Author Topic: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]  (Read 1080 times)

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Offline Setebos

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Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« on: March 01, 2016, 02:13:34 PM »
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Setebos did not walk through the battlefield with any sense of purpose, nor with the cold, detached focus of a seasoned warrior. He only came because someone desperately needed him. He had heard the call on the winds, almost indistinguishable from any anguished battle cry -- but nevertheless, he had heard it, and he quickly prepared for battle. Setebos equipped himself with a simple leather satchel which he then filled with supplies; yarrow leaves and raspberries to use as bandages, chamomile buds to stave off infection, and cayenne to grind into powder. It was with a creeping sense of dread that he separated himself from the makeshift infirmary that had been established behind a treacherous network of traps. He was reluctant to leave Xenia alone. It had nothing to do with how capable she was. They were significantly understaffed for the occasion, and they were inundated with patients. He wanted to believe that he would return soon, but even he knew that was unrealistic. With a solemn nod to Xenia and nothing more, he departed, and hoped in a strange, detached way that would not be their final interaction.

A pastel-pale, hazy dusk had settled over the fairytale forests, darkening its amaranthine hues to a pitch indigo. Wind carrying the scent of lavender, flushed with the steely twinge of blood, howled through the trees. Beyond that, it was eerily silent. If he listened hard enough, Setebos could discern the thrummings of war in the distance, in the opposite direction of his travelings. Only when he was halfway there did he realize how suspicious this all was. Most of the conflict was happening from faraway, and yet he was tending to a patient who had conveniently collapsed outside of the battlefield. Optimism suggested that the soldier had managed to escape before taking refuge in some isolated patch of land to await treatment, but the realistic part of him knew that this had all the hallmarks of a trap.

Which option was it going to be? Was he going to take the chance and leap to help someone that, quite possibly, was poised to kill him, or would he shirk his duties? What would happen if this was a genuine distress call?

Setebos was a bitter old bastard. He had lost so much of himself over the quiet years, and yet he had not become a coward. And, quite arguably, he wasn't a bad person, either.

He became aware of the stench of blood, first, which was not terribly unusual. He didn't realize anything was amiss until he broke through the bushes in his way, and until he gazed upon the scene with his own eyes. What was waiting for him wasn't a patient, and it wasn't a wolf.

Not anymore, at least.

Laying on his (its?) side was the remains of a wolf, its belly flayed by a gaping wound that extended from its throat to its gut. The cut was not clean, and Setebos could tell that the struggle must have been excruciating. He recognized organs that he numbly identified with the same textbook precision as he did during his formative years: esophagus, stomach, liver. Where was the heart? Blood painted the trees in wayward splatters, defiling the bark of the Jacarandas like graffiti, and smeared along the ground like a haphazard road map, depicting each landmark traveled by the once-struggling carcass to be. He knew that wolf, he thought as he honed in on its dead, silvered eyes. He knew that wolf. His name was Isaac, he had come to him asking for help with an infected cut, he was just a kid --

The sound of brittle leaves rustling. Setebos felt his entire body turn to stone, what was unmistakably Fear clutching his limbs and coiling in his gut like a strangulating vine. He had been so fixated on the blood that he hadn't smelled other wolves --

"Sage?" he croaked through the knot in his throat, voice laden with apprehension.

(There was a reason why he didn't normally succumb to wishful thinking. It just never worked out.)
« Last Edit: March 20, 2016, 01:47:15 PM by Sunblink »
   




This old warship has wounds
And it won't sail for nothin'
The old sailor said to me
And I was foolish not to listen
And paid such close conscription
All the lies I believed

"But if you lend me some more labor
And put your name on paper
We just might catch a breeze"
I know now he was not a captain
Now because of all my actions
I grow alone with the sea

[ #E42217 ] | played by Sunblink
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Offline Jette

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #1 on: March 01, 2016, 06:12:30 PM »
He was every blue-collared, unaccounted-for, terminally bored trailer-trash delinquent of the world, shooting tin cans and tying firecrackers to stray cats and guzzling cheap piss-water beer, disenfranchised by the cage of his station in life, maddened slowly like water torture hits you only drop by drop. Pitches and agendas from on-high eternally wasted upon a soldier who had come only to fight and maybe to die gloriously drunk on adrenaline and nothing else much at all.

Stampeding amok across the battlefield were the brothers Jette and Nereid, their tongues lolling like dogs at play. The cacophony around him enlivened something long dormant in the black mutt. Lent a ferocious avidity to his every move, a terrifying focus, an unspeakable... competence. And was this truly the same lazy, ponderous beast taking up space in the red rainforest? How could that be?

Little Neri had found fresh meat for them both, a silly young boy on his lonesome, and though the take-down had gone almost dismissively fast, the actual kill had been -- oh god, there had been no defending his life at all. Snap as he might at one brother, the other was right there behind him, dragging him down, bleeding out his mobility. It had ended with a lot of screaming, cries so loud they seemed to fill the world, and a two-foot long hole in poor Isaac's belly that only split broader as the twosome snatched up either end and tugged his dying body between themselves, like a mangled rope-toy.

Now he lay dead, his exposed organs glistening dryly. Except his heart. That was somewhere else now.

Maybe the idea had come up afterward to use the corpse as bait. He had made a great deal of noise before shuffling on off this mortal coil; all the better to attract ill-fated samaritans, right? Or maybe it was only Setebos' bad luck and good deed punished that he found his way into the path of two maniac hicks. It probably wouldn't matter much to him when all was said and done.

Either way -- a voice, hoarse with fear, croaked "Sage?" to the nearby dark. And the wolfdog, tucked away in the brambles, smiled. Motioned for Nereid to flank him.

"Eheeheheh -- heh heeh --"

He would hear them before he saw them. A deep, guttural laugh introduced Jette, interspersed perhaps with his brother's hyena giggling, as he approached Setebos' back, gray eyes lidded playfully, his accented voice an indecent purr. Blood stained all down his front, turning cream to red.

"Yer a bit late, honey." Here was another game, harmless, helpless, and maybe the smaller male would fear all the more for how seriously this was not being taken. "But we's here still, m'brother n' me... an' we like the look of ya."

