Bite Me

It was true she could not deny the profane intoxication of other wolves, a convolution she’d wittingly avoid at all costs -- what need did she have to congress, or even partake?

What could they possibly offer such a volatile cacodemon?

Still, the monolithic palisades rose above, deciphering feasible options; there wasn’t many, howbeit, aside from peregrination, harrowing the earth or simply leaving. The latter tasted sweeter, really. Lebraid was not affixed, but rather cynical, restive, much like a ticking time bomb that had no end to its countdown. The pain on her underbelly stung, natty clods of hair collecting rolls of mire and soot. Soon, however, there was a sound, ever so subdued as it seemingly entered the labyrinth’s nexus -- monochromatic orbs pulled taut, spying -- what came evinced a blizzard. Well, only in the robe they wore. The woman did not move, almost unblinking as their tinctures bled a tempest of navy, ateneo and sunless grey-blue’s, sanctified by the break of pallid, ivory-washed oceans. A raw, chasmic rumble bellowed from the graveyard’s gullet, undaunted by the man’s girth in collation to her own – drool vined, hackles infernal as expression’s were frozen like eldritch verglas. And who, pray tell, were they? Admittance to descending would not be explicit, barring afflictions as she stared, eerily. Perchance they were here for the same reasons, yet it still may not be; on the contrary, who’s to say otherwise?

It was an impaling disaffirmation, of course.

Action. | “Speech.” | Skill.
“Wrong me once, I’ll kill you twice.”