``swinging from the c e i l i n g | [Red + Miyu]

[Trench]

♠ Victory, victory, victory; across his mind and through his head it rang, a constant ringing—just where was that damn bell? But he wouldn’t silence it, even if he could find it; oh no, this bell he like, this ring, this constant din, victory, blood and guts and gore and victory. And beneath it all, the pain, that constant throb, those shard pangs, the seeping wounds and drying blood, the pull of fast-forming scabs which parted against the flow of blood with every single movement. Should he loathe this pain? Should he hate it, as he did her? He should, he should, but he does not, for pain is welcome, all pain welcome, a constant throb, a force which shoves from his mind thoughts of her, and under the control of pain, the sharpness of her image is not quite so hard to bare. There she stands, as always, as always, right before his gaze, yet receding as he walks, always out of reach, always smiling, always, always smiling. But has it changed? Yes, yes he fancies it has, just a bit, only a little, but there, there in that taunting, sensuous smile, that terrible loving smile, that ghostly memory of a smile which drove him mad and drove him to hatred and anger and bloodshed, there among it all, is…pride? Yes, yes, yes! He has pleased her, yes! For her, for her, all for her, and not in vain! His victory brings pride, the pain of others, suffering for her suffering, pleases her, and from this, from the throb of pain and from this, he draws strength, draws some faint shred of—happiness? The word seems foreign, a ghost of a memory, just as she is, yet one he does not know, but something burns across his hide, and it is not merely the heat of his still dripping blood. She is pleased, if only for the moment, if only a little, but he does not care, let it fade when it would, he’d enjoy it while it yet lasts. Yes, yes, yes, pride, and he revels in it, letting thoughts of her, ones which have lost their bite, ones which do not churn his mind but seem instead to fuel it, drive him onward, and he walks, and walks, without limp, without weakness, drawing strength from the single illusion, or perhaps delusion, that he has done right by her. For her, for her, for her; yes, always for her.

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ And now another thought comes, another altogether, fueling him on, as the sight of his doorstep comes into view. Oh yes, his doorstep, his shabby den’s filthy entryway, his favorite tool in threats which are never spoken in emptiness. Oh yes, it is the thought of those very threats which pools in his mind now, as her image shimmers and is gone before his eyes, a momentary respite from that smile, that damned smile, his thoughts consumed now with thoughts of another her altogether, a more pressing her, a her that is present, or should soon be. Had she followed? He does not even know, does not even care, so caught up in a pride fabricated by pain-struck mind and demented wish to please. But she will, oh yes, she will follow, of he will find her, hunt her down, drag her back himself, yes, yes, yes, for she is his now, broken to his heel, to his will, broken by his claws and fangs and hatred. Hatred against hatred, and his burned stronger, brighter, and consumed her own, consumed her very frame, and turned it to his ire, to his thrashing daggers of ivory and ebony, to his fangs and claws, and let her die out, bleed out, above him, beneath him, however they had been. He bounds upwards and falls still upon his doorstep, that stone-and-earth entryway to his dark cave of a den. Oh yes, his doorstep, his doorstep, and her headstone. Or, at least, that of her wings. Yes, yes, those damned black wings, damn them! That mockery, that taunt; but not for long, oh no, not for much longer yet. She’d come, oh yes, for pride would drag her before him, force her to take her punishment, and then, oh yes, all would know her failure, and he? Why, he would bring death to that which dared taunt the broken, swirling memories of black-winged guardians long lost to him.

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 735
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ ack. his muse exploded, and then I had to go gather it up >.> haha, not too terrible, though, and I’m sure this’ll be fun enough for him that they’ll get better xD}
[/size]

[Miyu]

must be the sign on my head

She limped back to the dens, following Ripshank every step of the way. Miyu was no coward, and would pay her dues as the loser of the fight.

She stood outside the entryway, just behind the Alpha, and rasped out his name.
"Ripshank."
Her throat hurt, hurt like it had never before, most likely from all the crazed ravings she had during the battle.

Vaguely she remembered blaming Ripshank for something, shouting, 'It's your fault!'

that says oh! love me dead,

Miyu had only a glimmer of memory of why she felt so much hatred towards Ripshank. Tyrant, yes... evil, probably... crazy, definitely.... But why did she hate him?

