Silvanus
Cub
The Philosophic Gentleman
..I stood close enough to hear you say, "Do as the beautiful ones do"..
Posts: 81
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Post by Silvanus on Sept 24, 2008 12:01:00 GMT -5
Skeletal trees and unseen eyes bored into a lone figure lolloping unevenly across the terrain, a mere speck in the cradle of a curse. A gentle breeze rasped bare branch upon bare branch, punctuating an otherwise heavy and unnatural hush with the consonant hiss of the foreboding lands of the Balkar. And with night on the rise and Fenris’ comfort all but disappeared from the unfurling banners of twilight, it was a sad and frightening land even to those who knew nothing of the Night Hunters and their dark deeds. The air itself seemed pregnant with malevolence and the scent of stale fear, as though the very earth and detritus on the forest floor had been bathed in it and left to ferment, and no amount of self-reassurance could assuage that ill sense; any Varg behind Balkar borders was behind enemy lines.
And one philosophic gentleman, asymmetric in his increasingly reluctant gait, was beginning to realize the portent of the foolhardy sojourn on which he had embarked. Although, he was beginning to wonder if his earlier machinations were not the result of foolishness or insanity, now that he was enwreathed with the unwelcoming landscape of the most feared and hated Varg in Transylvania.
Silvanus paused, panting slightly and letting his one good eye adjust to the deepening shade. It had been days now since he’d descended from the loneliness of the mountains, broken once by a kind fae he’d met there, but whose path had intersected his only by the arbitrary whim of fate and then diverged as quickly as it had been found. The ebon mann shifted his weight between his three usable legs, suddenly becoming acutely aware of a thirst and hunger that had seemingly followed him down the craggy path and was now catching up to him. Come now, old boy, Silvanus sternly instructed himself. You’re not so irrational as to spook at shadows and superstition. This is not merely a test of faith and worth, it’s a test of nerve. The time to stop is not now. Reassured by his own silent thoughts, the sable-coated wayfarer gave a final appraising look at the setting staring disapprovingly back down at him, and pushed himself forward.
He would no longer be merely collecting and regurgitating legend. He’d be making it. Tor and Fenris, that they existed, would guide and protect him. That they didn’t...the revelation and the release would be his just the same. The thought was the levy that held back the fear of trespassing on land so unbidden, so ferocious, so unforgiving.
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Post by Carnage on Oct 7, 2008 1:24:35 GMT -5
Say goodbye As we dance with the Devil tonight Don't you dare look at him in the eye The air was thick like a dense fog, though such an atmosphere was common to the dark lands. Rarely was the air much thinner, for the horrible tales that revealed the secrets and treacherous nature of the forbidden sect of the forest produced a sort of tension that could not for the life of Fenris be expelled. Trespassers to the site would feel their breath caught in their throat, their heartbeats racing and sides heaving faster and faster as they struggled in vain to devour the air that the onset of panic told them they needed. Fear was all around, it hung in the air and blanketed every rock and tree in such a fashion that escape from it was impossible.
For the faithless inhabitants of the dead lands, the fear was natural. It was of no consequence of them, for it was not their fear that coated the land like morning dew might cover lands beyond the border. They were machines, inhaling the smoke of their own existence with ease, pleasure, even, as they fed greedily off of their environment. The cogs within their slick minds turned methodically, giving little thought to the savage deeds they committed without consideration or even consciousness. The only awareness came from the sense of sheer satisfaction they derived from the pain they elicited. Drawing the screams of their victims with calculated incisions or blunt force and careless lashing out was enough to invoke smiles on the faces of the monsters.
Trudging over the undergrowth was a beast of gargantuan proportions. In the waning light the darkness of his fur was nigh indistinguishable from the shadows that surrounded him, though the last remaining streaks of twilight betrayed his pelt to be an odd mixture of ebony and flame. His top coat was as black as the ravens that swarmed the territory, while his underbelly, forelegs and an odd patch on his back burned as bright as the orange hues of the sky. Weaving between the trunks of gnarled, cringing trees, his bear-like form was hulking and oppressive; Rather than walk with his head held high, he often took the form of a stalking hyena, his shoulder blades held higher than his neck appeared as rigid peaks beneath his thick mane.
