Beneath the pines

Ravana’s breath came in short, ragged bursts, her body trembling with the aftershocks of the kill. The blood still ran warm beneath her claws, soaking the earth in a dark, sticky pool. Her heart thudded in a rapid cadence, a pulse in perfect rhythm with the violence she had unleashed. The scent of the bobcat’s death, the iron tang of blood, and the acrid musk of desperation still clung to the air, heavy and intoxicating. Every fiber of her being was alight with the thrill of it all, every instinct urging her to sink deeper into flesh and bone. She didn’t care about the how or why.

As Sephiran’s voice slithered into her ears, that oily, honeyed tone laced with twisted satisfaction, Ravana’s fur bristled—not with fear, but with anticipation. His words dripped with expectation, each syllable pulling at the strings of her darkest desires. He demanded more, his eyes glinting with a hunger that mirrored her own, though twisted into something darker, something far more grotesque. Exactly what she herself craved.

She met his gaze with a fierce, unyielding challenge, refusing to flinch beneath the weight of his looming presence. His command resonated within her, stirring the need to continue, to push further into that abyss of depravity. She felt his delight, his pleasure at watching her, and instead of recoiling, she leaned into it. If he wanted a spectacle, she would give him one—a performance. Others liked those, didn’t they?

Ravana’s lips curled back in a feral snarl, revealing dagger teeth still slick with gore. Her gaze dropped back to the lifeless corpse at her feet, the once-arrogant bobcat now reduced to a broken heap of flesh and fur. The Sultan wanted more. She would not disappoint.

With a low, rumbling growl, she set to work, her claws carving deep furrows into the already mangled flesh. She tore and ripped with a fervor that bordered on worship, reveling in the sensation of muscle giving way beneath her touch. Each tear, each fresh spurt of blood a reminder of her triumph, and not a single sinew went unnoticed by her rapturous mind. A bone to carve with small claws, the almost rubbery crush of artery and membranes within her maw. She liked reducing its life, it’s body, to nothing.

She was aware of Sephiran circling her, albeit distantly, for did not waver in her attention to detail. This was as much for herself as it was for him.

When at last she looked up, her fur matted and stained, her eyes gleamed with a wicked satisfaction. The corpse was barely recognizable, an unholy splatter against the cold ground. The girl herself was nearly dyed crimson herself, her face entirely soaked in the coagulating liquid, falling in chunks down her chin and cheeks. But those lilac eyes of hers, they were sparkling and bright – wide with the thrill of her dance with death.

“This,” She rasped, voice thick with exertion and dark glee as she stepped closer to her father. “Is what I will make of it.” She licked the blood from her claws, savoring the metallic tang on her tongue.

"Ravana Seraphim Saxe"