Perhaps it was because she was reminded of her father whenever she looked at him.
They looked much the same, except her father had full wings, not torn.

Torn.

love me dead

Miyu called out his name again.
"Ripshank... you bastard."
She struggled to stand upright, to hold on to the quickly fading glimmer of dignity, but failed. The weight of the seeping hole in her head, of her broken wing, of her furless belly, of her scarred side, brought her down to her knees.
"The Broken-Wing King," she said, slurring her words slightly. "Take them off. Tear them already, goddamnit!"

Miyu arched her back, slowly forcing the wings out from her sides and bracing herself for the pain that was soon to come.

•miyu
•242
•lyrics from love me dead by ludo
•she's still a little cuckoo for cocoa puffs, please excuse her appearance. xD

[Trench]

♠ Joy, sick, diseased, ill joy, infected and tainted joy, yet joy all the same, seeps among him, through him, across his wounds, fueled by pain, but born of her failure, of her broken frame. Rasp of his name turns his head, and he watches, watches and watches, as she drags her wounded ass towards him, limping, bleeding, beaten, battered, in every sense the failure, failure, failure, failure, by his claw, by his fang, by his own damned insanity, but he doesn’t even care why anymore, all that remains are those wings, those damned black wings. Can she still not even know, not even realize? Just what the hell, what the hell was it for? What punishment was this? Had she been sent, just to taunt him? He bet those damned crows had danced around her head and spilled out everything to her, and she had come at their damned bidding. Well, well, so she is a crow as much as they, traitor, betrayer, garbage, but he could fix all that, oh yes, he could fix it all. And then what? The joke would be upon them, they’d laugh and caw and cackle, thinking they had won, but when one day he found them, hunting them down, he’d carve their wings from their backs and silence them, punishment for their abandon, for leaving him to rot at his time of greatest need. Damn them all! He’d see them fall, but first, but first, but first… and his eyes drop upon her, watching, watching, watching, and again that twitch is born of his lips, the slightest curl, birth of a smirk which again falls stillborn upon lips which can only fall still themselves, loose, slack, incapable of the smirk which tries so in vain to show itself. But what damn joke is there, what reason for him to smile? And it dies, and he bids he good riddance as he watches, merely watches. Pride, pride, pride, what damn use did it have, what damn good had it done for her? Here she lies, brought before him by pride, merely waiting, waiting, waiting, defenseless and useless, pathetic. Pride had destroyed her, or perhaps it was merely him? Well, no matter; he’d finish the job, oh yes, and relish it, revel in it, in the slaying of those damn black wings, the first warning to those damn crows of the past. How had he ever trusted them? Damn them all, but he’d start with her.

