xx.taste_of_defeat``Ripshank, ,

[' ' K.O.T.O.R.I.]

It's a new territory and for that, Kotori could be forgiven for giving into curiosity. Then again, he had ever been the morbid kind and the stench of recent wolf blood had drawn him where perhaps he would never have gone before. A thrill of desire pulsated through him as his pads touched almost tenderly against the ground, moving with a startling ease for one so oddly stocky. He didn't look the type to be able to maneuver, especially with his torn eye, and the strange way in which he walked with his head tilted -- as if by putting forth his working eye he could see more, see clearly. Perhaps it worked -- or perhaps Kotori had gotten so used to it, walking, jumping, and living was simply made easier by this adjustment.

As it was, he was bored -- and unfamiliar with the territory and it's residence, he hadn't known how utterly unexciting this whole charade would be. None of the other pack ever made an appearance and the more he tracked them, the more he went in circles. What good was a pack without it's precious toys to play around with? Ugh. A snort of displeasure and he hopped onto one of the broken, man-made bridge, walking one paw in front of the other as if it didn't bother him that beneath him was chasm of death. He didn't even look, just walked, trusting in his own capabilities, or giving into his own ego and just doing it.

Before it even became an issue, he was over to the other side, toward the camp, the death of mankind and the near death of a precious wolf had almost targeted at the last meeting he had walked in on. Lunar councils -- the very idea of it had made him chortle, and he had gone with the purpose of causing trouble, but the bitch in charge had been too dimwitted to catch his insults. For an egotist who desired to be acknowledged, that sort of irreverence was not acceptable. Annoyed and irritated, he had left -- but now, she was gone, and it was because of this Ripshank, captain know-it-all. He smiled, a strange sort of affection that moved the edges of his lips and bared some fang. There was no ill-will toward the other, though if you knew Kotori that in itself would have been strange. Then again, he had always had the knack of finding a bit too much affection for those he considered his toys. It was a decidedly bad habit and one that would bite him on the ass if he weren't careful.

Kotori was rarely careful of that sort of thing, far too arrogant to think that anything could ever truly surprise him. Incubus had done it, but Kotori was carefully ignoring that voice in his head. He didn't want to think of the cubs that bitch was birthing into the world, those tender trusting eyes, those weak, hoarse voices, those awkward ... gangly... limbs ...

Shivering, and not from disgust, Kotori followed the scent of the recently shed blood, having heard the fight itself had been decidedly pitiful to behold. Glad that he had missed that at least, he nosed around, rolling the scent of her demise in his nostrils with a certain satisfaction. Paws sliding forward, claws relaxed and unsheathed themselves, as body stretched then tumbled to the side in lazy sprawl. Cheek pillowed on one of the larger spots of her blood he let himself soak in her defeat, thrilling in this activity, nostrils flared wide, mouth agape to hold the scent of her on his tongue, in his scenting glads. Bad eye against the ground, he saw clearly, tail ticking, breathing slowly as if he weren't breathing at all.

[/color]

word count;; 630
tags;; Ripshank
OOC;; heh, he's a freeeak!

[Trench]

♠ Curiosity, so dreadful a curse, so vile a poison, a taint upon the mind, growing and winding and entangling throughout one’s thoughts, choking life from other notions, strangling caution until it, too, lays dead within one’s mind, a broken, forgotten corpse left to rot and be consumed by scavengers, no longer capable of sharing wisdom, of bidding safety, of denying action, yes, curiosity, a toxic, murderous thing, feeding on blood, soaking its roots in the torpid, stagnant liquid, feasting upon the life of others, growing from their sluggish deaths, the fleeing of their souls, the rotting of their corpses. Yes, curiosity, so violent, rotten a thing, yet so inescapable, such a plague upon all who live, all who would breath, would dare to draw breath from the air which was not theirs, never theirs, and which served only to feed the flames of their own demise, the growth of curiosity, or of any other killer, for was not living only a race to the ultimate end? Yes, a plague, it is, this curiosity, which tinges the mind and taints the thoughts and bends his will to its own, forcing muscles to action, skeleton to defiant movement, yet movement all the same. An infection, clawing itself a home within his mind and widening its den until all he sees is its own desires, its whims which now grow into his own, a slow killer, a tortuous killer, deceitful, snake-like, drawing before his gaze illusions, tricking him into believing he does as he pleases, when all he does is serve some dark master from whom he cannot escape. Yes, curiosity, it is, indeed, a vile thing, a hated thing, yet he can no better escape it than can any other feline, cursed as they all are to its whims, to obey, to simply bow head and assent—yessuh, yessuh, yessuh—to move to its actions, to follow its orders. Oh yes, curiosity killed the cat, and every cat after it, slowly and painfully, tortuously dragging them down, until, one way or another, its whims, their whims, leaves them broken and lifeless, lets them fall and moves on to the next victim. A curse, a plague, vile, vile thing! Yet what use is this, in puzzling over such things? Curiosity would drag his paws ever onward towards the camps, to his battleground, her chosen arena, the blood-and-sand upon which she wrote the story of her own demise, her own downfall, cowardice pulling her down, down, down. Why return to the scene of her failure? Why taint his own rule with hers? Curiosity, that dreadful thing; he would see, had she remained? Had she fallen upon her own blood and given herself fully to defeat, let herself die there, broken by his triumph? Or had she fled, coward as she was, limped on, accompanied only by her defeat, her memory of failure, disgrace, disgrace, disgrace? He would know, oh yes, for curiosity would have him know, and who is he, mighty as he is, yet still a cat as any other, to deny curiosity?