He leaned down, nuzzling the corpse possessively, with some eerie affection, unmindful of what smeared off onto his cheek. Looked up at Setebos with that blank gaze.

"May we have this dance?"

And he lunged for the doctor at once. For the doctor's face.
« Last Edit: June 03, 2016, 04:15:13 PM by Kotake »
Don't wanna follow the laws of man
Bloody apron, leg of lamb
It's so hard to win
When there's so much to lose

Played by Kotake


Offline Nereid

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #2 on: March 01, 2016, 10:59:51 PM »
Never had he felt so alive.

The two were in their element as their breeding flared magnesium-bright, two frolicking boys running around the trailer park with the straps of their overalls slipping down thin shoulders as they shoved the effing tow head in the corner trailer's face in the mud when of course they weren't sneaking into their momma's closet to play with her shotgun and shells.

Now this, this is what the younger had missed all those years. Skin rolled and bunched and twitched in physical indications of the hound's sheer euphoria as they worked together as a finely-tuned machine lubricated with fraternal hunger- one skilled with years of experience on the battlefield that could attest to a kill list pages long while the other knowledgeable in silence and guerrilla tactics that exploded out of the brambles. But the hunting of the child had been a suggestion from wolf-dog to the other after they had observed a Saboran retching after ingesting a local bird, and despite the words they spewed that seemed facetious in nature the two had made good on their promise. Together they had slashed the belly open as the light died out in his eyes and in a frenzy tore at him like the dogs they were like the body was a rope of braided cloth.

But it wasn't their fault, it was Inaria's. After all, where else would they find meat untainted by those pesky chemists?

Jette's grin bloomed a twin on the creature's face as thick, waxy lips sealed together with tacky blood and viscera stretched and snapped apart, and sure enough the utter glee frothed and bubbled over into peals of laughter just a tinge unhinged joined his brother's. Perhaps now they would get a chance to feast, he mused as he began to move in in accordance to his brother's whims.

"Mm. Sure is a'prudy one, aint'he?" One reptile cooed to the other as dilating pupils tracked across the piece of meat, copper head and neck darkened and soaked to stiff peaks with blood as it was held low to the ground. A tongue slipped to brush upwards at wet leather in a shadow of the dragon who had birthed the twin spirits of chaos and hedonism.

"Heard ya'll were doin' some filthy things ta y'food, sweet pea. Slippin' a lil'sumthin' here an' there y'know; saw sum'n feelin' rightly sick, yessir. The serpent moved just to the left of where his brother was approaching their mass of torn rawhide, and his voice reduced to a warm rumbling coo that was just dripping from his tongue like sweet buckwheat honey. "Now we dun like fellahs havin' such bad bad manners, s'just rude y'know? So we were thinkin'..." Smacking lips permeated his particular way of speaking as the behemoth next to him gave their old friend an affectionate nuzzle, but it wasn't long before they instead stretched like pulled canvas over frame to showcase a completely manic smile. "'Haps yew could do yer neighbors a'tinsy lil' favor t'help da rumblin' in ah bellies."

Both brothers moved in a synchronization not learned but long forged from the fires of a womb as one made a strike for the face while the other cackled and snapped savagely at heels, tail, testicles- anything that would get in range of those slimy daggers as a result of any attempts at evasion from the barrage up front.
« Last Edit: March 02, 2016, 12:20:17 AM by Nereid »

Quote
[11:17:00 PM] Lio: cro: i love my husband, he's almost ethereal
[11:17:06 PM] Lio: nereid: both eyes are pointing in different directions
Quote
[8:36:08 PM] Nova: he’s sin he’s grace he’ll bite you in the face
[8:36:11 PM] Nova: nereeeiiiiddddd

|Roleplayed by Kookamunga|

Offline Setebos

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nyoom
« Reply #3 on: March 19, 2016, 10:34:57 PM »
The beast had two heads.

Setebos believed that he was a coward; a frightful man who ran from all manner of things, whether it was the hurtful truth, the fear of someone from behind, failure, or the painful knowledge that someone was getting too close for his liking.

Death wasn't really something that he ran from. It was a finality. It felt like his mate's body curled against his own; her voice saying You look like you've got something on your mind, with genuine interest.

But when Jette and Nereid stood over poor Isaac's desecrated body, nuzzling the tattered remains almost as a departing gift to the boy whose life was so pointlessly stolen, he found himself taking a step back. Setebos looked into the dragon's two heads, their gnashing, sneering, snaggletoothed maws, and didn't feel acceptance; just a cold sinking dread. Survival instinct didn't stem from the heart.

Isaac was dead. He had died in a gratuitous, prolonged, excruciating way, and Setebos was most certainly next. Nereid snaked around his rotund brother like a wisp of smoke birthed from incandescent flame, the brothers flanking each other, continuing each other's tangents in the same, succulent southern drawl. When Jette dropped his monologue, Nereid was there to scoop it up in his arms and continue, as if the exchange were perfectly rehearsed. Two heads. Two parts of the same brain, and neither seemed predisposed to intellectual thought; merely a base hunter's instinct, stripped of all the marshmallow fluff and morality that padded an ordinary thinking brain. Setebos had given some philosophical thought to the prey animals that he killed to line his own ungrateful stomach, but never before had he felt so strongly aware of the parallels.

He thought, briefly, about saying something placating, like, You don't have to do this. I'm just a doctor. We can all just turn around and forget this all happened, but somehow he knew that negotiation was out the window. So was fighting. The two brothers had managed to overpower Isaac, a healthy young dire, and ravage him so thoroughly that he was almost unrecognizable. Setebos contemplated glancing away, but knew that if he took his eyes off those grinning faces for even a heartbeat, they would be pulling at his limbs and picking his heart. What he had to do was written in every nerve on his body, the voice of his thudding heart:

RUN

So he did, as one brother went for his face and the other dove after his hindquarters, aiming to assault whatever parts of him were turned away in retreat. Jette's hefty jaws gnashed on thin air, flinging specks of drool. Nereid's teeth almost clipped the end of Setebos's tail. The doctor continued in a panicked sprint forward before realizing, in a split second, that he was heading back to the infirmary. Cursing mentally to himself, he whirled to the left and proceeded, teeth chattering at his heels. The forest rushed past him in a psychedelic blur of indigo and ruddy violet, the weight of the sunset's drooling crimson light impressing like an anti-shadow on the canopy; black underbrush snagging at his heels, his ankles, like the teeth of the rabid dogs that pursued him. Branches caught on his ribs, nipping and clawing like the whole wicked forest conspired to drag him down.