Taking in another gratifying breath of smoke, he let the tension fill his lungs before snorting the air out through his nose. A foreign scent was adrift on the air, doing what it could to make its way through the thick atmosphere. The scent was fresh, and told of a trespasser who had recently passed over the Balkan border. Glowing lanterns narrowed in the darkness as his smile spread and forced them to take the shape of twin crescents. Suddenly his gait increased, carrying him faster over the twisted tree roots and through the dense thicket until he was able to discern the distant shape of the stranger. Knowing that the mann would have no problem detecting his approach, for he was barreling along at break-neck speed, he cared not for stealth and let a low growl that soon escalated to a hellish howl; The banshee-like call echoed off of the Listern mountains long after he had closed his maw.
Had he wanted to, he would have had no problem with maintaining his speed and running the bastard from the territory. Upon drawing closer though, something about the stranger baffled him. Skidding to a halt, dirt and small stones sprayed up as his claws flexed for traction and balance. The appearance of the stranger, though confusing, brought a grin back to his features. His half-blind gaze was reminiscent of the current First of the Balkar, Carcharoth, though they were void of any malice and instead infused with a sad glaze. Aside from his half-blown eyesight, the ebon stranger stood awkwardly, though his posture was still one of pseudo-elegance. After a moment of observation, it suddenly dawned on him that this mann was a cripple. The very thought of the nerve this fool had, wandering carelessly past the gates of hell despite his handicap forced a flood of terrible, booming laughter from the belly of the beast. "Who do you think you are?" He jested, his voice holding more disbelief than curiosity. "A bit out of your element, don't you think, old man?" He snapped his jaws at the end of his sentence as he began to circle the mann. There was no need to size up the situation, it would be the equivalent of a grizzly sizing itself up to a rabbit. A lame one, at that. His temper was short and his patience was shorter yet. Once the bloodlust set in there would be no stopping him, and the somewhat formal mannerisms that remained for the moment would soon be lost in a flurry of torn flesh and flying fur. A low growl began to rise from his throat, foretelling of the suffering to come.
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Silvanus
Cub
The Philosophic Gentleman
..I stood close enough to hear you say, "Do as the beautiful ones do"..
Posts: 81
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Post by Silvanus on Oct 10, 2008 2:45:13 GMT -5
I saw a saviour, a saviour come my way I thought I'd see it in the cold light of day But now I realize that I'm only for me Like the scream of an unholy demon, sound fell upon Silvanus like a funeral pall. The sound echoed tormentously, off of the hollows and the trees and the low-hanging sky itself, seemingly imprisoned by the thickness of the very air itself. All the apprehension and self-doubt that he'd just carefully tucked away came bustling back like a lump in his throat, practically threatening to make him gag if he did not give it credence. With a refusal of will, he once more quashed the doubt welling within him, but its strength was something that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. There was no doubt in the gentleman's quaking thoughts that such a familiar yet alien sound could belong only to the familiars of this land, the stewards of this bizarre and hellish domain. The very atmosphere seemed to respire with hateful fervor, the forked branches of the trees seemed to scrutinize him with malice...the howl that swept down upon the ebon mann was simply giving a voice to all the terror and antipathy that completely saturated this forlorn corner of the land. And there was no question in Silvanus' mind that its intonations bade for him. There was the threat and the promise that he would be found. The gentleman tensed, craning his neck left and right in hopes of catching a glimpse of any assailants before they were upon him, but he was still refusing to grant the fear writhing in his stomach any quarter save the slight trembling in his weight-bearing forelimbs. A sound like the locomotion of a rock-slide bustled up from the dying reverberations of the howl, heralding the approach of something large...very large. Out of the steaming gloom there was the ember-like glint of a pair of smoldering eyes, so wrathful that they could have belonged to Wolfbane himself, but their presence was merely a flash before the rest of the beast emerged, bowling full strength at Silvanus. His composure was crumbling, but just before the urge to run consumed him, as futile as an endeavor as it would have been, the monstrous Varg approaching him skidded to a halt. Barely of a mind even able to assess the situation, the only thoughts thrumming electrically in his mind were that this adversary had to be the biggest mann he had ever seen, and wore the most maleficent expression he had erstwhile beheld. His very pelt, where it was not black as the deepest pit, was orange like a blossoming flame. Silvanus gawked, but words reached him with booming clarity. There was no mistaking the threat standing before him in the form of a bear-like fiend, no matter the pretense of conversation. He managed to calm his racing nerves long enough to process the address of this antagonist. With considerable effort, he straightened his naturally-crooked stance and tried to stand as erect and dignified as his comparatively pathetic vessel would allow. It was true that this robust monster was god-like relative to the crippled mann. [/color] "My name is Silvanus," he ventured with all the calm he could muster, but his voice may have devolved into a tremolo as it fell. He chose, perhaps unwisely, to ignore the sarcasm and threat dripping from this night hunter's maw. He inclined his head, knowing full well that he looked every bit the misfit he was, and bore no scents or marks to tie him to pack or family. "As I'm sure you have noticed, my good sir, I have no element to call my own."
