hearts on fire

Red, the color of passion and lust. Raw and carnal and my, it ran beautifully. Ichorwood inflated Elsiphe with a sense of treachery and tragedy, eyes keening with hunger and unadulterated wander. She slinked through the woodwork like a shadow, ducking between bushes and trees as she stalked the flock of chittering sparrows scattered amongst the leaf littered floor. They pecked at the seedy ground, blissfully unaware of their impending doom. 

With belly tucked low to the ground, she waited in the dark, pools of jade unblinking and wide. A pair wandered close and her tongue slid between sharpened ivories. Her muscles coiled tight, twitching with the ache of temptation, and without warning they snapped. She lurched forwards like a curled whip, the crack of leather resonating in the way her maw clasped shut around one and her paw coming down on the other. Claws pierced the delicate skin as the rest of the flock scattered like leaves to the wind, rising into the sky where they disappeared within the fog of clouds. The tiny creature twitched, its frantic panic slowing as its life slipped and Elsiphe dropped the other tiny fowl to the ground. 

---

@Felmont

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A towering beast within the shadows. From behind the dark mask draped across the standing trees, the cunning one weaved his way through the crimson escape; his form blended naturally into the seamless browns of the landscape. He was on the trail of a demoness, something unbeknownst to him -- Felmont searched for her through the Ichorwood, his smoldering eyes lit with a passion unable to be sated. He had followed her from the borders of the land he now hailed, having picked up her scent there on the cusp of Hrafnsvaktin's snowed in hills. He had heard of Hrafn's newest enigma, her name passed around from the lips of the mountain's wolves, and he sought to pick her apart himself. 

In a brief grove is where Felmont found her, dark form tormenting a small flock of innocents. The one still alive, squashed beneath her grip, cried out for help -- but it's friends would not offer it, taking flight to the skies. It squawked and panicked much to Felmont's amusement, his lips curling back over his stained incisors. Then it died. 

And so did Felmont's amusement, and so he'd have to seek out a new source. And luckily, she was clad in black silk. 

He'd make his presence known now, suddenly moving through the bushes from where he'd been stalking her. A deep rumble gurgled in his throat, followed by a hungry chuff; his eyes raked across her sanguine form and he was not slow in his approach, his lumbering gait taking in long strides. “Sweet Elsiphe.” His voice, husky, was more of a growl. He already knew her name, and he wondered if she knew his? 

“Have you caught me dinner?” A sneer grew upon his snout as he pushed his face into hers.

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The sparrow died quickly, its life extinguished by a single claw to the heart. Elsiphe did not consider herself a sadistic entity; she believed in quick, clean, efficient kills. There was only a single time where she siphoned delight in death. She made it as slow, torturous, and agonizing as he'd made her life. His wails were a holy hymn to her ears and her name a scathing lyric. The blood that laced his body, that spurted from violent cavities she'd carved, were sprawling rivers of ambrosia from which the Gods drank. She wore his ichor in the days following. No kill had ever left her so swollen with satisfaction.

Her thoughts were disturbed by the crunching of leaves underfoot and she was delicately reminded of her leatherbound stalker. He was a towering beast with deep set eyes and a haunting step. She wasn't blind to the disturbing hunger in his gaze nor his shameless strides when she absconded the dens and made her way to Ichorwood— he'd eyed her like she was a naive doe and him a starving lion. Elsiphe found it to be quite the contrary. She'd allowed his presence, in fact, she'd welcomed it. With the subtle arch of her back and the innocent glances behind her shoulder, like a dangling bait teasing him, urging him, feeding his predatory instinct.

“Dearest Felmont.” She crooned, half-lidded, sultry eyes twinkling as if he was the finest thing on four legs. Elsiphe had learned his name during the first few days of her stay in Hrafn territory. She did her due diligence, swallowing information, and filing them for safekeeping. Knowledge, when used correctly, could be as dangerous as an arsenic-dipped dagger. Oh yes, she knew a thing or two about the infamous Felmont Vallaðskjall.

He'd all but bumped his nose into hers and she was instantly met with an olfactory assault of salt and spice so strong it stung her nostrils. His perfume reflected his poise; abrasive and insensitive. She should have found it offensive, but where she was supposed to feel disgust, she felt an alluring warmth pool inside her belly. If he was a pirate, mangy and deranged, she was his siren. His call to the sea and the promise of fabled treasure unfound.

“Why else would I have caught two?” She asked politely, carefully sliding one of the sparrows to his wide paws, “Stalking such skittish creatures can be so—” She circled him now, leisurely, her gaze raking his figure and swallowing him whole. Her tail stroked beneath his chin, sliding along his chest and squared shoulders, “Exciting. Are you excited, Vallaðskjall?”

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