He was losing track of all semblance of thought, as if they were leaking from his head and he was running too fast to collect them. Setebos tried to consider a plan. He couldn't lead them back to the infirmary -- he veered to the side, kicking a great cloud of lavender dust into the air -- because that would reveal its location to the enemy. However -- he burst through some bushes, gasping as he wrenched himself free, his pelt studded with leaves -- if he could make his way back to that pathway, he could possibly steer them into some traps.

Getting there would be a difficult process when he was running serpentine, in zigzags, backwards and forwards, through every conceivable discombobulating combination in a hopeless effort to confuse his attackers. He could more easily lose them in the thicket, and at least hope that he could encounter a few traps to slow their chase, or that the wilderness would muddy his scent. Setebos would lead the brothers through a circuitous path, veering off into different directions without warning. His eyes scanned the treetops for wasp nests, hunting for anything he could use to slow those predators' pursuit. If Setebos wasn't so drunk on adrenaline, he would have realized that one of Nereid's strikes hadn't missed, and he had scored a blow to his flank, which was now open and bleeding down his leg. He wouldn't know until the pain caught up to him.

Never looking over his shoulder. Run, run, run. The rapid-fire hammering of his heart was the soundtrack to this chase, and he was on fire, fire, fire.

(Was this how Virgil and Dante felt? Did they hear laughter too?)



ooc: I know that this isn't exactly proceeding like a fight thread, but here's a documentation of Setebos's injuries and movements:
- Runs to the left.
- Nereid's teeth hook into his flank and rip it open, but it's not much more than a superficial wound, fortunately, because he couldn't find purchase.
- Keeps on running in zigzags and other crap.
« Last Edit: March 20, 2016, 01:47:43 PM by Sunblink »
   




This old warship has wounds
And it won't sail for nothin'
The old sailor said to me
And I was foolish not to listen
And paid such close conscription
All the lies I believed

"But if you lend me some more labor
And put your name on paper
We just might catch a breeze"
I know now he was not a captain
Now because of all my actions
I grow alone with the sea

[ #E42217 ] | played by Sunblink
   » tracker

Offline Jette

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #4 on: April 12, 2016, 03:04:41 AM »
You don't have to do this, a plea for reason and mercy, and had it been transmuted from thought to voice, left the doctor's tense lips like an empty bargain, a penny for a fifty, a kernel of corn for SO MUCH MEAT, Jette would have laughed himself silly, a drunkard's sloppy, addled giggling. As if there was anything any of them had to do other than eat and breathe and die! As if anyone who was above killing unarmed civilians and benevolent medical staff could possibly survive in a hellhole like Saboro long enough to be vomited haphazardly onto the battlefield of their vain, idiotic, pointless, our-cocks-are-bigger-than-your-cocks war!

He'd laugh because Nereid did. He'd laugh because Setebos could never see what was so funny. He'd laugh because they, all three of them, fought for absolutely nothing. He'd laugh because of all that he'd lost, all that had brought him to this charmless moment. He'd laugh because they were all fated to feed the worms eventually, no matter who fed on who today. He'd laugh because it all made him feel weightless and euphoric as one only could in the midst of a dream.

(you know i'm told they swallow you whole)

"Aww, doc~!" the wolfdog rumbled fondly, a mock-pout that suddenly, jarringly, terrifyingly became a roar as the Inarian wolf turned on his heel and ran, as the Saboran mutt crashed into a dead sprint after him, predator in pursuit, soldier taking by storm, beast thundering from the pages of a horror story  -- "DON'T. BE. SHY."

And the chase began.

His initial strike missed, jaws cracking together midair. Jette didn't mind. He flicked his head roughly, indicating Nereid to flank their little rabbit on the opposite side, and rampaged on, breath heavy and unrestrained, ribbons of discolored saliva flying headlong from a thickly lolling tongue. He smashed through barriers indiscriminately, broke branches in his flight, trampled hedges, tore Inaria's precious purple blossoms to pieces under his nails. He even crushed a wasp's nest as he jumped over a log, the angry swarm stinging his unguarded face, leaving growing white welts beneath the fur --

That was okay. He didn't mind that either. Maybe didn't even feel it. Nothing else existed. Nothing but him, brother, and the rabbit, the hapless doll. In the next few moments, everything wrong in his head in his heart in his life in anywhere at all would simply cease to be. They played the most enduring game there was. The game through which all life exerts itself. War was here.

WAR WAS GOD.

Jette exploded from the underbrush, striking for Setebos' blind spot, trying hungrily to intercept his retreat, trying to drag him down at the flank, drag him under his body. If he succeeded, and the doctor looked up at his assailant, maybe they'd lock eyes for a moment -- the sight from a nightmare, wolfdog trying to grin through a rapidly swelling, venom-filled, deformed face -- before the same mouth that had pulled Isaac apart opened wide

and descended toward Setebos' exposed belly

and begin to maul.
« Last Edit: April 12, 2016, 03:09:36 AM by Jette »
Don't wanna follow the laws of man
Bloody apron, leg of lamb
It's so hard to win
When there's so much to lose

Played by Kotake


Offline Nereid

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    He was spawned in that slime
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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #5 on: April 12, 2016, 11:22:40 PM »
Peals of gleeful laughter followed Setebos as he took off into the darkening forest, the boy tonguing at the fur in-between his teeth and gums all Glasgow smile and lolling tongue as he followed right at his heels. Oh so long since he had lived! Forced isolation from both ventricles of his heart had killed the boy who felt the heat of anger and the chills of shame, and had stuffed a coiling serpent who was more weapon than individual into the pelt as it shed its own skin. But his heart was shrieking to life like an old locomotive of the rail garrison, his blood the missiles that exploded in his ears and in his feet. This, this is what he was born to do. It was what gave him a purpose and perhaps potential redemption in his mother's eyes, for he knew that what was he but less than the scum on pond stone without one? He needed this- needed this to be worthy of his life in her eyes... But suddenly his thoughts were cleaved in two when their target switched directions.