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ Muscles roll forth into action, pulling across violated underbelly of wounds and blood, but this only fuels him, the pleasure of pain, the relief of pain, and he steps forward, steps to her, approaches with relish in his every step, every painful step. Broken, too, broken as she, but he does not fall, will not fall, for her, for her, for her, is it even for him anymore? But this is, oh yes, this shall be for him. Turn away, dear sister! Hide your eyes! Keep your pride, but turn away! But he cannot wait, cannot look away to see if his wish has been obeyed, if that intoxicating smile has turned from him, if those proud eyes—proud for once, for once, for once—have been closed to what he must do, will do. Tongue twists within his mouth, and his voice falls from behind his fangs, low, soft, uncaring, yet no longer quite so spiteful; is it for her, that he speaks this way again? For the pride his diseased gaze conjured in her ghost? He does not know, does not care. ”No more bastard than you are bitch,” he mutters, murmurs, and then his mouth falls open, and his head drops, and within one movement he has taken hold of the first wing. Memories flood into his mind as blood pulls itself from bone and feather and muscle of once proud wings now to be brought low, as blood pools in his mouth, and suddenly the wings are not black, are not a taunt, but something so much worse, so very, very worse. Blue! Oh damned cerulean feathers! And he sees them again, and his grip suddenly tightens, crushes the base of the wing between he fangs, and his sight can only see blue. Failure! As stinging as hers is to her broken form, failure floods within his mind; and before him flashes her corpse, broken, battered, bloody, innocent and struck down, pathetic, defenseless, there before him, lying, still, breathless, cold and rotting, and suddenly it is gone. And before him is again that blue, that damned cerulean shade, those damned feathers of his own; such a gift, such a damn gift, and he’d failed even to put them to use, damn him, damn him, and damn them! Blue he sees, and blue it is he grips, and, with guttural growl spilling out around feathers, his head jerks, rough, harsh, violent as his every movement, and it as though the wing had never been connected, never held fast to that body at all, so quickly does his hatred tear it free, with such ease does his insanity pull it from her body, or, as his mind projects, from his own body. A phantom of pain thrills through his shoulder, through a stump which has long since ceased to bleed, but he fancies that it does now, fancies that it bleeds and aches and cuts into him with the first pangs of relieving pain. He is drunk upon it, upon that pain, upon that blood; he has failed, yes, yes, he has failed and she lays dead, but he cannot join her, though ever muscle aches to. But pain! Relieving pain, and he is drunk upon it, all he can do for her now, all he can do at present, and suddenly he wants more, more, more, more, drunk and addicted and he drinks it all up and still is not sated, still his thirst not slaked. Wing drops from his fangs, mouth agape, and he turns back, and again the wing is not black but blue in his gaze. Drunken rage drives his fangs this time as they sink deep within the feathers and muscle, grating against bone, and again the memory, broken broken broken red and white body why dead, why dead, deaddeaddeaddead WHAT HAD HE DONE. And he tears, jerks, violent, insane, crazed, and tears and tears and tears, head still pulling even after the wing has given itself to him, pulling as though he can pull until more pain frees him, yet even the phantom pain across his back does not help. Muscles shift slowly upon memory, and he turns, turns away, head dragging, dragging with the weight of the wing, and he bounds a pace away, and down it goes, gently placed, and he noses it once, as though arranging it, as though covering, but it is not enough, no, not at all, and he spins in a single motion, goes back, takes the first within his jaws, and back again, dragging it, and gently he lays it across the other, nudges it into place, eyes blank, unseeing, and there he can but stand. Beneath him her corpse flashes before his gaze, beneath him he sees cerulean and ivory tainted wings covering her broken form, a body bag as only he can fashion, one last shield, the only shield he can grant her to protect her from the world, the only shield he has ever been able to give her, yet not enough, not enough, never enough. Failure, oh yes, failure, failure of the worst kind, and his alone to carry now.

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 1270
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ O.O oh snap, he’s having flashbacks now. …walking flashbacks. In which he tears another person’s wings off. Very bad, rippy, very bad indeed, Lol}
[/size]

[Miyu]

must be the sign on my head

She had prepared herself; she thought she was ready for it. Even before the fight she knew she was going to get hurt. Badly. But this... this was unbearable.

Miyu's eyes had welled up as soon as Ripshank had first laid his teeth and claws on her beautiful wings, and soon she was crying like a baby.
A silent baby.
She wouldn't cry out, oh no, she had already failed herself once today. But the tears still trickled down their merry way, laughing at her, mocking her, telling her what a fool she was.

Miyu, the witty. Yeah, right. More like Miyu the idiot now.

it says oh! love me

She could see the madness in his eyes, how he kept tugging at her wings long after they had been torn off. The wounds were bleeding freely, but she didn't care.
Shakily Miyu stood up, her legs trembling and her heart pounding, causing her head to bleed even more. If she didn't die of blood loss, surely she would die of humiliation.
She felt a bit of herself return to her mind, as if the loss of her wings had cleared her somehow, left her clean, whole, although right now she was the farthest thing from it.
Well, maybe second farthest.
Miyu watched Ripshank tear up the wing, and again she was reminded of her father.

dead, love me dead

The little cub watched the big cat pace around the cave, his pitch-black wings fluttering in the gentle spring breeze.
"It's your fault," he muttered, his eyes vacant.
"Daddy?" the cub asked, reaching out a tentative paw. Her father swatted it away, his claws out and a snarl on his face.
"Did you hear me?!" he shouted, his eyes gaining a blood-lust that left the cub cowering in fear. "It's your fault! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"

must be the sign on my head that says oh! love me dead, love me dead

"Ripshank," Miyu mumbled.
"Ripshank." A bit louder.
"Ripshank!" Shouting now, trying to get his attention. "Snap out of it!"
She didn't know what else to do, so she smacked him in the face, claws out. "Wake up!" she yelled, her voice growing even hoarser.