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ For once she does not taint his gaze, for once his eyes rest upon colors beside red, for once the film of stagnant fluid does not glaze his eyes, taint his mind, dement his visions, drawn on not by her, but by a force altogether different, altogether stronger, and he gives himself gladly to this new master, following paw prints left before by his own arrogant passing, paw prints torn by claws which had slid so easily from his paws, so anxious for the battle, so eager to slice and maim. Yet now they remain dormant, resting in fitful hibernation with paws jostled by his weight time and again; no battle waits at the end of this road, for the enemy has fallen, she has fallen and lain broken before him, and nothing remained now for claw to churn through, no blood flowed to be brought free by grasping claws, tearing black daggers as they are, and manner is, for once, relaxed, pelt and muscle and skeleton rolling languidly, merely moving, with no purpose, yet seemingly not to lack a goal, either, merely there, moving, acting, as he is bid, as he bids himself. Yet relaxation, so peaceful a state, is rare, as peace itself, that lying, deceitful illusion, does not exist within his mind, and scents purge one curiosity, only to give birth anew to another, all the stronger, drawing him onwards without pause, though manner shifts all the same, steps different yet all too much the same, following same path, though claws awaken and slide easily from cover, matching prints in desire for bloodshed. Lips shift, sliding easily back across the slickness of fang, no snarl, no growl, merely an expression, unthreatening, yet all the more frightening for it, merely his natural stance, fang and claw exposed, the warrior he is, carrying sword in hand whether it is to be used or not. Mouth gapes, tongue sliding across fang, pressure drawing pain from the sharp surfaces, yet no blood; blood would corrupt, and scents are too precious now, drawn within his mouth, studied, poked and prodded, until recognition sparks, draws a twitch of lips which might have become a smirk, but which dies all to soon to become anything at all. Ah, so it is he. Muscles roll on, and sight soon confirms what scent declared, drawing a picture before his eyes, an unmistakable image, undeniable evidence to scent’s conviction—guilty, guilty, guilty, and the jury has decided—for there he rests, upon the blood and sand, the broken camps and her broken memory, merely waiting—for what, for what? For him? For her? He does not care, but here he has come; best not to disappoint! And tongue pulls away from the pangs of pressure upon his fangs, shifting into labor at last. ”Well, well, if it isn’t number three, cocky-and-smug number three, god-damned number three. Come to admire my handiwork, have you? Or were you hoping to see it first hand? I’m sure that can be arranged; after all, that damned smugness still has a place on my doorstep.”

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 1023
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ captain know-it-all reporting, rofl}
[/size]

[' ' K.O.T.O.R.I.]

There was no silence to herald his presence -- he knew, he knew, how could he not when the anger, the intensity seemed to ride the very air, to bring tension where no tension was before. A knot in his spine told him, no, no it was a pang in his eye - or perhaps his nose had scented him before Kotori could even think but hey, who really gave a shit which told him first. The only thing that mattered, the only really important thing is that he knew -- oh how he knew who it was going to be. Who else in this wretched place would come and seek when the others kept on running, running, and rolling, and rolling away from his swatting paws. He had followed them, had gone in circles until even that jolly game had turned sour in his mouth, like stagnant blood pooling on the tongue. So he had given up, but this game was a slow game, one that needed to be drawn out, savored and so he had come to this place, to know her smell, to know her death. Perhaps he was a bit crazy, just a tad bit touched in the head -- not by god, for anyone who knew this brute knew he was far from simple, but still touched, still caressed where he had been broken, and regrew crooked. Dark heart, dark mind. Words weren't always enough and he knew it, knew it very well but he was a stubborn son of a bitch, and everyone knew it.

Arrogance was a lazy tool at his command, an indolence that consoled the broken memories and made him perfect, made him strong, made him ... Kotori. Like his tail when it ticked in time with his heart -- a constant tick, tock, tick, tock as his heart continued to throb in his chest. His mind kept spinning, kept swimming through the currents of thoughts, of sadistic pleasures untouched, of the plans he would have to set in place. A creature of thought? Mayhap, mayhap.

Still he knew, and his body grew lax, grew soft around the corners where the tension had alerted him. This fragile fabric in which they tread, this thing which laid between them was something that made him run, made him exactly who Kotori was at the basic level. Tension, treading the line of death, oh, oh, this was what he craved, what he had lost the moment the devil himself had taken his toy and made her pregnant. She had grown soft, too soft for him and he had left her, left her for the sake of the cubs. No need too see how utterly she had failed him. No, no need at all, but this distraction, was perfect, was beauteous and he smiled, a sickening look of pleasure that warmed the brilliant banked fires of his burning orange eye. Always burning, always burning, he had come back, come back from the brink of disappointment and fixed himself, made of his body an artwork invisible to the eye. You cannot see the stitches here, or there where he had painstakingly put himself together, but it was there for him to feel, to know and it was in those very old bones that he knew the brute meant trouble.

Trouble was good, trouble was entertaining. Without it, there was nothing left in the world to savor. Why bring peace? Oh, he agreed with this captain, this general of battle; maggots he called them and had called them well but Kotori was not some maggot (though didn't he suck on the demise of others like a maggot?) but then the brute would find that out in time, in time. He would learn by the slow turns of the moon. He scared the others but he didn't scare Kotori. That was a problem with Kotori -- he was never afraid and sometimes, just sometimes he should be. This brute outweighed him, could probably outpace him and had the desire to do so but Kotori could only lounge in this non-fear, this peace that he hated and smile so affectionately as if his pet had done something clever, something ingenious. Oh yes, oh yes, string this out, feel the words lash against his skin, break flesh, sink deep into the soul. A writhing darkness there, a destructive darkness there. He purred, a thick, rolling sound as his tail ticked, ticked, ticked like his heart beat, beat, beat and it was good, because he was caught up in the tension, the fiery, spiky charisma of this brute, of this creature who taunted him, wanted to push him.