Rosewater eyes followed into the darkening tree line before he banked his turn. That honey-sweet slow-sounding drawl had veiled a sharp tactical sort of intelligence in both brothers that had after all allowed them to continue to taste that sticking nectar that was life in both jungles of death, and so the boy made a move. He hacked up a glob of iron and phlegm from deep inside his chest to spit at the bark of a passing tree- effectively marking it as suspect for himself or another party to inspect that area further in the future.

What was the saying? Set a man's house on fire and see what he grabs?

Now that he had tasted that sweet as saccharin syrup, warmth swelled in his chest and bloated his belly until the aperture of hunger focused all his thoughts into the pinhole that was killing this man. A flick of that gnarled maw and the other moved to their target's other side, keeping pace as he darted over thickly corded roots and under fallen saplings instead of his counterpart's more brutish method of barreling trough the forest. He was a creature of the shadows through and through however, though the two of them managed to keep the target between their sights with ease. And then, both heads of the dragon exploded and lunged for its prey- one for the flank and the other for the neck. If both or just he happened to miss, Nereid's teeth would snik through the air perfumed with that ambrosia of terror and the kind of threatened adrenaline that preceded the way a hunted creature would evacuate its bowels, and he'd crackle with that mad, wheezing laugh of his as he continued the chase. Wasps nor weaving could stop the dogs with the scent hooked into their noses, and without a master to hold fast at their leashes they'd continue the hunt until they ran the rabbit down.

But if his brother's attempt was successful, then his own would be to use his jaws to bracket either the male's neck in a hard choke or would hold and smash either jaw to the floor with teeth piercing either tongue or palate as they made purchase. Heavy breaths hot like a furnace were exhaled from the mouth of the hound as the yellowed teeth of the vice held fast to the struggling animal and kept it grounded and from flight. The stink of his fellow patriot's carrion billowed onto either the good doctor's eye and encouraged how the eyelid stuck as it dragged over the too dry cornea, or maybe it instead caressed the delicate skin that the thickened fur on his neck tried to squirrel away from prying eyes.

Perhaps even his tongue would come out to play, a slimy wriggling thing still coated in the occasional chunk of carrion pressing and brushing in-between the bars of its prison almost lovingly against the rolling flesh underneath. Don't worry, each kiss cooed sweet as a rose even as the thorns pierced and dug in deeper with every twitch and bleat of the beast. Hush.

Maniacal eyes rolled in their scokets as he grinned, thick lips still dusted with the male's own hair ripped from the roots lifting as those knives twisted with the power of a line of dirty fighters.

JUST A LITTLE PRICK AND IT'LL ALL BE OVER SWEETHEART




Sorry but you are not allowed to view spoiler contents.

Quote
[11:17:00 PM] Lio: cro: i love my husband, he's almost ethereal
[11:17:06 PM] Lio: nereid: both eyes are pointing in different directions
Quote
[8:36:08 PM] Nova: he’s sin he’s grace he’ll bite you in the face
[8:36:11 PM] Nova: nereeeiiiiddddd

|Roleplayed by Kookamunga|

Offline Setebos

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #6 on: May 13, 2016, 12:25:01 AM »
Neither wasps nor thorns could impede his would-be murderers' pursuit, and regardless of all the traps that Setebos deliberately led the boys into, no threat of physical injury deterred them from their objective. It was as if some bestial, primitive instinct had been activated within their peabrained heads, and now they could comprehend nothing but EAT, KILL, DESTROY. Setebos cursed frantically to himself, knowing that his original plan was out of the question. The only way to escape Jette and Nereid would be to kill them, and he was not capable of doing so. Lead them to the infirmary. Scream for help. Inarians would mob the hillbillies en masse, and they would be silenced. It was a flawed, precarious scheme, and it relied heavily on the assumption that he could elude the beast on his heels long enough to reach sanctuary. It postulated that Jette and Nereid wouldn't catch onto his ploy and leave, satisfied with the information that they gleaned from this encounter.

He did not account, however, for Nereid lunging from his left, exploding from the bushes. Setebos turned his head to face him, legs pumping mid-locomotion the moment Jette groped for the closest appendage. For one heartbeat, they seemed like two figures suspended in air.

Jette's teeth latched onto his flank, shredding long, thin lines through his flesh as Setebos squirmed, attempting to dislodge the mutt mid-pace. A jolt of pain flashed through his body as those fangs snagged onto something which clenched up in bone-stopping agony, so fierce and livid that it shot through every nerve and caught in his throat. Setebos let out a choked noise as his teeth snapped shut around thin air, feeling the joints in his legs lock up. With a powerful wrenching motion of Jette's head, he was pulled backwards. Setebos could do nothing but cry out as he felt his feet leave the ground --

-- but he had been pulled directly into Nereid's trajectory. Setebos was hit with the entire force of Nereid's weight, salivating mouth streaking for his face. He found his neck instead.

The jagged white knife-points lining Nereid's mouth gouged effortlessly through protective layers of fur, but as Setebos fought against him, Nereid was forced to reinforce his hold, pulling more and more skin into his questing mouth until his teeth penetrated flesh. Setebos screamed. Together, the two brothers dragged him to the ground like he was nothing more than a stag, or -- no, not even a stag. He was a helpless newborn fawn in comparison to their combined savagery. His determined wriggling; his desperate, uncoordinated attempts to yank free, even at expense of his own flesh, amounted to nothing.

Setebos landed on his side. He did not realize that he was not breathing until he felt the air leave his lungs in a whoosh. Nereid held him tight, keeping him pinned while his corpulent brother perused the length of his body. As Jette's attention shifted from his tattered flank (now twitching spasmodically) to his exposed stomach, Setebos's blind panic deepened. He recognized the predatory intent illuminating those swinish eyes.