•miyu
•386
•lyrics from love me dead by ludo
•they're getting longer... my muse is returning... slowly... steady... steady... D'OH!
xD

[Trench]

♠ Dead. Dead. Dead, dead, dead. Dead dead dead. Deaddeaddead. DEAD. Blood and guts, white and red fur, torn, snagged, ripped from place, spilling upon the ground, pooling upon the ground. Dead. His wings, bloody fangs marks, gashes from the pressure of tearing them free, bloody along the edges, ragged and torn. Dead, dead like her. There they rest, dead with dead, dead and bloody, dead covering the dead, pooling blood with blood, feathers drifting upon spilt guts. Dead, dead dead dead. The word losing meaning, and he can but stare, stare at the ragged wings covering the battered corpse, feeling the blood creep along his sides, drip to meet the pool of hers, warm in the coolness of hers. He can only look, hearing that word, that damn word, repeating itself, over and over and over, as though echoing within his skull, bouncing around in that numbness which has fallen over his deathly still form. Is he, too, dead? No, no, he knows that much. Then why must it repeat? Why won’t it stop? Stop it, he wants to say, stop it, he wants to scream it, to roar it; is it the crows? Are they at fault? He daren’t lift his gaze to find out. Over and over he hears the word, why won’t it stop? Why can he not silence it? Why won’t it shut the hell up?! He wants to growl, to scream and shout and roar until he can’t hear it anymore, his lips part as though to carry out his plan, but his voice cracks into silence, croaks buts a single word out before it dies, falls and lays dead with her. ”Lachrymosa…” And the name destroys him. Dead, she’s dead, dead and he may as well have killed her himself. Suddenly the word regains meaning, and he wishes he could join her, aches to join her, wills himself to end this all, to silence that word once and for all, yet he can no better move than he can speak other than her name, and in his despire he falls to that one, sole thing. ”Lachrymosa…” quietly, a whisper, the last traces of his old voice, his soft voice, ”Lachrymosa… Lacy…” Again and again he murmurs the name, hardly aware he is speaking at all, seeing only her corpse, hearing only the name in his ears, the roar of that name, feeling that name slice through him again and again; how long, how long has it been since the name has ground its way across his skull? But he does not know, cannot know, for his mind sees only her, and again he stands above her corpse, lives the hours of her death, cannot register that time has passed, that place has passed. ”Lachrymosa…” He does not cry, cannot cry, for tears would cloud his vision, would blur her shape, would ruin his sight; he stares, stares, stares, stares, and she stares back, stares and stares, dead, lifeless, deaddeaddead. Slowly it grows, the name slicing through him again and again, and instead of bringing blood, it brings up hatred, hatred and anger, welling up from his core, freed by the knife of her name. The birth of it all, or perhaps the death of it all, certainly the death of her. And this time it is a growl, ”Lachrymosa.”