His motives? Kotori doubted he had any. Hell, Kotori's main attraction to this giant was his ability to latch onto a singular goal and follow it without giving a second thought to the others that break up against the shore of his glory. There were problems rippling out from the moment he had taken the throne, had banished what Kotori had found to be nonsensical idiocy and leashed in the others. Never a pack man, he hadn't found anything restrictive in the actions -- not like he actively sought out the others anyway, and well, if he had the urge to go to the Lashia territory, well he doubted even the threat from this Ripshank was going to stop him. Oh-ho-ho, mister big-shot didn't give a shit and it was going to be made so obvious -- or perhaps it had already been made obvious.

Maybe that was the interest the other had in him -- his lack of desire, his lack of motivation. Kotori face tilted, rolling around the scent of her death on his tongue, on the glands on the roof of his mouth; saturated himself in it until he felt he was a facet of her own, a ghostly attachment to her death, her defeat. He laughed then, a soft chuckle as he murmured ever so sweetly. "What of your own? Will you hang your cockiness on your own doorsteps." he tisked. "Seems a waste to me." His tail ticked, his heart beat, his lungs expanded as breath coursed through him.

No tension, how can this be? He was on a high, circulating through the layers of illusion, on the mere gusto of this brute's, this Napoleon, this impossibly thick-headed, forward thinking male's personality. It seemed a thing of it's own, coiling out from his very heart and clasping Kotori in a blissful grip. He felt it caress his fur, this heat he imagined stemming from a broken hatred, a seething magma of loathing. "Besides," and he pushed himself upward, "What's so wrong with Three? I could be One, if you'd prefer, but never Two. Never Two." he sat, haunches curled beneath him as he smiled at the blatant threat that radiated from Ripshank.

[/color]

word count;; 1144
tags;; Ripshank
OOC;; bahaha.

[Trench]

♠ There he lays, rolling, resting, pressing himself into the ground, smothering the earth, wallowing about in her scent, her blood, her defeat, as though he would take these things upon himself, rub them onto his pelt and wear them about as a shawl, a cloak, for what, for what? To hide himself? To disgrace her? But these thoughts died soon, slain by the red, that undying creep, back so soon, always back so easily, so soon, so soon; had it truly ever left? He knew it had not; it could recede, yes, creep back within his sockets, pull back, part across his gaze and let light by, let him see, clearly, for once, but never was it gone, always was it there, merely waiting, pooled together across the corners of his vision. If he were only to look, would he see it then? To cast his gaze aside, to search his peripherals, would he find it there? But what difference did that make, when already it soaked his gaze, saturated it, crept across it and closed in from all corners, reaching and pulling itself in great bounds, until all he saw, again and as ever, was the taint, that red, crimson fluid seeping into his sight and resting there, a fog, ever present, a condensation beading across his sight until all he saw was the inundation of it. What had brought it about, so quickly, so easily? Him? No, not him, not this pitifully smug brute, never a brute at all, but her. Not her, no, not his her, but another her altogether, the blood of whom soaked into the ground and died there, a ghost of a memory witness only by he and the spirits, likely already purged from her own mind. But still here, still her, that blood which he rubbed so eagerly upon his pelt, as though a heathen, coating himself in her blood, as though the spirits might lend him her fallen strength to build upon his own, one more soul to his count, but not his, no, not his at all. Yet there it was, the red, that damned color, ever present, and so the creep set upon him, overtook his gaze, and there she was, waiting, waiting just beyond, as she ever was, smiling, merely watching him. Brother, brother! Ever eager, ever so happy to see him, but beneath it, the ugliness beneath it all! He could see it, see it through the taint of the red of his tainted vision, his tainted mind, the scars which ran beneath that ghostly pelt, that memory, could see her, broken battered and dying, no, not even dying, already dead, the life torn from her shredded frame; yes, yes! He saw it all, and wanted in ever part of him to shrink from that smile, from her, but as always, he could not; never could he leave her, never could he flee from her. As it had always been, he was hers, hers to command, hers to kick and spit on and abandon, though he’d always find her, always come back, always meet again with that smile! Brother! So happy, always so happy; never had she known, never, never, never; had she realized it as her soul ripped itself from her body, was dragged from her? Or had, even then, she wanted the world? Had he come to her then, would she have chosen that brute above him, as she had always done? No!