The air itself was more palpable than before were it possible, thickened by the tension between them. Silvanus felt like his lungs labored just to suck in the noisome air. This was the Balkar's domain, and he was sure that by the size of this brute he must be speaking to one of higher rank. His mind danced, as if into a memory of some other life, back to his conversation in the mountains with a Listern fae and of the legend he had invented that was the main reason for his being behind enemy lines at present. Some of his initial terror faltered at this noble, if not completely delusional fancy, and he managed to lift his gaze from the Balkar hunter's legs and chest and into his diabolic countenance. "And to whom do I have the honor of speaking?"
He was not tempting fate; it was fate that tempted him.
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Post by Carnage on Oct 26, 2008 16:46:34 GMT -5
((God-moding approved; let me know if you want anything changed.))
With glowering eyes gazing down like crescents of fire, he watched not only with mild amusement, but with vexation as the humble cripple readjusted his stance. Weakness was something that he, as well as the others of the Balkan race, was unable to tolerate. Sympathy and pity for the less fortunate had been bred out of their systems through generations of painstaking training and the shaping of already biased minds. Although this male's weakness had less to do with choice or lack of will, his inferiority was viewed all the same, if not worse, for even had wanted to be brave, his malformed body would render such courage worthless.
His irritated leer continued straight through the male's introduction, his eyes focused all the while on the male's glaring deformities. One of his hind legs stuck out at an odd angle, unable to be placed squarely on the ground. He guessed that this setback made it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for the pathetic wretch to run. For a moment he wondered how he managed to sustain himself, how he succeeded in catching meals for himself with that terrible, twisted limb. The serenity of the cripple's voice brought the lacan's attention back to his countenance. Silvanus. The name had an air of sophistication that angered him, as though this hop-a-long was trying to prove something by venturing to a place he was not meant for. His tone was not condescending, merely eloquent, though the brute's short temper had added elements to the male's speech that another set of ears would not have heard.
"Silvanus?" he spoke with disdain, his dark lips curled into a sneer. Without warning he rose a massive paw, which then came hurtling down and struck the male forcefully in the face, the momentum of the blow sending him crashing to the ground. "You're as stupid as you are disfigured, and you dare to wonder why you are without? Your gods have not been kind to you- you do them great disgrace." Looming over the crumpled excuse for a wolf, strands of saliva began trickling from his mouth, some dropping to land on the pelt of the fallen wolf. "What makes you think..." he hissed, leaning in close to the male's ear, "That you can hobble your scrawny ass here, of all places? You seek to walk amongst gods when you have not even the right to walk amongst mortals?!" His voice has risen to a roar, the tone had shifted from concealed malice to full-blown rage for this mann's insolence and frailty. "You talk of honor, yet how can such a word flow so freely from the mouth of a Varg who has reached the pinnacle of his existence amongst the filth and vermin? Honor is not something you should be concerned with at the present," he spat, eyes narrowed to tiny, glowing slits embedded in his dark facade. "You want to know who I am?" He chuckled grimly and placed a heavy paw on the throat of the patronizing bastard. "I am merely one of many in these lands who wouldn't bother giving your petty existence a second look, but since it's my territory you've stumbled into, your pathetic existence is not something to be taken lightly or turned away from." The pressure of his paw increased as he spoke, threatening to crush the male's trachea. "I knew a mann, once. Years ago," His features were scrunched in mock-recollection, as though he were having trouble recounting the details of the tale. "Even as a cub he knew he was destined for something great, something more than his element had to offer. One night, he left it all behind, though certain...precautions had to be taken, to insure that his inproperly-assinged element would not try and follow him further. He destroyed everything that had been holding him back, knowing that it would do him no service in the future. When he arrived in these lands, he had become stronger than his previous element ever would have allowed. He had accelled in every way, and eventually made his way to the top of the ranks." Leaning in close to the male's face, the intensity of his voice caused some spittle to fly from his mouth and stick to Silvanus's muzzle. "He assured me first-hand that he doesn't tolerate weakness. It's out of his element. He's not taking well to your presence here." He growled, snorting hot air into Silvanus's face as he roughly pressed his nose against the snout of the grotesque. "Carnage is his name, and he will be the end of you." As his sentence drew to a close, his paw pressed firmly once more to the male's throat before pushing forcefully off of the tender flesh, the inky talons scraping across the ground below and flinging dirt onto the shriveled, ebon form.