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ And then, suddenly, it is gone, torn from his lips by a clawed paw crashing upon his face, and his head turns with the blow, and the name dies upon his lips, and the vision dies before his eyes. He does not seem to recover, does not move, head still turned to the side, but his eyes have gained focus, and he stares; his den? Suddenly his head jerks again to the side, as though he has been struck another blow, but he has only turned to gaze back down—what the hell?! Black, black feathers, black wings; not blue, not blue, not blue and white! And where is she?! Her corpse, gone, or has it merely never been here? He is coming to himself, realizing what has happened—a fool! A damn, damn fool. His gaze lifts, he looks at her, sees her for herself, not for his own battered memory, or for that broken corpse, and looks her dead in the eye, merely watching, processing; when did she get so close? How had he let this happen, lost such control? The name! That damn name; his lip pulls once, as though it would birth a snarl, but this, too, dies before it can truly form. He buries it now, far beneath his mind, as far down as he can, never again, never again, for it was the name which destroys him. her, her, her, why had she done this to him? But he knew, oh yes, he knew. He’d done it, or, rather, failed to, and now he took his punishment. But what of she? He meets her gaze; what is she thinking? What lies behind that gaze? What thoughts plague her now that she stands so broken, broken and wingless, before him? Mouth shifts, his tongue working slowly, every movement conscious, fearful now that he might utter again that name, that name which would destroy him, leave him as broken as she, leave him to fall, and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t fall yet. In his painstaking speech, his voice falls soft, a ghost of that former self, as though the memory has not been shaken truly from him, as though he still stands above her corpse, though he knows he does not. ”Did you hear it?” He murmurs, but there is no question in his voice; he knows, knows he has screwed up, knows that she damn well has heard it, one-eared as she is, yet how could she miss it? How many times must he have uttered it, again and again and again, as each time stabbed him, but she heard, must have heard. ”Don’t say it,” he mutters, rough, commanding, slowly coming to himself, regaining his voice, slowly, slowly, slowly working himself back into the present, ”Don’t repeat it. I won’t hear it. I will not hear that name.” Raving now, louder, as though losing himself again, but he grasps himself back, reprimands himself—idiot! Damn fool! Do not reveal it! Do not share it! ”You’ll not leave here, not with that on your mind, I’ll not have it.” Too much; she’s seen too much, heard too much, so clichéd, always clichéd, but true, so very true, but his solution, need it, too, be clichéd? ”I’ll take that fucking tongue of yours before you leave with that on your mind, before you try to utter it.” Perhaps, perhaps, but must it be? No, no, no, it need not be, but let her choose, oh yes, let her pick. He sees her fully now, not so horrible, not so repulsive or mocking now, is she? And had not that tongue pulled him from that image, or perhaps it was her claws? But what damn difference does it make? Let her pick, then, but he’ll have his way, either way. ”It’s your pick then, bitch. You’ll not utter it, oh no. I’ll have that damn tongue, and you can leave. Or you can stay, and I’ll watch ever damn day and night just to make sure you don’t.” A slave, yes, a slave, but will she have it? But something in him would have her near him, her violence and hatred; who better to punish him, to inflict upon him that pain which brought such pride into her eyes? Hatred, it is, then, not at her, but at himself, hatred, which gives her this option, which might save her tongue, but will she take it? ”Call yourself as you will, but you’ll not leave. Keep talking, bitch, as you always do, call yourself alphess for all I care, but you will not leave, and you will not speak it, or I take that damn tongue, or your life, or whatever I’m in the fucking mood to take.” Alphess? He does not know himself what he speaks, but something within him, or perhaps in her, in that pride which shone in her gaze, would have her stay, would let her beat upon him as she would, or simply remain as a reminder of what he had seen in those eyes, in that smile. But alphess? A false term, made up, no weight, but she’d wear it well, for all that damn pride of hers. Hell, maybe he’d even believe her after a while. ”Decide quickly; I have no more patience for you, bitch.”

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 1442
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ XD nice. And Rippy needs to get a grip on himself before he does anything else bad for his health XDD}
[/size]

[Miyu]

must be the sign on my head

"Okay", she murmured. "Didn't hear anything, won't say anything."
Miyu was actually quite shocked at the sudden show of heart. Lachrymosa? A mate? A sister, maybe? But Ripshank had told her not to speak the name, and she was wounded enough already, so she kept quiet.
Wait a second.
Wait. A. Second.
This bastard had just beaten her in a fight, left her broken and bleeding on the battlefield, then ripped her wings off, and now he was asking her to be alphess?
Maybe he really was crazy.
But what was an alphess, anyway?
Must mean female Alpha, she thought, one part of her brain working somewhat coherently.
What?! Be his mate?! No way!
Wait. He must not mean it like that. He hates your guts, remember? Anyway, he said his line dies with him, meaning he doesn't believe in sex. So why bother having a mate? Ripshank doesn't bullshit, remember? He really wants to make sure you keep your mouth shut about Lachrymosa.
Right, makes sense. I'll accept.

that says oh! love me dead, love me dead

"What is an alphess, anyway?" Miyu asked the Alpha when he seemed at least partly sane again. "Like a female Alpha? Aw, never mind. Stupid question."
She pondered this for a moment, then gave a dry, humorless laugh.
"Well, I'd like to stay, and frankly, I don't fancy the idea of losing either my tongue or my life, so I'll accept."

oh.... love me dead!

