<font color=430000 face=georgia size=1>YOU SHALL KNOW ME BY THE TRAIL OF BLOOD</font>

A chuckle, deep and abominably licentious, clicks about in his knotted windpipe at her proclamation, for some reason choosing to dispel the use of the juvenile moniker she seemed so found of using in his presence. It was not an admirable tendency to sling about such asinine alternatives when she was all too aware of what his true calling was; however, Abraxus was nothing if not decidedly confident that he could obliterate this particularly irksome nuance. �If your eyes are sore for the absence of my face, then I daresay Moladion seems to have rekindled its prosaic roots. No wonder I have come upon no familiar faces aside from yours, they all must have perished from their boredom.� His tone might have lent some passing sense of sarcasm or unorthodox humor to the syllables, and yet it would have been folly to declare this statement solely jest. If all else is for naught, he seeks information from his old acquaintance. Information, knowledge, was tantamount� and he sought it as fervently as some might have sought sustenance, for it was the initial step�

For a time he allows her eyes to wander over him, neither perturbed nor particularly gratified by the wanton manner in which she seems to visually devour ever calloused morsel of flesh� as if she has been famished in his absence. In truth, Abraxus had grown quite accustomed to the glances he so often received when in the presence of others. So often the sheltered dullards were stricken by the paradox of their own fearful curiosity, at once desiring to feast their disbelieving eyes and to be rid of the macabre spectacle that was his mangled face. He pardons her silent consideration, for indeed he has been executing his own in the void of their verbal jousting� until she moves to touch. Her body, so lithe and helplessly minor in comparison to his own, brushes eagerly against the rigidity of his wealth of muscle and flesh.

Abraxus moves, far more deftly than would be believed of a beast bearing the heft that he did, cords of packed sinew pulling easily over bone and twisting him into position. The torn and parted curtain of his lip pulls upwards, unsheathing a fearsome set of cutlery as he grasps swiftly for the abundant flesh of at her nape. No growl rumbles from within, nor does he exert even a modicum of the force to which he is privy upon her, choosing instead to simply hold her there, her flesh subjected to the embrace of his fangs. Given a pause marked by its brevity, Abraxus relinquishes his hold upon her, still-bloodied mouth slipping to a single, dainty ear. �I owe you nothing.� The intonation is but a hiss, and yet it seems to reverberate upon the bark of every tree, to ping from the sloping surface of every leaf. Deliberately the behemoth moves from her, a few footfalls and nothing more, before the horrific Cheshire grin that is his custom bleeds its influence unto his face yet again. �If hunger leaves you desperate, there are a few scattered bones left yonder to bleach in the sun� you can suck the marrow from them if your stomach tortures you so.�

Name:
Subject:
Message:

Password To Edit Post: