ISCARIOT

At the close of the battle a storm had brewed. Snow had begun to settle in the battlefield but on the trail home the snow turned into heavy rain. He had trailed Medusa since she had exited her victorious fight to insure that no others would follow her. His trail had been silent and paced so the woman would not find him. Though his pelt was obvious against the snow it was near impossible to spot Deteste in a storm. It was under the condition of a storm that he worked his best. His affect had remained stoic since he had left Jupiter's match and in every flash of lighting there was no emotion that touched his face. Even his heart was slow. Cold as the ice beneath his calloused feet.



Deteste had never met this woman but he nearly clearly knew who she was and the behavior that was likely to greet him once he settled to care for her. He had felt confident that both Jupiter and Medusa would be the victors in this harrowing event. It was not a lack of confidence that drove Deteste to follow the woman in the eve of her victory. It was irrevocable sense of duty that he could not help. Much as his desire burned to watch Jupiter rip the throat from the crazed son of a bitch she was putting down. Even thinking of her now, miles from her, his lips grew taut and an nervous twitch in his tail swung it angrily against the trunk of a near by mangrove. He also knew of Medusa's attachment to the Sol. He need not speak of it with Jupiter but to simply witness their interactions afar. Though his desires for Jupiter were radically different from Medusa's, their fixation on the russet, lavander-eyed woman was very much the same. Deteste didn't want to fuck her, he didn't really want to fuck anyone honesty (perhaps he was getting old), but he had a fervent desire to serve her in any and every way and he would obey her every demand even as she planned to send him miles from herself and from Ludicael into Amenti territory.




The shower broke but the thunder and lightning persisted. A violent strike of the immaculate light revealed the man mere feet from Medusa, his dampened pelt dripping and slicked to the lean muscle in his body. What are your wounds? he spoke, timbre languid, observing her more obvious wounds cooly as the words slipped in the form of white mist from his jowls. He shook, drying himself best he could in this manner, before closing the distance between them and taking a seat next to the new queen and the woman he would be serving beside. A woman who would not be Jupiter. He eyed her, his cerulean glance piercing. I think you know who I am. He stated, giving the woman a pause before folding his neck and tending to the wound she could not reach with a tender but thorough stroke.



"speech"