•miyu
•265! A little smaller than the last post, but better. ^^
•lyrics from love me dead by ludo.
•I have to think of another song... -.o

[Trench]

♠ So close, so close, before she woke him, before she tore him from the vision, so close was he, so close to reliving that beginning, that end, whatever the hell it was, but so close he had come to reliving it, the birth of that hatred, the hatred which ran within him now, which fueled him and gave him live, born with the growling of that name, all with that name, her name, her name, her. What would it have done, had he relived that moment? Would he have changed again? Would it had destroyed him? Or could he have been frozen forever in that vision, in that memory? Would he have killed her, killed her as he had the murderer? Would he have seen in her his damned smug face, his accusing eyes, his refusal to care, to own up? Would he have seen again that damn, cursed, devilish face? Would he have carved hers, as he had that one? Broken her as fully as he had the murderer? Could he have stopped himself, even had he seen her for herself, would he have wanted to? What control, what control; would there be any of himself left, if that hatred had been born within him yet again, if he fell again into that pit, that darkness; did he even truly remember that night, that fight? All he saw of it was blood and gore, and that damned face, that damn mocking face; so gripped by insanity he had been then, so far beyond himself; would he have fallen back to that darkness, to that sickness? Never, never had he regained himself, never since that hatred, for though it had dulled, the fire died down, still within him the embers glowed, sparked into flame so easily, so rapidly. Never had he regained himself, but if it flared again, if the inferno burned once more, if it gripped him as it had that night, what would have happened? He didn’t know, didn’t know, couldn’t ever know, for he’d never find out; for better or worse? Could it have shocked him back into his former self? Burned the hatred out once and for all? Or would it simply consume him, would he rave and slay and kill without end, until his pursuits ceased his eating, ceased his drinking, until he died, starved out, a husk, all within him that hatred, the only fuel, but not sufficient, would he have simply fallen, and then died? So close, so close to the unknown, so close; what would have happened? Did he even want to know? He did not even know whether it were fear or curiosity, an eagerness, which made his heart flutter, made him nearly begin to shake, to quiver, but he would not show weakness, not again, no, no, no, and he gripped himself, shed those ideas, those unknowns, shed them and they disappeared, and now, as his eyes refocus once again, all that is left, is her.

