jowl, who’d earned his undying scorn.

But he’d coin, though. Kept with the brothers at Nyka. Kept, but not spent, because some men favored the cruel, hard clink of power over a wet, eager cunt.

That was why he wasn’t dead.

[Mao]

There was one too many meat for one cat to handle. Instinct dictated fleeing from such a predicament, but Mao was stubborn. Stubborn and hungry. Deceive them, what else is your weak form for? The great cat growled softly, tail swishing back and forth, debating the possibilities. Behind the thicket a flash of light filtered through, immediately vanishing into the encroaching darkness. She didn't realize how cold the world was, frosted and wet, her skin trembled, her feet quickly numbing themselves. Without her fur, she was truly exposed to the elements, but without food, a cat would starve. Mao stepped through the brush slowly, carefully, eyeing the meatiest morsel of the bunch with a lick of her lips. Her stomach rumbled once again. Let them drop their weapons. Let them think themselves safe. Then strike at the heart. Pale green eyes flashed menacingly. A violent shiver traveled down her spine. She spoke to everyone and no one, "I'm c-cold..." Her body was ravaged by a life in the wilds. Cuts and bruises riddled her emaciated body, "I n-need help. I'm s-so hungry, p-please..." She only hoped they had the decency not to strike before asking questions.

[Ulric]

The raving of crows gave her away. The flash of light, the crack of twigs was just an afterthought. Ulric was already rising, taking up his circular, painted bulwark, tearing the cloak from around his neck, knuckles pale where they grasped the haft of his axe. “Get up,” he snarled. Jarun just gave a grunt, though Rogir, already roused, cast around with frenzied eyes, clearly fearing.

“What is it?” Petifyr set pudgy hands on the ground, the sausages of his fingers swathed by ermine, richly tooled gloves, and he rose ponderously, the four chins nearly wobbling from his piggy face. “Was that a star?”

Fat petch, Ulric growled, roughly shoving the jeweler from his way, and drove a nasty boot into Jarun’s ribs. “Get up, you shyke,” he spat, punctuating his tirade with a string of curses, and then another kick, one that brought the vague curl of a grin to his features, when he decided the fool was taking too long to shift his lazy arse.

By then, the girl was upon them, her course wavering from a thicket. Naked? That isn’t right, he decided. She’d be dead by now. The coals of his eyes scryed over her body, ever wary, taking in the cage of her ribs, the hunger on her angular face, broken by a shiver of cold, her pale skin prickled by the frost. Though he kept casting around the gray ring of trunks, sidelong glances that sought a trap, he was captivated by those jade eyes, their depths sending a shudder down his spine.

I don’t trust her.

Jarun was up by now, the sword scraping from his hip, bleary eyes trying to grasp what was going on. “She’s a girl,” he grunted, lowering his blade with a surly regret. Even so, the cogs of his slothful brain were slowly creaking, forging from confusion to lust. Rogir wasn’t saying anything, just held that spear in front of him as if it was Rhysol’s cock, ever a follower.

“Yes, what astute scrutiny,” Ulric snarled, his eyes smoldering dangerously. “You should be a shyking ink slinger. Don’t go near her just yet,” he warned, but Petifyr, ever the cretin, was jerking forward, or rather, lurching as a walrus might to frigid waters.

“Poor girl,” he chirped in that high, piercing voice that chafed and scoured the ears like the scrape of a chisel against crude, ruddy iron. “Poor, poor girl.” And then, with all the courtesy of a vastly confused elephant, he clutched at one of his fur cloaks, seeking to furl it around her shoulders.

[Mao]

Up close the scent of the men was pungent. Of sweat and metal and earth. She cocked her head as they spoke, scrutinizing them one by one, determining which ones would sustain her the longest. Another tremble rocked her limbs, the cold like piercing pinpricks. That unsettling gaze focused on the one man who had called the others to step away, as if she was a yukman instead of a girl. Mao could have laughed at the notion. "Are you afraid of me?" She asked suddenly, "Do you think me a monster?" But you are a monster. A sweet little thing. Mao did not smile, nor laugh nor frown. She watched as the portly gentleman approached her with a daft look to wrap the fur around her. She glanced towards Ulric, a shadow of a smile on her lips, but she did nothing. The kelvic allowed the fat stranger to warm her from the chill. It was not her own fur, but it was as close as it could get to something familiar. "I ran away," She said then, chancing a glimpse into the dark woods as if expecting to see the ghosts of men that never were, "I was scared. I don't know what to do. Will you help me?" She looked at Petifyr, a helpless expression, small hands grasping at his large chest.