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Silvanus
Cub
The Philosophic Gentleman
..I stood close enough to hear you say, "Do as the beautiful ones do"..
Posts: 81
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Post by Silvanus on Nov 16, 2008 22:16:05 GMT -5
The gentleman studied his demonic antagonist, as much a nightmare as he could have ever dreamed up in fitful sleep. Having given his even-keeled introduction, and pleased that his voice had not broken in betrayal of the stifling fear that was threatening to take hold of him and not let go, Silvanus fancied that he had a moment to size up this hulking Balkar male, wearing his eerie black and orange colors like intimidating war paint contrived by the gods. This brute was the size of a bear, but crediting with home field advantage where his look fit in as congruously as a spider in a sepulcher, he could have been the size of a mountain. His eyes burned like embers, seething with inexplicable hatred. It went beyond territorial encroachment, and bordered on total personal loathing, as though the handicapped mann had done him exclusive injustice, though the two had never crossed paths before. Was this blind rage and pure, unadulterated odium the true face of the Balkar?
Silvanus had no time to ponder it. Foolishly, he had been fully expecting some sort of reply in words. Instead it came in a hammer-like blow, a concussion that slammed his teeth together as his head was thrown down and buckled his front legs which collapsed beneath him like inconsequential splints. He hit the ground as heavily as though he had been thrown from a precipice, and his head and ribs shrieked in protest where the ground had met him hardest. His reaction a split-second behind, it took him a moment to realize the searing pain on his forehead and his grounded position had really happened at all. The pain he felt was sharp and stinging and alien...how long had it been since he'd felt real physical pain outside the dull aches of his deformities and the ways they taxed his joints? Pain outside the mental realm? He recalled it distantly, as though it had been lifetimes ago. All the numbness of his wayfaring kerl life faded into practical mythology in the face of this new radiating and foreign sensation of hurt.
The Balkar's words came swimming to him over the ringing in his ears, disdainful and unabashed. They were ugly words--stupid, disfigured, disgrace. Though he tried with little difficulty to keep his face impassive save with its recovering contortion from the buffet, these particular adjective hurt nearly as bad. Now that he thought about it, it had been many a moon since anyone had called him out as such. Had he been fortunate in meeting mostly the kind Varg of Transylvania for the most part, or misfortunate in wandering into the lands of their opposite? Today is a day of firsts,[/i][/color] thought the mann, and he swallowed painfully. And perhaps lasts.[/i][/color]
From the sound of his adversary's wrathful voice, he had set him on a tirade of sorts. Silvanus had not bothered to try to pick himself up yet, his mind still reeling, but the cur in him wished he had as the bearish foe lumbered over and stomped unkindly down upon the gentleman's outstretched neck. The soliloquy had evolved into a brief mix of an autobiography and an introduction, and for some reason this extended means of introducing himself only heightened the sensation of dealing with some larger-than-life demonic entity rather than a Varg of the same flesh and bone as he himself. So Carnage was his name, and an apt one it was, there was no doubt. The ebon mann had been feeling the blood pulsing hot under the skin and fur of his face as the weight of the Night Hunter, of high rank he now knew, bored-ever harder and cut off both air and circulation. Just as fireflies began to surge at the corners of his one-eyed vision, though, Carnage none-too-gently pushed away, sending bits of dirt and grime into the air.