Did you know that pigs will eat anything?

"No," he wailed; the first distinct word he had uttered since this assault began, or at least the first that he heard through the panicked haze. "No, no, NO!"

Floundering limbs scrabbled desperately for purchase, hoping to at least delay the inevitable through battering Jette's underbelly with his scrambling. He struggled harder, pushing against Jette's bulk with his paws, not giving a infinitesimal eff if it was pitiful, or if the two would find his wiggling humorous. Look at the little earthworm writhe. Nereid may have been startled by the renewed struggle that surged within the doctor's body as he lurched off the ground, but he regained his composure long enough to pin his head back to the earth. Bells clanged in Setebos's ears, his eyes filled with fireworks, as his skull smashed against a rock.

Incoherent screaming. It became fuzzy here, the two brothers disappearing in the static, and then, unmercifully, the image was restored.

Just in time for him to witness Jette's drooling mouth dive for the softest and fleshiest part of his stomach, which was now roiling as his entire body clenched in anticipatory agony.

Just in time for him to be hit with that first burst of pain as teeth cleaved through the epidermis, scooping up uprooted tissue, and then he was ignited. It was not a transcendent sort of pain which lifted him to a safer place. He was here for every second.

Oh God in Heaven, they were breaking him open like a pinata. That was where Isaac's heart went. The two reprobates had made a plaything out of that poor boy's insides.

Stinking breath lolled from Nereid's mouth as he loomed over his quarry, having at last released his throat. Setebos realized with horror that his lips were painted with blood and haggard pieces of his own fur. Somehow, despite the overwhelming agony, he had noticed that, and if he would survive this day, he would most certainly wish that he hadn't recalled it whatsoever. Even as Jette made mincemeat out of his stomach, Setebos still recognized a prime opportunity to fell one of his attackers -- lashing out for that hideous smirk, teeth chattering on empty air, slinging foam and blood with every erratic jerk of his head. It was blind, useless, pain-driven, but even as his strength seeped into the soil, he was somehow invigorated with a final jolt of adrenaline.

He thrashed, trying to twist his body vigorously enough to disrupt Jette's handiwork, and perhaps regain his footing so he could make a mad dash for -- what direction? Where was he? Where was the infirmary? It didn't matter if he had to stagger to safety, letting his guts fall to the forest floor like breadcrumbs. He had to get away, he had to get away, he had to get away. He couldn't see. His eyes were red and they were rolling in the back of his head and he could see nothing but red, bright red, and he was screaming so loudly that drool was bubbling in his mouth and dripping to the grass below.

(He may have screamed for them to stop. He may have cried. He may have pleaded. But he wasn't sure, because he could hear nothing but the sloppy squelching noise of jaws plunging through his insides, undercut by a sound not unlike paper tearing.)



ooc: I apologize if the timeline of attacks is a bit confused here. Tried to keep it consistent.
   




This old warship has wounds
And it won't sail for nothin'
The old sailor said to me
And I was foolish not to listen
And paid such close conscription
All the lies I believed

"But if you lend me some more labor
And put your name on paper
We just might catch a breeze"
I know now he was not a captain
Now because of all my actions
I grow alone with the sea

[ #E42217 ] | played by Sunblink
   » tracker

Offline Jette

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #7 on: May 28, 2016, 05:42:39 PM »
What an incredible mercy it was that Setebos in his terror-addled state had not quite managed to lead the two brothers into the infirmary. They'd be swarmed by Inarians, was his logic, but by what sort exactly? Wolves incapacitated by ingested poison, deep bite wounds, broken bones? Soft little medics, the Xenias and the Lotuses of this kingdom, far better suited to flower-picking than fighting? Soldiers too busy trying desperately to fend away an invading force far larger and stronger than their own to competently guard the wounded? No -- Jette and Nereid would descend upon that infirmary like wasps attacking a honeybee hive and rip them all limb from effing limb. Leave bits and chunks of what might have been living animals all over the hidden clearing for whatever poor hurt wolf stumbled in next to find it.

There was nothing Inaria could do to them. Not really. All of their combined resistance did not amount to much more than the sad, worm-like wriggling Setebos did as they brutalized him. They were truly free here, set loose on this paradise like hounds emerging from hell, some to prove their loyalty, some to only survive, some to vent their long-boiled frustrations, some just... to have fun. To do what they were good at. Domination. Annihilation.

The venom, pumped forcibly into his face, so close to his brain, was quickly starting to make him heady and dizzy. It became harder to think through the building fog behind his eyes. Little spots floated in front of his vision and popped; Jette shook his head as he ran, as though he might be able to fling them away. Laughed again, unsteadily, as the world continued to swim. Maybe it got a little fuzzy for him then as well. Teeth punched into flesh, hit something hard -- a bone? a joint? -- that paralyzed the other male and tore a shrill exclamation from his throat. The wolfdog reached hungrily, almost mindlessly, for a better hold, for... his favorite spot. See, he wasn't a throat man. He wasn't a face man. Jette liked bellies. It wasn't hard to guess why.

When Nereid latched onto Set's throat, when he pulled him thrashing to the ground, the doctor landed on his back, and the dark mongrel rushed in, his jaws wide and drooling and ready. They sank into soft white underside, blood spurting into the back of his throat, running down from his jowls, and begin tearing the other wolf, chewing into him like something rabid and starving. There was a wet organic noise, some awful mix of dull squelching and muffled ripping, that was drowned out by screams and disturbed leaf litter and hot, racing, enthusiastic breaths. Jette stood over him, his back end close to Nereid, his head rising from the widening wound only when he pulled away a bite's worth of meat and snapped it up, strings of blood and slobber hanging down from his punishing maw.

He was eating Setebos alive. God spare him at least that knowledge.