[Ulric]

“Your eyes betray you,” Ulric growled, taking a step forward to menace her with the spike of his axe, forcing up her chin. “You speak falsely.” The spike wavered, drawing a bead of red. Though began to grin, and the cold intensity of his inexorably dark stare brought forth a shiver from the walrus, the shaking blob wasn’t nearly cowed as he’d been before.

“Leave her,” cried Petifyr, flushing a bit as the girl clung to his folds, which instead of a ruddy dawn, left his jowls the color of raw, bloody beets. “Can’t you see she’s hurt?” Taking her hand, the walrus led her to the fire, seating her on his bed of warm, soft pelts, and cast around for a scrap of food.

The stew pot was empty, though. The walrus should’ve known better, considering it was those pudgy fingers that had scraped the sooty sides clean, the grease and tasty juices vanishing into his pink cavern of a mouth.

“She’s not hurt, or even lost, you shyke,” Ulric snarled, though seeing that they weren’t about to be taken by a hiss of barbed arrows, he lowered the axe, vaguely consenting to her presence. “She’s here for another reason.” Rogir began to pipe up, but as quickly as the words rose in his throat, he forced them back, such that he just burst out with a choking noise.

“She ran away from somebody,” Petifyr squeaked, though inwardly he was quailing under Ulric’s frown, the folds of suet barely concealing his dread. They both knew who was in charge. “There might be slavers.” The word just brought forth a snort, a pale swirl of vapor.

“So?”

“Slavers?” Jarun, who’d been intently scrying the trunks, and furtively the heat between the girl’s legs, glanced at Ulric.

“Put your sword away,” he growled. “Don’t be a fool.”

“But he said-”

“Put it away!” The jab of cruel fingers was the last thing on the lad’s mind, such that he lashed out wildly, not thinking as he shoved at the layers of scaled leather on the elder man’s chest. Ulric barely forced a grin, saw the fear in those beady eyes just before the fist crunched into his nose, which sprayed a fog of warm, sticky crimson over the dirty, melting drifts. But that wasn’t enough, not nearly. Ulric took hold of his collar, jerked the lad forward so he could drive his forehead into that ugly, bluntly cretinous face, wreaking further ruin on the nose.

Jarun sprawled, shaking his head, hands waving as though his bones were formed of jelly. Rogir was just standing there, spear clutched tighter, as though he was some dumb and deaf mute. Petifyr was the only person that dared to speak.

“What are you doing?”

Ulric just laughed.

[Mao]

Pale eyes feigned fear, flinching away from his gaze and his axe. How does he know? The humans fear and loathe. All they know is destruction and lies. Well versed, that is how he knows. The whispers echoed in her thoughts, dark tendrils that stoked the flames in her inner cat. She would have growled had the fat one not been standing in such close proximity, instead the kelvic allowed him to lead her towards his makeshift pallet. All the while the girl's keen eyes trailed after the one that appeared to be their leader, their alpha, as her wolf family would have labeled him. But they were not a pack; only prey. She pulled the fur around her closer. Mao had never watched humans interact in such a way, and it was fascinating during the quiet respite she recieved while observing. She inhaled deeply, relishing in the tantalizing scent of fresh blood. "He is showing dominance. Like rabid beasts in the wild." Mao answered quietly. They would hurt their own, all the easier. She glanced up at Petifyr, smiling sweetly, taking hold of his pudgy hand. "I must go into the bush, but I'm frightened to be alone, will you come with me?" She stood, beckoning him with a pull of her hand. Hunger pains clawed at her stomach, but the smile was still there, fresh and painted. oocPet reminds me of a Mizaharian Samwell Tarly. Now I feel bad lmao.