His final sentence had been the most foreboding of all. Mortality was nigh.
The marks of time were passed by a few rasping lungfuls of air, his innards and throat still aching sorely as the seconds ticked, before he decided that he would be given opportunity enough to at least stand or rebut. He stifled a cough, struggling to cling to whatever whisper of pride his enfeebled body could dignify him, and slowly pushed himself to his three-legged stance. His head was the last to follow his corpus back to an erect pose, but as he resumed posture, the nobility and refinement with which he habitually carried himself resumed involuntarily as well. Though he had not meant it to be defiant or belligerent, some twisted part of him hoped it would be; nevermind what the gods gave him, his pride was his own.
"How fortunate that I should not only meet one of the Balkar," said he, when his composure was regained. "But a dignitary, no less. A self-proclaimed god, no less." An eavesdropping Varg would have been hard pressed to divine whether Silvanus was being subtly snide or routinely polite. He gave a genteel nod to his assailant, as though they had been discussing the weather mere moments before and not the ebon varg's eminent demise. "But I do admit that I owe an explanation for my presence here. Allow me to elucidate, Carnage." The name sounded foreign and ugly on his silk-tongued voice.
"The gods gave me the form you see before you for reasons I cannot divine, but I trust they would not create something for the purpose of disgracing themselves. I am here because I believe I was made for something--scoff if you must--and I'd rather find it or die than go on letting the world turn underneath mismatched feet.” His shoulders shrugged slightly, though he was still aquiver with the pain alive in his skin and bone and the innate fear that leeched onto anyone who entered these lands uninvited. His voice had been bordering on hateful, but it was neither in his personality or his best interest to outright provoke the beast. The mann’s voice petered into something like resignation. ”At any rate, if I am the have-not that you make me out to be, then there is nothing of me for you to take.” His last words were lower, quieter, and he half-hoped that somehow he might somehow get a real answer, though he knew that by far, another attack was more likely. ”By your own words, why would a god waste his time on me?”
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Post by Carnage on Nov 24, 2008 23:18:09 GMT -5
He grunted in approval as he listened to the wretch fight for breaths of air; a commodity that was once so effortless to attain was now something to pray for and cherish. He reveled in the fact that he had the authority and power to take everything from this mann, and give nothing in return. Not all gods were kind, as this mann would soon learn, not all gods had a benevolent, self-bettering motive behind their otherwise cruel-looking actions. The Balkar did not concern themselves with teaching lessons or giving chances; the only souls who had taken some greater knowledge from their encounters with the Night Hunters found such lessons useless in death.
The persistence displayed by the dark mann before him was amazing, even he had to admit. It might even be called honorable, or brave by his contemporaries. He wondered how many countless others who had no doubt stumbled upon this bumbling old fool had paid him respect instead of disgust; How many had been able to look past his glaring flaws with smiling faces and recite practiced lines of complaisance to that half-blind gaze? He could hardly stand the thought of such lies and deceit being offered up as praises to the male with the broken body. While he was sure that the male's ears were no strangers to crudeness, there was little doubt that he had reawakened something bitter within the cripple; something dark and demeaning that had been forced away with the passage of time and the comforting, misleading reinforcements from the more polite passerby.
"How odd, to see you standing after such a blow, when you have enough trouble standing on your own with that mangled excuse for a leg." His expression consisted of a perverted joy, his grin growing to encompass the whole of his features. "The ground suits your kind much better, I think." He spoke as he stared down into the mismatched eyes that were now glaring up at him in defiance. Under normal pretenses, such a stubborn show of pride and obstinacy would have his blood boiling. However, such haughtiness coming from this male was more of a spectacle than anything else. He could hardly believe the attitude that the misshapen creature had taken on, the hard glint in his amber eye that seemed a silent challenge to the hulking monster.
"Yes, how fortunate," he hissed, taking a step closer to Silvanus. "How fortunate that you were in the wrong place at the right time, and that a god was here to meet you, to show you back to the path you are to follow." His grin was one not quite of dementia, for the male was not crazed in the literal sense, as much as he was excited at the promise of helping lead this male to salvation. "Any other god would turn their head away from you, as they always have." His yellow eyes seemed somehow cold as they stared down into the face of the male, his paws taking him ever closer, almost forcing his opponent backwards. "Perhaps I was wrong, and what your creators actually had in mind was not disgrace, but amusement. How they must be laughing at your struggles as your fellow mortals do behind your crooked spine."
The mislead male's pitiful attempt at justifying his own existence made Carnage chuckle grimly. "Dear Silvanus," he began, the words dripping from his tongue were soaked with rancor. "Of course you were made for something, though if your purpose is not clear by now, then I am afraid there is no hope for you." He licked his lips before continuing, eliminating some of the slaver that had begun to ooze from his gaping maw. "You are an ant in the Devil's Realm," he hissed, "Your purpose is to make others stop and stare in wonder and disgust. You test their moral spirit and turn their gods against them, you make them sing praises of thanks to the empty skies that they were not born as you were. Decrepit. Dysfunctional." Golden lanterns narrowed to mere slits as he stood at his full height, rather than slinking at Silvanus' level. "To answer your question," he began, his voice deep and rumbling like thunder in the open sky, "It is a god's duty to reprimand the impure and discard the filth of the earth. Only the strong survive, while the weak and damaged are destined to perish; this is the natural order of things." Taking another step forward, he was nose to nose with Silvanus, his dark nares creasing the muzzle of the smaller mann as he pushed his face roughly into his opponent's. "That is where you are wrong, misguided fool! There is always something more to take!" He was roaring now, his teeth bared as he flew into another fit of blind rage. Snatching Silvanus' muzzle in his powerful jaws, he crushed the mann's snout between his fangs, then thrashed his head to the side to toss the mann off his feet once more.
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Silvanus
Cub
The Philosophic Gentleman
..I stood close enough to hear you say, "Do as the beautiful ones do"..
Posts: 81
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Post by Silvanus on Jan 10, 2009 0:21:20 GMT -5
Silvanus' skin prickled underneath his fur as though alive with the creeping of unclean creatures. It was the closest to blind anger that he had felt in many a moon, and yet his practiced diction and mannerisms quietly forbid him from belying the true and uncomfortably personal depth to which that gall burned. His words did what they always were meant to do: hide or distract others from the unpalatable things he had to offer.
His question though, was not to be unanswered, and as Carnage snorted with hateful amusement and what could have even been perceived as a tinge of lunacy, every vestige of self-satisfaction in his controlled reply evaporated like so much morning dew under Fenris' unrelenting gaze. The bearish brute advanced slowly upon him, causing the mann to involuntarily take a step back. There was no mistaking the meanness, the bloodlust, the anger, and the cruelty roiling and building behind his lamp-like orbs.
In one horrifying moment, absurdity and fear clamped its jaws down upon the disabled ebon mann, and he wondered if he had made a horrible mistake. What if this really was a god? What if there was no such thing as benevolence? What if his existence really was nothing but the sum of a worthless mistake or a cosmic farce? Like a poorly-architected structure, Silvanus felt his resolve threatening to crumble in upon itself, taking with it his will to live.
Persistently, he groped for reason. No...surely that could not be...[/i] But even as he pleaded with himself to rebel against the words of the slavering monster, their aim was straight and true, and their barbs sunk with ferocious accuracy into his most vulnerable emotional viscera, and the sting was so stringent it could not be shrugged off.
As if on cue, Carnage advanced still further towards him, his words taking a more dangerous turn again, and targeting the last resistance and tenuous hope he yet had for his life, such that it was. The purpose for which he longed. [/color]Don't listen, old fool, don't listen. This brute is no more a god than he is a rock or tree. Do not be convinced, do not be so easily intimidated...[/i][/color] His trembling, three-legged feet scrabbled against the earth as he involuntarily shrunk back from the drooling yellow fangs and suffocatingly hot breath as they were shoved unceremoniously into his own countenance. His internal pleas became more feeble, though, weakened at the cracks by terror, not just of Carnage but of what he might say. Do not believe him! The phrase sounded so pathetic even echoing in his mind, that Carnage's words, so well-placed and malicious that their cruelty that they were almost elegant, easily and deftly overpowered him.