The kicking, the pushing at his gut, that went mostly ignored, and maybe to his detriment in the end. A sudden burst of strength, like the last gasp of a drowning man, it came with teeth for Nereid's face, and effectively startled Jette enough for him to pause, enough for... the pulverized victim to lunge to his feet and break back into a run. Hobbled, this time. Slower. The wolfdog peered at this incredulously and took off after him once more. Grabbed for one of those legs in flight -- maybe crunching one of them up would stop all his silly skittering around.

"Wherra fink yur goan?" he slurred incoherently, the wasp venom bubbling in his head like a powerful liquor, before that potential bite landed. If his accent made him hard to understand before, well -- "C'meeeeere... we wuz... havin... FUN."

(Somewhere nearby, a newly healed jackal walked out of the infirmary, and hearing the commotion, cried out for help. He knew what was happening. No Inarian he knew could ever have a voice like that.)
« Last Edit: June 03, 2016, 04:09:04 PM by Kotake »
Don't wanna follow the laws of man
Bloody apron, leg of lamb
It's so hard to win
When there's so much to lose

Played by Kotake


Offline Nereid

  • Till the monster stirred
    that demon, that fiend
    He was spawned in that slime
    By God, punished forever for the crime
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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #8 on: July 12, 2016, 12:54:35 AM »
It was almost admirable how the doctor still even in his darkest moment clawed for any opportunity for a chance to leap from the death bed already dug for the curves of his shoulders and hips, how he snatched the opportunity to stumble away by giving the snake something new to ponder. The sting of fangs that had torn his upper lip to ribbons hardly registered as he stared at where he guessed those dull stones for eyes would be in the blank canvas of his twin's face for only a moment, his head cocking to the left as he pondered this new development. Re-calibration from this new variable was neceessary as he shifted his attention back to the fleeing man, and he tongued the wound flooding his mouth with blood. The taste of himself amidst the scraps of Setebos his teeth had collected had at once split the wolf-dog's silence with screeches of laughter, the very idea that the desperate thing would try to blind Nereid of all people making tears gather at the corners of those defective eyes as he laughed and laughed and laughed.

He knew the hunt promised him pleasure, but this was above and beyond what he expected!

"Yer fergettin' sumthin', sweetheart!" he hollered and hooted after the man stumbling his way to safety (as if there was such a thing after how these twins spirits of chaos and death had no qualms about razing this land to the goddamn ground just for the fun of it), his grin manic and unhinged and dripping as dark pupils contracted to mere pinpricks in a sea of rosewater as dry corneas made them stick in their sockets.

Bubbles of laughter became fetid as they squeezed themselves passed his laryx to mix with the miasma of his breath, each once increasing in pitch and volume with every heated pulse from his torn lips as the beasts tore off after their prey. Saliva frothed pink against those yellowed teeth as he chased down those entrails he imagined he saw through his tunnel vision, desperate to taste the chitlins of the hog who was determined to keep them away from the hungry hounds snapping at his heels. But no harm done- it was all a game after all, and silly tricks were all part of it! He lunged for a foreleg just as the other tried to seize a back in that bizarre synchronization both heads of the dragon had shared since they had curled around each other in the womb, and instinctively knew to shift his center of gravity back toward his own hindquarters to fell the forsaken doctor.

"Mmm, beautiful," he cooed as his tongue curled around the flesh presumably held fast in his grip as drool began to bubble from between the torn flaps of those waxy lips. His usually empty eyes had a sparkle in their opaque depths as they leered down in their unfocused way at that pelt that shimmered maroon, and the jaws passed down from father to son tightened greedily to get a preemptive taste of that wine himself. His stomach was cramping and he wanted his turn to play with this heart.

As where Jette liked to swallow his still-beating, Nereid liked to take his time tearing each strip of quivering ventricle like he was unfurling a yet-bloomed flower before tossing it into his brother's gullet.

"Yer ours now, ain'tcha? An' we ain't done wit ya just yet, doc."
« Last Edit: July 12, 2016, 01:00:55 AM by Nereid »

Quote
[11:17:00 PM] Lio: cro: i love my husband, he's almost ethereal
[11:17:06 PM] Lio: nereid: both eyes are pointing in different directions
Quote
[8:36:08 PM] Nova: he’s sin he’s grace he’ll bite you in the face
[8:36:11 PM] Nova: nereeeiiiiddddd

|Roleplayed by Kookamunga|

Offline Moons

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #9 on: December 26, 2016, 07:32:48 PM »
War brought a lot of things.

It brought blood, shed from both enemies and allies in a way that nothing else did. It brought chaos, torn asunder by the same jaws that helped just a few days ago. And it brought nightmares, born and raised from things that could barely be encompassed in words. Even then, it almost wouldn't be believed even if told in future tales. If Moons had been told about what she was soon to be witnessing, she almost would have called it a fictitious tale. Something thought up from the imagination. Too horrific to be able to even conjure within the mind. But as fate would have it, that wouldn't be the case. This, this would very much be real.

The large beast had been chased off from the combined efforts of the two soldiers. Moons had appreciated Cockatrice's help, and was glad he had been around. Kashmir was thankfully safe, or at least kept alive as far as she knew. The jackal had disappeared as soon as the pair of warriors burst in to take over the battle, so it was presumed he was off fighting others. Little did she know at the time he would play a hand at saving her own daughter from death, plucking the green wolf from his arms and pulling her back to the land of the living.

Moons' heart still pulsed with that dark soldier's anger, slower this time, but present just the same. It was what kept her going on into the next battle, and the next battle, and the next. When would it stop? The soldiers wouldn't rest unless they were in the infirmary, or they were dead.

That was the reason why her ears pricked without hesitation at the baying call of Kashmir's cry. A cry for help. Amber eyes flared to life, pushing away all of that exhaustion that threatened to engulf her. Her paws carried her forward, the pain on the back of her head ignored as it pulsed through her brain. The blood still seeped down her shoulders and through her fur, but she would take care of it later. She might regret it, but now wasn't the time. Kashmir wouldn't call for help, and if he was... then there was certainly trouble to be had.

Oh, and wait until you see who it is, Moons.