[Ulric]

Petifyr, ever the craven, gulped, a half shiver, half jiggle shaking his folds. Ulric couldn’t glean why, though he suspected it wasn’t evoked as much by the girl’s mention of rabid beasts, but by the way she clasped the milky hand in her tiny fingers. “Yes, yes,” shook the walrus, making as if to rise. “Your poor, lost girl.”

“Stay down, you fat petch,” Ulric rasped, laying a harsh hand on the walrus’ cushy shoulder. “Don’t you ever think? She walks into camp, half frozen, and now she wants to leave the fire?” He glared at her, the jade of her eyes making him angry, for he knew their depths lurked beyond his grasp. “And you, what do you desire of him?” He jerked his chin at the walrus. “Going to spread your legs, eh? That what you do? Or perhaps you get off on having men leer at you squat.” Laughing again, he spat inside the ring of stones. The phlegm crackled on the fiery char.

“Lass, if you need a piss, do it right here.”

[Mao]

Mao offered him a smile, an undecipherable thing with a glint in her eyes almost akin to the tapetum lucidum found in her cat body. Her rage boiled in her blood and trembled in her bones. She wanted to feast, and this lone man was the only thing stopping her. Then she began to cry, soft tears carving a path through the dirt on her cheeks, as if his words lashed at her like angry whips. Feed. It urged. Take what is rightfully yours. You are the alpha. The kelvic wrapped her arms around Petifyr's shoulders, clinging to him with weak arms. She made as if to nestle against the folds of his neck, but her lips parted too quickly and too savagely for him to react. Sharp fangs sunk into the flesh of his throat and tore a great chunk away, sending blood spurting onto her chest and warm pelts. Then she danced away, agile and quick, like the feline she was. Blood dripped from her mouth and chin, running in rivulets down her chest and stomach, a feral grin on her red, red lips. "His meat, that is all I desire," She said, "I only wanted him to myself, why didn't you let me?" She sounded like an innocent child then, a small frown accompanying her pained expression. "He is dying, give him to me."

[Ulric]

Ulric, though expectant of treachery, wasn’t aware of the form in which it would manifest. Everything was so fast, the warm tears tracing down her neck, along the side of her nose, and then there was a spray of blood, the red, misty ruin of the walrus’ neck. She just tore out his petching throat, he gaped for an instant, and then he was lunging forward, axe scything past her face as she scurried away. Cunt.

“Holy shyke,” cried Rogir, the knot in his tongue unfurling, though his boots were rooted in place. Ulric spared a glance at him, saw that he was visibly shaken, jaw hanging slack. Jarun was barely in shape to stand, let alone understand what was going on around him. Not that he required them, though.

“Give him to you?” Ulric began to circle to the right, a crazed laugh tearing from the depths of his chest. His eyes were ruthlessly inexorably, uncowed by the display of her savagery. “Why?” The stark reality was already sinking into his mind. No walrus. No wages. No mercy. His pulse began to thunder, the foul, coruscating poison of rage seared though his veins, a tangle of hot, crazed skeins that curled around his spine, made his eyes burn with a cruel intensity.

And yet, when he glanced at the walrus, he was shocked to find that the man wasn’t dead. The fleshy fingers were curled around his throat, smeared with dark crimson, a horrid gurgle leaking from the ragged gash. The folds were convulsing, the eyes frenzied and bulging, flakes of gray twirling madly, a bloody froth at the corner of his lips. Hurt by her betrayal, no doubt. Thump. The heel of a fur-swathed boot clumped against the ground, striking a desperate cadence.

“You want the meat,” Ulric growled, the axe lowered, concealed just behind his leg. “You know, I don’t give a shyke about his meat. But the fact remains, you just got on my nerves.” The warrior began to walk toward her. He brought up his shield, eyes dancing fiendishly, glinting orange in the flames. “I can’t forgive that, now can I?” He leapt forward, keeping the shield in between them, his axe hacking low, meaning to catch the curved edge around the back of her legs. And when I've mangled you, he snarled, I’m going to petch you bloody.