your touch is what i’m missing

♠ He had not lied, had not misspoken; his patience is shot, shot through to hell, gone. He wants her gone, wants her out of his sight, yet he cannot trust her, cannot leave her to her own devices; she will not speak that name, no, no, no, she will not, he won’t let her. Hatred, bubbling, glowing brighter, yet hatred which he can do nothing with, hatred which lies dormant, and it burns within him, scalding him, driving him closer and closer to action. He should kill her; the idea is as clear as day, should rip out her throat, finish the job, finish her, and solve his problems, solve his hatred, yet he cannot, cannot. He sees her, no longer she, the broken one, the beaten one, the hated one, but her Her and her smile, that damned smile; why, sister, why, why, why, why? Brother. And she smiles, smiles and smiles, so fresh the image, this time, so fresh, so bold, not merely the ghost; can he kill before her? He fought before her, glad she was watching, knowing he pleased her, for he fought for her, yet now, now, so fresh is her image, so quickly he questions himself, would she want this? Would she really? Too far, he’s gone too far, too far to go back, to find himself, to stop all this, yet can he do this, can he do this right now? And what of she? So easily she could bring him pain, so brave, so strong, so similar to he in the hatred which burned within her, and so much punishment she could bring him, all that relieving pain, how often would she try to wound him, how often might she succeed? Even now, he ached for claws to rake through his pelt, as though bleeding might remove the hatred, might relieve the pressure, or perhaps might simply cause her image to fade, cause that memory to flee, to dissipate for good, perhaps even return him to himself, to his new self, or whatever self he had been living, acting as. No, no, he wouldn’t kill her, not yet, not yet, not now, and yet still the decision does nothing, and it is with impatience, with annoyance and irritation, and an ever growing hatred, that he listens to her, hating each word, hating that voice, hating the very tongue which shaped them both. And it is that hatred which brings him back, and as he speaks his voice has returned; there is no ghost of softness, no memory of a soft-spoken brother, of a loving sibling, there is only he, he and his hatred, within this voice, and at last he believes he has control, though still his mind lays in turmoil, at last he believes it will not show, and he draws confidence from this, and speaks without caution, no longer so afraid that she might slip from his tongue. ”For you, it is a slave, for you will not leave here, and you will not disobey me,” he grinds out, ignoring her retraction, ensuring she understands; let her know, what damn good is in her ignorance? ”For everyone else, it’s whatever the hell you make them believe; I could care less.” He should be tired, he should be resting, should be tending his wounds, yet he cannot, cannot, for the hatred wills him on, wills him to action, and the wings, the wings, those damned things, his wings, her wing, black or blue, it makes no damn difference, get rid of them, get rid of them, he wants them gone. He wheels suddenly, hatred forcing his actions into jerky, rapid movements, hasty movements, as disjointed, disconnected as his wheeling thoughts. And, just as suddenly, he turns back, having remembered the wing; he might’ve left, might’ve run to the river, only to find it remained here, forgotten. ”Grab one; I’ll not have them around, I want these damned things out of here,” again his voice is gruff, half growl, loud, demanding. And, suddenly, jerkily, he drops, sinks his fangs into the base of a wing, and hauls it upwards. He pauses, gazes at her, cerulean gaze, too, hardened, as though it would make demands as readily as his voice, and then, without further word, he wheels away, turns on hind legs alone, and then he’s bounding off, hatred fueling him, giving energy to a body which should lay dead, lay lifeless, or simply lay bleeding. Can she keep up, will she even try? Yet she must, she must, for her own sake, she must.

Exit the Broken-Wing King

_{♠ ripshank
♠ 1258
♠ lyrics © skillet
♠ still iffy, but he’s getting there >.> to be continued, as soon as Rippy decides on a place to dispose of the wings at XD}
[/size]

[Miyu]

and she said we are all just prisoners here, of our own device

Damn him, damn him to hell, she thought viscously. Slave? I think not.
But you already accepted, oh witty Alphess. Or have you forgotten already?
Damnit. I did, didn't I?
Miyu heaved a great sigh, licking her flank to rid it of dried blood. Prisoner or not, she wasn't about to walk around like this forever.

and in the masters chambers, they gathered for the feast

"My fault?"
The cub cringed away from the angry leopard, her mind scattering.
"Yes, your fault." he mumbled, seemingly partly sane. "It's all your damn fault. You chased her away, you did! You chased her to the river with your damn cute laugh and your damn sarcastic charm, and she jumped 'cause she couldn't freaking take it anymore. It's all your fault!"

She sat there, her eyes going blank.
My fault? No, no, it wasn't like that. She didn't jump, not my mama, my mama didn't jump, no, no, NO! It wasn't my fault, wasn't my fault, wasn't my fault....
Vaguely she was aware of her father going outside, of her father's claws glinting in the dim sunlight, of her father's blood being splattered on the outside.
Vaguely she heard her father's dying words, the sigh of relief as he saw his beloved mate again.
"Your fault..."
She rushed outside, her eyes somewhat aware, her mouth ready to cry, "No!". But all that came out was a mumble as she saw her parents in all their glory, young and happy and healthy.
"Mama.... Daddy...." she mumbled, her paws automatically dragging her forward.
They didn't glance back.

they stab it with their steely knives, but they just cant kill the beast

"Not my fault," Miyu mumbled. "Not my fault."
She shook herself back to reality in time to see Ripshank bound out, much more alive than she.
"Get them out, right." She stood, her muscles feeling fractionally better, although her shoulder wounds were still throbbing in time with her heart.
Miyu experimentally stretched each leg, wincing at her front left leg, but feeling better at the others.
She picked up the broken wing, glaring at it angrily before stiffly bounding out after the Broken Wing King.

Exuent.

•miyu
•390
•lyrics from hotel california by the eagles
•got a new song AND a 400-word post! -feels proud-