The sight of that canine still around and doing damage made the dark soldier within Moons pulse faster, pumping the venomous rage through her veins at a pace that made her legs run faster. Never mind the fact of what that Saboro wolf was doing. It would be the sheer overwhelming power of the scent of death emanating from the field that would bring her attention past the focus of the simple presence of her previous opponent. Couldn't get enough with just going after Kashmir, huh?

What Moons was presented with would haunt her for a good long while. As soon as her eyes took in the image, it was being etched into her mind permanently. If she hadn't been already accustomed to constantly moving, she might have frozen from the sheer horror of seeing Setebos ripped to shreds before her eyes. And then there were the two wolves responsible FOR THE ATROCITY. The healer was attempting to get away, and these bastards were laughing. "C'meeeeere... we wuz... havin... FUN." Fun... fun. Fun, he says. Fun. FUN. FUN.

Had Moons had the fury, this would very well be the trigger point.

"SETEBOS!!!!" The cry was almost unrecognized coming from the Marchioness. The soft spoken maroon female was past her point of no return with this war. She was sick of it all; all of the pain, all of the anger, all of the violence. You could only take it for so long before it eats away at your soul, and to Moons it felt like it was tearing a chunk out of hers with every snap of teeth and every swipe of claw. Instincts and anger were what pushed her forward now, barreling straight for the drunken behemoth poisoned with the wasp stings. If anyone looked closely at Moons, a single tear would be streaking down her cheek at the burned memory of Setebos' stomach torn to shreds, the insides appearing as though they were ready to burst out at any moment amongst all the blood everywhere.

Once she reached Jette, she would open her jaws to aim her teeth at whatever she could grab on him; paws, ears, eyes, face, it didn't matter. Moons wanted to cause pain at anything she could snap her fangs on with this psychopath. From nearby, a very familiar Jackal streaked into the battlefield, quiet gray determination next to maroon passion that was pushed over the edge. Her own pain was forgotten in the face of something much bigger than her. It wasn't just about saving her friend Setebos from the brink of death. It was purging Inaria of these two monstrosities from Saboro.

Certain horrors could never be forgotten. This was most certainly one of them.
« Last Edit: December 27, 2016, 07:40:58 AM by Moons »
Link to bin~

Characters I Actively Role-play: Moons | Corvus |Rykryk | Flamestorm | Seven |Yoki | Phoenix | Electra | Coronach | Cruciatus | Zodiac | Tide | Skylar
Been on IDS since: January 26th 2008

Offline Nagamaki

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #10 on: March 16, 2017, 08:23:02 PM »
[ kooka asked me to join to help finish this up ]



The was was not over.

(Wars are never over).

Nagamaki had buried Felicity's body under a tree that would bloom someday, and buried her own heart too, but the war was not over. In the grand scheme of things, who would care about one little green soldier struck down too soon? Only her. And so she had to survive. Inaria had to survive. We carry our wounded to the infirmary, we carry our dead with us.

Still... her paws felt like stones. For lack of a better option, she'd taken to guarding the infirmary. Someone had to, after all, and she didn't mind staying up all night to do so. How could she fight on? Another battle, just another battle, after so many countless battles and what had it ever mattered?

A beetle crawled over her paw. Her tail ached. Nagamaki heard a cry.

In a happier story, someday later someone with a kind smile would press their paw to the white of Nagamaki's chest and say and this is why you're a good person, Naga. you ran towards that cry to help. you're a hero. But there would be nobody who remembered enough details to track any kind of arc and she was left alone with her failures and her kneejerk reaction to rise up and fallow the voice. To follow the smell of blood.

And oh, there was so much blood.

She recognized him, of course. It was hard under all the gore, but she remembered the doctor who had treated her (who had treated Felicity). And she recognized the attackers for what they were: the deep black heart of Saboro made rippling flesh and ugly teeth. Moons roared. Nagamaki felt something harden deep inside her and anger unfurl into her body. They wanted gore? They wanted horror? Then let them effING HAVE IT.

The soldier charged forward without a sound, making a bee-line for the lighter furred of the two brothers. For a moment brown became black and she saw her sister and her sister's bright eyes saying this was all for the best, one day you'll understand and she lunged. It didn't matter, really, what part of Nereid her teeth were aiming for, she just tried to bite and rip anything she could find. If she was lucky, her teeth would find Nereid's pretty effing face and bring it to the blender, but if she could hit anywhere it would do. Make them hurt enough to run. Scare off the vicious little crows. Because Nagamaki would enforce one thing and one thing only:

NOBODY ELSE WOULD DIE HERE


another conversation with no destination
another battle; never won
and each side is a loser
so who cares who fired the gun?

st. jude, the patron saint of the lost causes
st. jude, we were lost before she started
st. jude, we lay in bed as she whipped around us
st. jude, maybe i've always been more comfortable in chaos

played by spear

Offline Setebos

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #11 on: March 18, 2017, 07:55:05 PM »
(cackling hillbillies and his blood on the ground; this is the crap that fills his nightmares. this is why setebos cannot sleep.)

Jette bellowed drunkenly from behind him, caterwauling with loopy laughter, but where his delirium rendered him incoherent and unfocused, Nereid eagerly continued both his taunt and his pursuit. Because while Jette had blundered into brain-paralyzing death, Nereid had nothing to disable him but some superficial wounds to the muzzle, clumsily inflicted in the midst of Setebos's hysterical thrashing. Able-bodied Nereid lunged for the closest hock and savaged it with greedy fangs, and he did not feel the pain, initially, because everything else in his body had been hurting so badly it overwhelmed it. He only realized that Nereid had found purchase because he felt a snag, he yowled, and then his legs crumpled beneath him as he flopped on his tattered and bloody belly. Like that, Setebos's only hope of escape had been devastated, and he could only stare in momentary, dazed disbelief as the light before him was crushed.

He was dragged backwards an inch, tracking bloodstained, scattered foliage in his wake. If his heart wasn't beating so loudly in his ears, he would have heard those slobbering jaws smack as they opened in preparation for another onslaught. A tiny, annoying voice babbling for mercy in the back of his head kept pleading with him to get up. Get up. Get up. He was the only one begging.