They were the last hammer-blow to the very last shim holding his aspirations up. Carnage could not had landed more precise a blow than if he'd torn the mann's throat out then and there, for the razor-like words were equally deadly in Silvanus' half-blind eyes. He spoke with such assurance that the lame varg's last defenses were useless. They bore into him painfully, such that they snatched his breath away and kept it mockingly; they racked him with shudders, all before Carnage laid another paw upon his victimized plaything. The purpose had been spoken as if written in stone by a godly hand that could not be argued with, and his powerless despair burned it onto his heart as well. There was no reasoning that he should not listen, there was no reasoning that this was merely a bully reveling in the misery of another; there was only the gutteral, self-assured words, and the blazing, poison eyes.
Silvanus' quaking legs were barely enough to hold him up anymore, so when the demon's jagged teeth slammed down on his muzzle with the force of a steel trap, they buckled and afforded him no more stability than a ragdoll's would have. He closed his eyes as the final words repeated eerily in his head as though resonating against the wall of pain sweeping from his nose to the very nerve tips of his limbs and tail, and felt gravity invert itself in darkness as he was hurled aside. Dirt and pebbles sprayed up as he hit the ground and skidded a few feet on his side. Rib cage rising and falling with the torment of the surging pain, eyes burning even while jammed closed, Silvanus did not move. The coppery taste of his own blood flooded his own mouth and warm wetness invaded his nose; the ground beneath his muzzle felt soggy and sticky after a few seconds.
There was always life to take. There was always torment to exact. God, emissary of Wolfbane, or pathological sadist, it did not matter. The greatest damage he could have exacted had already been done.
Despondently, Silvanus impulsively wished for death. The thought of the kindness he'd been shown by all other varg being necessity of their glee in the simple joy of not sharing his afflictions, or the thought of his beloved gods, whom he'd honored with tireless reverance, enjoying a cold-blooded laugh at the misfortunate puppet fashioned for torment and amusement, was more than he could bear, and it far outweighed the searing injury on his muzzle. He moved his mouth silently, forming the words but not daring to speak them out of fear of their import.
Silvanus tried to push himself up without true intent, and gave up almost as soon as he began. Paroxysms of pain, triggering a dizzying nausea in the pit of his stomach, radiated from his face. He refused to look at Carnage, with the shame of assured defeat as heavy upon him as the crushing heaviness of the things the evil varg had uttered. He's right. I am a fool.[/i][/color]
A few seconds of silence passed. "Then take it," he said after sucking a few more labored lungfuls of settling dust and errant blood and spittle. His voice was as dead as the black Balkar lands on which he lay numbly. His voice was quiet and dry, and barely-perceptibly aquiver with a strain of emotion. "Go on, take my life!" he shouted desperately, his voice crescendoing. "You have stripped it and laid it bare, now take it! I don't want to live in a world with cruel gods and false friends. I don't want to be a plaything or a blight." His voice fell to a near-whisper, and cracked in his painfully naked vulnerability as he lay prone and bleeding. "Take it."
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Post by Carnage on Jan 11, 2009 17:50:42 GMT -5
To feel the mann's flesh yield beneath his fangs brought him a great joy- one that he had been suppressing up until this point. There was no grace in his brutality, only sheer strength and violence to take the place where simple words would have sufficed for more civil Varg. Words had never been his strong point, and even though most Varg had the right mind to listen to a beast of his size and temperament, he found that force was much more convincing and left little room for misunderstanding. His neck thrashed back and forth, the muscles beneath his fur throbbing as they tensed with the weight of the half-blind fool. The male was dead weight beneath his jaws; his strength, what little of it there had been, had abandoned him before he even hit the ground. With a great toss of his head, Carnage released the male from his jaws, sending his feeble frame airborne for only a moment before he crashed back to the ground. Standing over him how, reading the pain and defeat on his expression, there was no doubt of the cruel understanding that was born from forceful savagery.