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ Tongue presses violently upwards, as though it would carve itself by his own fangs, drawing droplets of blood at last from the pink surface, tainting his senses, tainting himself, but gone are those thoughts, banished by the waves of relief which only pain might bring. Still the ghost of doubts and hatred pulls at him, and his paw aches to rake itself across him, to draw the last of the thoughts from him, but not here, no, not here, and he fights it, his thoughts concentrating upon the only pain he can subtly cause himself, the pain of his tongue’s dying gasps against immovable fangs, savoring the taste of blood, blood which came from the very thing which tasted, which erased all other tastes, and slowly he calmed, temporary as it was, as it always was. Tongue pulls itself back from fangs, rests itself, soaking in the blood which is already drawn, waiting for the flow to cease, and as he waits, his gaze focuses, not upon her, no, she is left alone, to wait in that damned red with that damned smile, to wait as he waits, and instead, before him, his gaze, tainted as it is, draws the form of the brute, makes his mouth move, his tongue curl around words, and his ears ripple forward, struggle to catch the words, his words, above the ghost of hers. The laughter comes first, that damned laughter; what damn joke was there?! It fights its battle well, forces its way into his head, then dies, incinerated within his hatred, his anger, but the smoke, the smoke! It clogs is head, forcing itself against memory, against thought, and the sheer heat burns his mind clear, and, as though carrying it all out with it, with the passage of the smoke, all that is left is the black, the darkness, the emptiness, so that when the words comes, they bounce around within a vacant space until his mind restarts, crawls into labor, absorbs them and translates them, forcing there meaning upon him. Tail lashes once, a base reaction, an outlet of anger, before he turns it to purposes far more useful, saving it within a reservoir so that it might later fuel action, fuel his muscles, fuel his force, but for now must simply wait. A single trickle is let loose, a thread of anger, of hatred, burning as though a molten metal being pulled into threads, and, indeed, he pulls that thread, winds it along a coil, lets it settle before he weaves it together, back upon itself, forming words, and sends them forth where his tongue, raw with dried blood and still fresh wounds upon its surface, creeps into motion, extinguishes the heat of that anger, cools the threads into final shape, and lets the words fly upon the air. ”Hm, I tell you, that smile, that damn smile right there, one of these days, it’s going, just as it is, above my doorframe. But, not the rest of the head, no, no, I don’t want anything that damn weak tainting my den; just the mouth. And, you know what, I’ll even carve a few words. ‘Here lies number three’s fucking mouth, which he never knew when to close.’ Maybe I’ll even do it quick enough you can see it before you die; how’s that strike you? Is that what you want? To be remembered? Is that a fitting memorial, then? Because, I tell you, that’s where you’re heading, number-fucking-three.”

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 1159
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ XDD Rippy has no idea how to handle kotori, Rofl. He does not play mind games very well at all >.> haha}
[/size]

[' ' K.O.T.O.R.I.]

It's easy to see how different their make. It was there in the body, in the way each was curved, where the hollows were, where the eyes slid to the side, or stared so blatantly. Larger, bulkier, angrier -- Kotori could only be consumed by that anger, that feeling of indignation -- so easy to pick out from that illusion the other gives, the other projects, the other wishes to hide behind. It's a mask like all the others, a mask that he has learned to peel back, to look behind, to see, to see where no one should ever see. Who cared for decorum, for privacy when there was this game, this path he has chosen, this darkness he wishes to follow? Besides, he was begging for it, to be dissembling, quivering on the edges as if his anger was too much to hold onto, as if he ached to be relieved of it and who was Kotori to blame if it happened to unravel in his ears, if he happened to hold the secrets, the wants, the desires of this monster, this creature? He might have laughed but he knew well enough when to go, go, go and when to stop, and it was that time to stop, to pause, to gauge, and he gauged, for sure.

There was a slyness in the burning passion there, rolling in the shadows flickering over his expression. Something conniving, despicable and it had nothing to do with the blood and guts of the other. Oh no, no, Kotori was a specific type of creature -- and his flavor of torture ran down a darker current, where death was what you inherently ached for by the end of it. Oh yes, yes, this beast, this twitching, angry, tension-filled tiger who sought to bring him down, to glance off the words with his own was nothing better than he.

He didn't need a script, he didn't need much of anything but his eyes, his sight, his sense of smell and it came to him as if coaxed from the very pages of the book of his soul, in the flame that was low, so low it nearly banked in the shadows that twisted around it. Ripshank -- creature of a haunting. So obvious with the way he threw his weight around. He compensated, compensated as only those who had once been different compensated. Oh he knew, he knew, and it was a riotous feeling in his bones that thrilled through his mind, made him salivate with the need to know, with the burning desire to peel back the layers of fur, sinew and bone and find what lay beneath when the rest was bared.

Kotori didn't laugh, no, he didn't laugh. He knew better, though the smile, the damnable mocking smile that he could not help but keep remained on his lips -- it widened in fact, a slight inclination toward mischief that dove deeper into other things. He would goad the other into emotion if the other would let him, and he was, he was. He knew he was but leading a string, reeling the prey in with a words, with silences, with everything that he could control - the way he breathed could be offensive to this one and it was a pleasurable sort of knowledge that sank into the pit of his stomach and warmed his innards. Oh this was a different flavor indeed, nothing the same. Where his flame was a burning pyre the other was muted, dying, rustling up the anger of a long-ago hurt and bareling forward as if with sheer stubbornness he would continue to exist.

But being kind was no in his nature and he could no more do it than turn a tender eye on a little cub and not think about what their neck would feel like between his jaws. It was not there to mold, to use, and so he used the tools at his paws, at the tips of his claws where he was making leisurely grooves. He didn't laugh -- we've established this, and we'll do it again because it's important to know this, to see how he can manipulate even the slightest little things he usually did without thinking. Who would think to silence a laugh? To look so far into the conversation that had not occurred to know, and to react to it? But he did, and he didn't and instead turned a strangely eerie gaze on the other, the tiger, the pleasure of his existence -- the sole purpose for his existence.

"What a poor way to treat your subjects." he purrs, instead, oh yes, you heard him right, he purred, a rolling, rough sound so close to that rolling laugh but not quite, riding that line, oh yes, riding that edge of death with a fierce passion that he loves, that he craves. There is more than lust, this is the thing he wants. More than the female body writhing beneath him, he wants the trash beneath, the dirt, the smooth, the destruction of heart and mind that has nothing to do with the desecration of the body. Oh, yes, yes the new target has showed his weakness without even speaking a word in that direction. What wrong with his smile? It reminds him, of course. There's a smile in his mind that he must be thinking of , must cherish to see such a deranged smile must ruin something, must hurt him, annoy him, anger him. It makes him less and this one must never be less. Delicious, savoring, he rolls the scent of the female's demise in his mouth, knowing the foreign stench of his comrade's death, his comrade's complete and utter end. He would laugh, had he not known how close he was to those jaws, to feeling those fangs and those claws ripping into his hide -- but he had so many scars now, and vanity had never been one of his faults. Unsurprising in one so maimed and ugly.

