HE had risen from the dead; literally. the night of the massacre he had been killed. his face had been ripped off, his soul leaking from that wound in crimson tides. yet here he stands, a murderous scar upon his face the only remnant of that evening. he had risen from the dead like a tidal wave of vengeance to roam the lands and feed off of those who were deemed ‘unfit’ to live any longer. in a way he was doing the world a favor, ridding it of pathetic parasites with no excuse to live. there was a hole within him, one that ached continuously and could only be satiated by the blood of others. but that satiation would only last him for so long. he would kill and feed and suddenly, merely days later he would be at it again, tearing the life away from a helpless victim. it was the ones who fought the hardest that tasted the best for it gave him satisfaction to earn that kill.
THE rains seem to crash harder, pelting his bodice causing a menacing snarl to form upon that battered, aged face. with the water brings the fresh scent of whom he seeks. he familiarity so very faint but his knee sense of smell causing recognition to flare within his subconscious. she draws near. almost on cue a lowly grow echoes from behind him, filling his ears and seeming to outdo the thunder itself. he acknowledges her with a mere flick of one ear towards her direction. yes, the best knows you are here darling. he just doesn’t quite give a damn. yet he must look upon her, see the face of the one who had enough gall to take his prodigy’s kingdom. either his daughter was weaker than he assumed or this new femme was something he had yet to meet. females were weak, pathetic creatures and for that reason he spared their lives. what point is there to fight when there is no fight to fight? a female kill was never earned and for that reason, he avoided them.
THE dead king turns, brilliant azuls coming to lock upon her face as lightening streaks across the sky. her own scarred face illuminates in the moment and he knows that this is the she-devil from the Grotto. so she had been more of a threat than the old male assumed? interesting. he almost laughs but instead lifts an upper kisser in mock amusement. those stained teeth seem to gleam in the darkness, the years of murder marking them forever. this dame had taken over his daughter’s lands? he was almost disappointed for he had expected…more...ears flatten across his skull though his stance is neutral, almost lazy. he poses no threat, or so it seems…
“tell me,” low, husky baritones flow from his deadly kissers like butter across bread. he speaks lowly, though he knows she can hear him. “do you remember my face?” he is curious, for it is rare that any forget such a nightmarish being. even fewer who live to tell the tale of Malikye himself. “you are the one they speak of, hm?” crystals trail along her frame easily, as if examining a rodent under a microscope. as those eyes flick back upon her face, they narrow. “not quite what i was expecting,”
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