Yarrabelle is, of course, the eager participant. Auriga casts her sister a delighted smile and snickers, jaws covered in gore; the eyeballs come out, and Auriga leans down, her jaws snapping at the creature again. As it struggles, she hooks her jaw, squinting, beaming ear to ear as she's given the eyes as a gift. A gift! Perfect.
Auriga twists. This?
This part right here, while the creature still spasms, while the sheep still bleats?
This is art. She reaches out to touch her sister's paw at one point. "No, no, like this." She murmurs, throat thick, voice tight. If she had a woman, she would -- oh, fuck her over the corpse itself, the twitching, dying thing --
Auriga snorts and gets back to harvesting the pelt of the sheep, slowly, tortuously, pulling the creature's skin away. It doesn't stop screaming, even as she degloves its ribcage. Beautiful. How fucking beautiful.
"Auriga"