"Would you prefer I remain silent?" A flick of his ear and he smiled again, dreadful, knowing, a light snaking through the corners of his eye. "I think that would annoy you more if I did." Nose twitched, whiskers moving as muscles condensed, roved, flipped back to reveal the knives of his fangs, not so impressive as the other, the larger, the tyrant, but enough to cut muscle from bone, to sever heart from chest -- a wickedness in his expression, a surety that the other so hated. He couldn't help it -- he was unafraid and knew his game, knew the path, the words, the way in which the current of emotion would sway the other. Oh, anger was so easy to provoke, to coax into life, but this thing he craved was a different thing and it meant the first must come to fruition. And the first would come, no doubt of that. "Besides, my silence is never a good thing. I get to thinking and when I start thinking, bad things happen." then the bomb, the drop, the stone fallen from the precipice to land without rolling -- a dead stop, a dead end. He'll corner him one way or another, he knew it, it was predestined. He knew before the other ever came into his sight, before his scent ever reached his nostrils. "I'll be blunt," and he did laugh this time. "I don't want your little throne, so please, be comfortable, my liege." A smile, did he want to lose his jaw? "Make yourself at home."

[/color]

word count;; 1271
tags;; Ripshank
OOC;; jeez, Kotori's
asking for it.

[Trench]

♠ Brother! Brother! I’ve missed you so! She smiles, smiles and watches him, smiles and calls out to him, and yet her affection has faded, turned to dust, dissipated, and all that is left is the taunt, the malicious taunt, that damn taunt, and he hates her for it, hates her for tormenting him so, hates her for reminding him, time and again, day after day, for reminding him of the ugliness behind that smiling form, for reminding him of his failure, a failure so difficult to bury, a failure he tries so hard to forget, and yet it cannot be, for she refuses it, and so it remains before his eyes, always there, always waiting, and so he hates her, hates the very thing he once loved—does he yet love her? Could love find a way to live within the stifling heat of that burning hatred, would it even matter? Yet were he to meet her again, face to face, his spirit with hers, the spirit that is truly, truly her, not merely this taunting ghostly image, not merely that broken body hiding behind a smiling form, but truly her, he knew that hatred would melt away, burn itself out, and he could no more hate her than he ever could before. Brother! And he’d meet her, run to her as she ran to him, catch her as she in all her clumsy ways tripped, spare her further injury—some protector, some protector, so useless when truly it mattered! But he’d run to her, and again he’d speak in soft tones, no growl, no rattle of hatred, nothing to taint his voice as it does now, his words quiet, affection, as they could never be now, so far gone is that self! But he would, he would, he’d speak quietly again, were he to meet with her now, and he’d let her know just how much he’d missed her as well, scold her lightly for running off, but she’d smile, and he’d laugh, and he’d forgive her; how could he not, how could he not? He always had, each and every time, though he had worried and fretted and torn himself to pieces, run himself ragged, trying to find her each time, yet he’d forgive her again, he’d shield her from that much at least, for what else can he do? She never knew, she never even began to realize, had never had a clue; so foolish, so blind! But he had overlooked it, could not fault her, for he never let on, never gave her a hint; how could she know, how could she have known? So he’d forgive her, he’d forgive her, and he’d let himself enjoy her company, driven crazy by every look, by every word, driven to madness, for she didn’t love him, still didn’t see him for who he was, for what he could be to her. Brother! Brother! But he could have been so much more, and how he had longed for it! But she never knew, never realized, never even cared. Why, why must she torment him now?! But he’d forgive her; he’d hate and rave and drive himself crazy for that smile, but he’d forgive her! Why?!

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ If only he knew, oh, if only he would realize; was he as blind as she, as oblivious? No, no, it is not the way, not the case, yet still he is blind, blind to the plan which has formulated within the mind of this sinister cat, of this cat whom he would deem weakling—indeed, smaller than he, shorter and far lighter, half-blind, how could he be of any threat? But his mind, yes, his mind, but how was he to realize? If only he knew, if only he could see what went on beyond that single orange eye, that burning ember eye, yet he does not. He does not realize how poorly he hides his insanity, how transparent he himself is being, he does not realize how easy he is to read to such a mind as this, if only he knew, if only he could hide himself, could erase her smile from his mind, if only for now, if only until he was alone, yet he does not try—indeed, how could he do it, how could he manage it, even if he were to know, to realize the danger he put himself in? He could not, he could not, for she is ever present; his fragile mind, so ripe for the picking of this cat’s games, is too fragile to even protect itself from the very vision which plagues him; too bad, too bad. And so he turns to hate, shielding himself in the only way he knows, without even realizing he shields himself at all, and surely without realizing how transparent a shield it is, yet he turns to it all the same, claws sliding slowly from his paws, pushed outwards by hatred seeking an outlet from is core, only to dig themselves immediately within the ground, burrowing deep as though it were flesh, yet finding themselves without a suitable target. His tail lashes once, yet it, too, finds no target within this clearing, not even a single sapling to tear life from, to crack into pieces, and so falls still, and all the while the hatred grows and threatens to overflow. And finally, finally, it finds out outlet, and his tongue races to appease it, releases hatred upon his rank breath in the form of words, hardly a weapon of his choosing, but the only outlet for hatred growing far too fast for his control. ”Subjects? You think that’s what you are? Poor damn fool, that term is above you. You certainly don’t behave as one, you and that damned mouth of yours. No, no, you’re no damn subject. Maggot, I don’t joke with the term, that’s what you are; destructive creatures I intend to turn upon the other packs. And guess what, just like a maggot, there’s always plenty more around of you damn fools; step out of the fucking line and I crush you and replace your sorry ass.” But he is not done, oh no; damn him, was he never able to silence himself?! yet he listens—is there reason enough yet, dear sister, can you believe me now, they are, all of them, all of them to fault, will you still smile if he does not? Or would you choose him, would you choose him and his damn world and abandon me once again? The only answer is the smile, that damn smile, and he turns away, back to the brute, to the maggot, and to that damn laugh! A growl pulls itself up, drags itself through his gaping maw, and step is taken forth before his mind has even processed the words, reactions of hatred seeking to escape alone; yet why does he stop? Why the hell bother? He and the hatred were one, what the hatred wanted, so did he; why not simply silence this damn fool once and for all? Yet the smile, the smile! How much deeper can it dig within him before he merely collapses, how much more of him can it remove before his foundation becomes unsuitable and he falls? ”I am at home, you fucking maggot, and if you want this to stay your home you’ll shut the hell up. You think I worry about you taking my throne? Just try and fucking take it, see how far you get before I carve out that other eye of yours. Or hell, maybe I’ll do that anyways, carve it out and set you across the border, maybe I’ll even stick around to watch how long they let you spout that shit before one of them puts you out of your damn misery.” Another step, his claws dig in again, holding him back, or perhaps attempting to drag him forward, he does not even know, but he is speaking again. ”Hell, maybe I’ll even laugh when they do; is that what you want? For people to remember you by laughing? Hell, I’ll laugh, and then maybe I’ll even avenge your sorry death by killing whatever damn fools finish you off, and they can put up with your sorry ass in the afterlife just so I don’t have to. You want to find out just how quickly I can blind your ass and you’re your sorry self over the border to leave you as their problem? Keep talking, number three, keep fucking talking.”

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 1423
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ o.o I do believe he might just do it, too. Kotori might should be getting ready to dodge, Lol}
[/size]

[' ' K.O.T.O.R.I.]

So useless this tasteless anger, like unrefined wine that sits like a disappointment on the tongue. Too bad, too bad, the growers say, and shrug their shoulders, turn their back but you know, you know how uncivilized, how desperate the wine is, how young it is, and how simple it is to eradicate, to destroy. This hatred is like that wine, new, untouched, a virgin creature flipping it's tail under your nose, tempting, tempting --- Kotori wanted to bite down, to show what real hatred was, what it was to exist on the crumbs of this true anger, to be formed and twisted and recreated into this new form, this new existence. The tiger was still the same, still caught in this metamorphosis, still doubtful, still haunted, eyes still unfocused, looking beyond, beyond -- to that faraway place that all have. A withdrawn torment, a secret torment -- and how he wanted to draw it out, to savor each stressed word that falls from the tiger's lips, to see those fangs, those claws to flex, that power to crackle around his body.

Broken-wing King, Kotori is a creature of your nightmares, the one who will remind you with the unconscious desire of a whore spreading it's legs. He'll seek out the weakness, exploit it, know it, make it real, more real than ever you have known and glorify in it. There is death here, between the two, woven between the threads of young, puny anger, of hot suffocative guilt and hatred that blinded him, made him more blind than ever Kotori would be. So cold, this snow leopard, so centered, so grounded to the earth as if he knew the very world that lay sprawled before him, knew it ever before he set eyes on it. No script this, but a fierce instinctual knowledge that this will be mine and this feeble anger, this young, recklessness that clawed out of Ripshank's chest was something that he would have, would be something that he would covet and lavish about for days. Blood would spill, he saw it, knew the weak, fragile strings of this one's sanity were slipping, fraying, parting to let the monster step forward, but there are darker flavors than hatred.

Bitter flavors, twisted flavors, and every one of them, Kotori will know, will have experienced. His cynicism was of a special make, his curiosity of the morbid tenacity. Pick, pick, pick, like a little bird hacking away at wood, at a wound, flying away only to come back, again and again, the pick to grow into a hammer, into a wedge, into a torment so exquisite it was barely felt. You blink and realize your head is parted from your body and know death has come when you're eyes have been closed, muted, dead, and dumb to the evil that had been wrapping around you, rubbing it's flanks to your side. Yes, yes, a cat stalking it's prey never looked so smug as this creature who seemed to ponderously stand before the giant tiger, the giant king with it's twisted misshapen stumps for wings. Can you fly away anymore, broken king, fallen king? Oh, ho-ho, no more, no more, for the bait has been set and swallowed and the Kotori has known the game is surely underway.

Ripshank speaks, but it is nothing to the snow leopard -- white noise of nonsense, for he sees and hears at a different level. The pitch of the tone, the curling of tongue, the way each word is stressed, each tone expressed through the forming of his fangs, of his tongue to fold over syllables. Emotion weaves through each note of music, rough, edgy, broken. A cracked thing, a dying thing as the embers flare, a momentary brightness as he seems to bring the anger forward, the stench of that work infiltrating nostrils, infiltrating brain and running it dry. Cough, cough, burn out, burn out and Kotori knows that the steam which runs this creature is low, and blind. "Why so easy to goad, Broken-wing King?" --- and the smile left, mouth twitching downward, an enigma of an expression tightening the smoking flames that lick the edges of his eyes. "You should be exultant -- you have a new mate, do you not." and his voice pitched downward slightly, exaggeratedly as he silenced the chuckle of amusement from rolling off his tongue. "And after all you had said about not desiring the female body. Well and so, there's always someone who matches isn't there?"

He steps daintily, claws extended into the earth, eyeing the other, always aware of the other, always, always, always, "So glad you found someone ----" Kotori paused, savored the words on his tongue, "worthy of you." a flick of his ear, a motion of his lips as if he would smile but he doesn't, he doesn't and adds as an afterthought, "Though I am quite impressed by what you've done to her. Now you match. How quaint."

