NO LAUGHING MATTER

N/A · 04-22-2013, 03:58 PM

The soft trickling of the tiny waterfall outside of her den was the only sound that echoed in her den. The massive den was impressive, easily fitting several wolves and yet only one lingered. A tiny, lithe thing that had compacted itself in a ball, a silver, gleaming ball of stardust whose only sign of life was the steady rise and fall of its chest. Her back was turned to the outside world, blocking the whims of everyone and anything from her view. Her mind was a dangerous thing at the moment, a ticking time bomb just waiting to burst. Her Neo was gone. Lost to her and reclaimed by the most foul group of wolves she had ever had the displeasure of meeting, but had Tortuga done a God damned thing? Even after everything Neo had risked to be here? No. They threw him away like trash and Luce was livid.

Her emotions entangled themselves, flipping from rage to depression, from fury to tears. Haywire and scattered, such emotions she never felt the likes of, assaulted her now and she was afraid to move, afraid that she would relapse, sink so far into her poppies in an attempt to numb all these God damned feelings that she would simply overdose and die. She was afraid she would do something foolish, like traverse into Valhalla and demand her son returned. She was afraid she would rip Nnoitra to shreds and his God damned son of an false King because they stood and did fucking nothing to save him! Fury flooded her veins and her bodice trembled. Trembling with the desire for revenge, the desire for blood, the desire for retribution... and so she stayed compacted in her den, her own little piece of heaven and she had not moved. For hours... days... she cared not. Time mattered little.

But her bubble, her contained peace was shattered by the ear splitting howl of the bitch Morphine. For the first time in days icy blue eyes would snap open, pupils dilated from the sudden acceptance of light. Her lips coiled back over her teeth and a snarl befitting a demon of hell erupted from her larynx, echoing through her den like something vile. Her head would lift, facing the world outside, vicious hatred replacing the blood within her veins. Her legs would gather beneath her and the emaciated form would rise with unusual grace, muscles groaning as they shifted and bones cracking as they were forced to move. She stalked through the forest, eyes narrowed in a glare with enough hatred to make the foulest of souls wince. Hackles rose, claws dug into the moist earth with every provisioned step she took and her bodice was lowered in a stalk. The seductive saunter? Gone. Thoughts of lust and seduction? Vanished. She stopped at the edge of the tree line, not wanting to enter the mass of the pack. Her lips were curled, poisoned over glittering white fangs, hackles raised and ears pinned back against her cranium. She would kill anyone who dared approach her. Emaciated or no.

Speech,

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