Freak On a Leash

Lebraid knew what infelicitous tortures would come from this, yet despite it all, temerity fed the fire. It bled from the very core of this cacodemon’s hellish soul, gambolling in the skin of what could only be described as cataclysmic, a phantom bound by anaemic blizzards born in purgatory.

She burdened no magnanimity, no prudence –– simply a verklempt desire to bury them alive. Mayhap it be a challenge of superiority, gaiety, vigour, but did she care? There was truly no telling what Lebraid may or may not do, the pulpy, plush texture of their beefy tissue having triggered a caged ecstasy, with its candied, irony topper spritzing a decorous relish. A ploy of passionate rage, malevolence electrified flesh and fibre, almost groaning at the taut clasp, poisoned with maelstrom on whether it hurt, or if she revelled in it. She may be a foreigner in these lands, but no stranger to a battlefield, nor death and absolute carnage. Even so, their orders only plumed a snarl made of grotesque ruination, unsuccessful in tearing their fucking face off; spitter slummed from agape jaws, canines bared in festooning possession of, well, raw ferity. The holler of wails continued to beg, plead, as warm clots of blood murked Lebraid’s chin and hip. Pain, even, whispered shivers down her spine like a gluttonous beast who yearned for more.

For a child, their dauntlessness pillared promise, yet she’d never admit such candour. No, they didn’t deserve it.

There was a tempest that brewed in the graveyard’s toneless gaze, jacket jostling a bullish demeanour -- the boy’s words held goad, and she snarled -- they had no idea, truly. Devil’s incarnate, a living nightmare. My, how moronic they must be to believe this would be the end, because she refused to take it as a privation, “For now.” Dark, granular vocals fret past wet lips, poising a discreet warning clothed in covenant hellfire. She’d stare, breath laden and plagued. Ludovic, was it? You see, she wasn’t one to give out privacies so easily, however, in order to get exactly what she wanted, cards must be played. Calculative, manipulative; she ached for more, temptation savaging in low, chasmic rumbles. “Lebraid,” She’d add, eyes never leaving theirs, “Tell me, where do you come from, bairn?” An assumption, an insult, however they chose to take it –– either way, a deadpan expression tuned to demure the mania, skin still twitching with draconic volatility.

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