[/color]

word count;; 832
tags;; Rippy-luffs
OOC;; I figured it was
alright to move this thread
ahead in the timeline of things.
Hope you don't mind.

[Trench]

♠ He cannot do this; somehow he knows, somehow, somewhere, deep within his mind, some buried instinct, some sliver of self-preservation from long before, from before, before, before it all, some glimmer of a thought which has lain dormant within his mind, buried among the ash of his burning hatred, scalded and singed and baked hard and dry as clay in the kiln of his anger, left to die among the ash of his former self, of everything from before, dead, dead, dead as she, yet stirring yet, a spirit as sure as the image which haunts him, undead, a still, cold corpse animated in the moment, revived by instinct, or perhaps merely the ghost of instinct reviving itself, making itself heard, and he knows, he knows. Oh no, no, he cannot continue to do this, cannot wander down those paths, cannot make those journeys, trek along those dark paths, among the shadows of memory, cannot follow her enthralling call, that siren’s call which pulls at his very soul, oh no, oh no, he cannot, he cannot; he must not go softly upon those paths, must not wander that way, must not go as a sheep, following without protest, into the wolf’s mouth, no, no, he must not, he must not. He cannot, for he knows, somehow, somehow, somewhere within his mind, by that shadow of instinct, of knowledge perhaps not his own, or not consciously so, but knowledge all the same, as though a single crow had returned to soar above his head and come winding, winding, cycling down around him, to swoop above him, to cuff his ears with claw and beak, a sharp reprimand, a single warning, caw caw caw, and now he knows, but no crow has come, not even a flutter of wing or of feather, yet still he knows, for something stirs within, and he fights, fights hard, fights harder now than he has before, clawing and biting his very mind, struggling against the pleas of that voice, the pull of that smile, brother! Brother! And he fights, fights hard, and retreats, back along those darkened streets, back through the forest, he runs, he runs, and fleas it all, for he knows, he knows, that to return would be his end, would condemn him to insanity which would latch upon his mind and control his every word, his every movement, control him until he no longer knew himself, not his former self, nor his current, nor any new self, and he flees at last from those haunting thoughts, and pushes away her image, struggling to silence the winding thoughts which would destroy him. But that smile, that smile!

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ How long, how long, how long till he fails? How much longer can he struggle against his own thoughts, so persistant, so stubborn, so very strong as he? How long can he flee the reminder which stares him straight in the face? Every muscle aches for action, the instinct stirs within him, fueling hatred, fueling anger, and fueled itself by both, a cycle which feeds itself again and again, engorging itself upon basest emotion available to him, and producing the very same, until an outlet must be found, and he is ready, so ready; can blind eyes cry, he wonders, can an empty socket shed tears? If he gouged from that socket the very orb which gifted sight upon this damned maggot, if he kept it for himself as a trophy, if he mounted it upon his wall, would the socket shed tears of mourning for its lost gem? Or would his other, scarred as it is, still be able to cry? Or would he, himself, give moans and cries, express what his eyes cannot? So close, so close; another step, his claws dig in, so close, oh yes, so very, very close, he’ll carve it out, he’ll leave him broken and blind, drag his sagging corpse away, rid himself of that smile, that damned smile. Yet suddenly, suddenly, as his hatred peaks, as his very muscles tense, prepare themselves for the action, suddenly, it is gone, and finally, at last, his anger, his hatred, his instinct, it all rushes together, and with the smile finally gone, he rids himself instead of her. Brother! And she is gone, faded into the shadows, and he is free, and emerges sane from the winding paths, that siren’s call, which would claim the fragile mess which resided now within his skull. And he listens, listens well, listens fully, for the haunt of her voice has fled his ears, if only for the moment, but now he can listen, and finds still hatred growing within him, though not as strong, not as all-consuming, and his muscles relax, the instinct fading, its job completed, and he listens and listens, on guard for the moment should she attempt to return, until at last, at last silence prompts that he speak—fill it quick, before she returns! ”No mate of mine, the pathetic wretch, nothing more than a bitch to get in the way, yet she’ll serve some damn purpose or other. A trophy, of sorts. Let her prove that I don’t fuck around with false threats, but don’t think I’ll hesitate to skin her and mount her hide over my doorway; she’ll serve the same damn purpose dead or alive. Until then, fuck her yourself, if you’re so interested. I don’t give a damn what happens to her.” A pause, a huff, a twitch of the lips—a laugh, perhaps, or a smirk, though both die prematurely, and no amusement stirs upon his face, though certainly it struggles for life within his mind. ”Though, she was the only one of you damn maggots to not piss herself at the thought of fighting me; fuck her if you want, but get your damn self killed in the process and it’ll be your hide I mount at my door. Hell, maybe I’ll let her do the honors; shameful, isn’t it, to be skinned and displayed by some worthless bitch? But you are a shameful creature, aren’t you, number three? Spineless, with these damn words of yours. Goad me all you fucking want, just don’t run when you realize you’ve screwed yourself over, you’ll lose enough damn pride as it is; don’t lower yourself to fleeing; you won’t make it far.”

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 1055
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ -gasp- is that…fondness for miyu I hear? Or is he just that proud of his handiwork that it put him in a better mood? I’m not even sure, but I don’t think it’ll last for long; he seems to be tiring quickly of word games. Methinks Kotori should go back to playing with Incubus; he’s far more receptive of it all, Lol}
[/size]

[' ' K.O.T.O.R.I.]