"Ahh," he purred in dark tones, licking the traces of blood from his muzzle with dark delight. "I think you're beginning to understand now, yes." Tell-tale signs of surrender were plastered all across the cripple's mangled face. The painful understanding resulting from Carnage's insults smothered the light from his eyes, while only seeming to add to the intensity of the already roaring fires that blazed in the Balkar's shining orbs. He was gorging now, feeding hungrily on the defeat of his victim, greedy for any last ounce of pride or hope that could be squeezed from his weary frame. "I don't see you standing now," he taunted, taking a step closer to the place he had carelessly tossed the mann. "Perhaps you have finally learned your place. That, or you've broken the rest of those flimsy stilts you call limbs." A gruff chuckle was released out onto the air as his bright lanterns took a moment to survey the darkening sky. Barely visible as it was between the crooked, outstretched limbs of the dense trees, small gaps between the branches allowed his vision some leeway. The heavens were painted a dark violet, mere traces of paler hues were beginning to fade, making way for the deeper shades of midnight. Already stars were emerging, coaxed out of hiding by the fast retreat of the sun. Wolfbane's winter was a time relished by those who lurked in the Dark Lands, for it promised short days and early twilight. A wide grin returned to his maw, mimicking the shining stars above, as he cast his gaze once more unto the struggling vermin before him.
"Have you any idea how pathetic you look at this moment?" His voice held tones of amusement within it as he walked around one side of the figure, his stature slumping to better observe the damage he had inflicted. "How would your friends feel upon seeing you this way? Whose side would they cheer? Hah, I think it's clear enough which side your gods are on, the side they've chosen all along." He examined closer the man's broken frame, possibilities ran through his mind of what other injuries he could inflict on such a battered soul. The dark mann's breathing was labored, his own blood flowing from his mouth. "What does it taste like?" He asked frantically, as though he had been overtaken by the blood lust for a moment and wished to share the excitement. "It's different, tasting your own life, isn't it? Bitter-sweet. This is as real as it gets, Silvanus." He doubted the male had ever been forced to taste his own blood, or that he had ever been afforded the opportunity. Abandoning his hunched pose, Carnage rose once more to his full height, content to peer down at the wretch and watch as he was made to savor his own life escaping from his body.
After a few moments and much to his surprise, the male uttered words up to the monster's eager ears. Dejected at first, they soon rose in pitch and intensity, daring the Lacan to spill the rest of his life, and quickly. He had abandoned all hope, all desire to live had been stripped from him in these precious few moments spent in the Dark Lands. Oh, the influence that emanated from this place! He could feel the excitement building, sending the rush of adrenaline once more surging through his veins and sending his wretched heart pounding. The words he had so wanted to hear had been extracted finally from this shattered male, and yet, they brought not the sheer satisfaction he had been craving. Killing this male now would mean nothing to him, it would require no effort nor afford him any pleasure. The elation derived from extinguishing this life now could never compare to the mirth he had already experienced in devastating the mann's very spirit and will. "No," he spoke, taking a step back. His words were not of remorse or sympathy. Instead, they were the audible reverie that had taken place in his mind; Cruel, taunting words that denied the suffering mann the release from his torture that he was by now craving. "Here you shall stay, as long as you last, to writhe in agony amongst the dirt. The maggots will come and feast on your remains as I have delighted in your surrender. Let others find you if they choose, and they will, for the number of demons in this sect are as dense as the surrounding trees." He spat upon the decrepit form at his feet before turning on his paws. "You have been a plaything all the time, a broken puppet on tangled strings. Let others come and have their turns; I have no use for you now."
While some might have considered the gesture a generous one for having spared a life, this case was to be regarded with less fortune. Night was upon the Dark Lands, the biting chill of the winter wind inviting the demons to shift into awareness. The large male lumbered lazily away, as though the recent turn of events, to him, had been little more than a stroll about the territory. No guilt plagued his heart, no remorse fogged his mind. Already the Varg Silvanus had been cast out of his conscience, the crippling blows he had dealt as easily as breathing had left more of an impact on the broken toy solider than on the hulking male who exercised such cruelty on a regular basis. What became of Silvanus now was none of his concern; he had left him to the elements and to the poison of his own thoughts.
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