Ripshank was right, so sweetly right, so perfectly right -- but Kotori knew even more, knew better than anyone the flavor of the wrongness on his tongue, the way it settled like ill-placed poison to saturate in his blood, make him dizzy with delight, with pleasure. Andarial, and the thought is a brief one, for all that it's reminiscent of the barbs which seek to pierce his flesh, to stroke his nerves so secretively hidden. It fails, as it always fails for the pain there, the secret desires, the secret wants, and the even, yes even the fears is nothing to the one who cannot see past his own past. Blind to the world, as surely as Kotori's own half-blind face. He saw though, gave it over as Odin, to seek wisdom, to seek life in a world he knew was full of death, and to give it, yes to give it to those who sought it. Death, beautiful death, perfect death and he would give it with claws, with each tenacious soul broken under his words.

Goading, goading? You think you know this maggot so well, but you are wrong, so wrong though there is a sliver of truth hidden among those tacit lies, those half-blind groping for truth, to pain, to hurt. Ripshank is clumsy with his words, with his desire to hurt the other, to dismiss him and it's a pitiful thing to see, to know, to anxiously want to roll around on his tongue. But the bitch's scent is still full of death, full of defeat and there is nothing stopping Kotori from remembering the line of death he tread, though he tread it with pleasure, with an insinuous desire to be killed. Was he suicidal? Or simply insane? But then, wasn't Ripshank, with his torn broke past, and his crumbling soul. Tattered soul, like a cloth ripped between fang and claw and held there to savor the agony of each sordid ripple and shadow. Kotori would play with it for hours, if he could. But he knew, as all predators know, when the prey has caught on.

There is danger between the distance from Ripshank's claws, and his own, and though it sits there, malign and waiting, Kotori cannot help but poke at it, to pull and tease at the threads knotted there and see the reactions. He knows it, but there is a difference between knowing, and experiencing, and if he could experience that awful rage that decimated this wolf-bitch, utterly destroyed the wings of his mate -- oh, uhm, wretch -- then Kotori would see it in action.

So many words spoken, so much to fill the void he had let sit, to let gnaw at the patience that was so strenuous and impossible for him. The tiger was easy to goad, as he had said, easy to provoke, to kill, to kill with words. Spineless? Hahahahaha, hardly spineless but then it served the brute to be perceived so, and instead of anger there was a peaceful calm that spread across the lines of his jaw, his eyes, his black spots to seem to glow against the backdrop of his pearly white pelt. So different from the pattern that marked the tiger, and yet so much the same, for wasn't it a stamp of fortune, of the future calling the number printed in neat writing along their calling cards? Soon, and the leopard knew and smiled though he knew he should not have. It dimmed, slightly, though it is impossible to erase such a habit when it ached to spread across his maw, to empower his mind with the salty taste of victory. Metallic. Bitter. Perfection. Blood was victory, and blood was the memory which pulsed over his glands, made the scent pads on the roof of his mouth pulsate with want, with a slick desire to seek, to rub his fur against it as he had done with the wolf-bitch.

Wolf flesh-- a faintest call of his other desires quickly hushed before his orange eye, his burning eye met that of the tiger. The end ticked, an endless habit that beckoned even as it told the speed of his own heart: calm, delighted, composed. The words of a spineless coward? Perhaps, perhaps, but then Kotori was far too egotistical to even consider himself so. The taste of defeat never sang so sweetly in his ear, his torn, wretched ear. He chuckled, delighted by this turn of events, of the prey realizing exactly what it was: tracked. Ripshank know doubt felt in control of this situation, knowing himself superior, and he was, for sure, in physicality, but Kotori dipped his paws in many different pools of thought and the brutal physicality had always been a favorite of his. So words wound around as a spell, but his claws, tricky little bastards slid into flesh, though he might have been smaller, so much smaller than the seven hundred pound tiger. So far outweighed and yet there was no fear curdling the air. "Hardly cause for endorsement, my liege. She was reckless and stupid, but do what you want with your toy. I have my own, and have no need of yours - broken and dumb as she is." he stretched, body taut as muscles uncoiled and he yawned, ears flicking back, eyes creasing shut for the briefest moment. "I prefer my prey to know when they're stalked, but -" his voice lifted slightly, thoughtfully as if tasting the idea for what it was. "If I get bored enough, I might just take a taste of her. If anything, I'd be ridding you of -- trash."

Oh how that word had played around with Kotori's life! First uttered by that damned jaguar, but it had stuck to him like glue, like an indomitable plague and gave him the kiss of death as if the world had turned ever so slightly at the mere utterance of the word. Now, faced by a tiger, by the ideas surrounding his dominance and knowing himself to be cut from that insidious stranglehold, Kotori was overcome with the need to laugh. These alphas and their blinded pride! Andarial had thought himself on her leash, when he had simply came and went as he pleased, and now this one, this Ripshank who thought some poorly executed intimidation would put him in line! When would they realize he was of a different breed? When would they realize, he was not here to serve anyone but himself? Weasel, Kotori imagined Ripshank would name him, but he manipulated only for boredom's sake. There was no ambition in Kotori and it would be the bane of his existence as he drifted from one senseless game to another, not living, not dying, but simply carving out a temporary place for himself until he bored of that, too.

What happens when there is no more wood to put his claws to? When his prey leave him, when his games fail him? Would he look back at this memory thinking it nothing but wasted time? Or would he find meaning in it, when there was none but his own selfish needs to satiate a desire in him that could not be slaked by normal means? In the end, perhaps both Kotori and Ripshank were of the same make -- haunted by a past that would destroy them. "In any case, Your Majesty, I'll be getting out of the your fur. You seem to have grown tired of me -- so soon."

[/color]

word count;; 1255
tags;; Ripshank =3
OOC;; I know it took me a
fuck-load time. At first I didn't know
how to respond, then I completely
forgot. But the muse is all RAWR!
So I replied here first XD