"I can't," Setebos answered, and maybe Nereid heard that. Maybe he would have found that funny. As Jette finally caught up with them, lumbering to stand beside his brother and join his repast, Setebos realized that his grand and desperate escape had only amounted to maybe fifteen, ten whole feet of blind limping before its brutal end.

He scrounged inside of him for sparks, and surfaced with nothing more than handfuls of blood and pain.

He couldn't get up again. He tried to tell himself, it's just my back leg, I can kick him off before he goes for my belly again, I can stop it, but the voice he used to persuade himself was getting softer and softer, and adrenaline could only carry him so far on lacerated, bloody legs. He kicked weakly against Nereid's mouth as he began carefully peeling. Jette's fat shadow oozed sluggishly over his face and he squeezed his eyes shut in mortal terror, head turning away, his stomach trembling and shuddering as it gushed veinblood onto the stained earth. His thoughts ran red, tangling with the pain and piss and fear that leaked out of him.

Above them, the Inarian canopy dangled like entrails dipped in lavender. Setebos could have used his last ounce of resolve for anything; he used it to dip back into his memory, to try and remember a prayer of mercy and peaceful afterlife. Stupidly, and perhaps these are the addled detours that one's memory takes just before the body dies, he realized he had never prayed for his mate. He had thought until her last breath that she was going to live because he was going to be the one that cured her. He had never thought of how to say goodbye to her. It was a small sad mistake following the ultimate failure of allowing her to die in the first place, the fact he felt like he had never properly said farewell to her, and that so many words had perished, unspoken between them, the day that her soul drifted.

Part of him had always been begging for death. Running from it seemed so pointless. He should have walked towards Jette and Nereid with open arms, laughing, I'm here, I'm coming, and then he would have seen Anrende in heaven.

Anrende's death wasn't clean, and his wouldn't be, either.

His head lolled for the sky. He might have been weeping as he waited for that white light.
The voice which once rambled, Please, please, stop, no more, please, make it stop make it stop make it stop was quiet. He waited for the rest of the clamoring to fade, like a throng of fireflies dying out one at a time; brain cell after brain cell fizzling out.

A female voice whispered his name, Setebos,

there is no light. just pain.

Another one shrieked it.

He did not know that voice, because it did not sound like Moons. The thing that ran past him wasn't Moons, either, but it was no avenging angel, either. She crashed against Jette and brought him to the ground; another voice howled, and more indistinct shapes leaping into the fray. He blinked through the tears and the haze, forcing himself to recognize Nagamaki with a bleary click. The return to reality flooded his body with a sudden shock where it had once been deadened by intense, constant pain.

Jette and Nereid were lost in a whirlwind. He had use of his leg again. He was on his feet -- trembling, uncertain, he couldn't stand -- but he couldn't feel it anymore after a cold nose poked against his ribs. Go.

Jette had likened Inaria to flower-pickers and hapless pacifists. Wasps invading a beehive. Wolves savaging a flock of sheep. It's not like that at all. Inaria had secrets, you know, like the infirmary that Setebos had almost led them to. And though it was easy to compare Inaria to a society of aristocrats, the reality their kingdom had been founded upon was less glamorous, and that alabaster pillar was cracked and splattered with blood. Swiftkill knew it, that disavowed generation of the Elite Guard had known it, the Renegades, the dead family of Fringe Dires, Will Turner and Nightrunner and Sebora knew it. And what did those people all have in common?

They had been turned on,

eaten,

MURDERED on their borders.

Nereid and Jette had unwelcome secrets brewing in their skulls, and there's no way to unlearn a secret except to beat it out of your effing skull.

The cavalry flowed outward from between the trees, those paladins on their white horses, but Setebos's retreat from the battlefield was not so triumphant. (After all, it was a retreat.) It was a humiliating, wounded animal stagger; a speedy limp for survival. He dashed as hastily as someone as grievously injured as him could manage, and this time, he wasn't chased. Jette and Nereid had bigger problems on their hands than a stubborn little doctor that just wouldn't keel over and die.

Setebos ran, pain dogging him with every step, dropping blood and pieces of skin, he ran until he was in the infirmary, until he collapsed, until he simply couldn't run anymore. The last few sparks drifted away.

Unconsciousness would have been too easy.

He did not plummet into darkness and he did not go blissfully numb. He dropped and he hit rock bottom.

(What would he have said to Anrende?

You don't get to know that,

not today.)
« Last Edit: March 18, 2017, 07:58:19 PM by Setebos »
   




This old warship has wounds
And it won't sail for nothin'
The old sailor said to me
And I was foolish not to listen
And paid such close conscription
All the lies I believed

"But if you lend me some more labor
And put your name on paper
We just might catch a breeze"
I know now he was not a captain
Now because of all my actions
I grow alone with the sea

[ #E42217 ] | played by Sunblink
   » tracker

Offline Jette

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Re: Psychobilly Freakout [PRP Nereid & Jette]
« Reply #12 on: March 19, 2017, 11:27:45 PM »
There awaited no heaven for the good doctor after this. Heaven was the blessing of being freed from this life, a slice of the thin rope that separated a living animal from a dead one. There was no heaven, and maybe his friends would dig a grave, but for a poor man caught in the crossfire of a senseless war, the true final resting place would be with his killer. When he died, Jette would lay that belly open even further, all the way to the nubs of his vertebrae, no frantic struggle hampering his ravenous efforts. When heaven failed to open its gates, Jette would be snout-deep in coppery entrails. When his beloved wife failed to welcome him, Jette would bite into the tender liver, pry another heart from another chest, gnaw down femur to suck at the rich marrow hiding within, slurp at gooey fat deposits and chew at muscle tough with the fatigues of a hard life and swallow hunk after dripping hunk of fatty tissue. To the victor go the spoils.

Something swam in his head, pulsing like liquid rushing through a canal and squirting through the tight stone spaces. He couldn't hear as well anymore the screams, his brother's words, the wail of a grieving woman, the thunder of encroaching footsteps. Jette's tongue lolled, the oozing muscle pressed against exposed teeth; his face and cheeks and lips were so swollen it made it difficult to open his mouth all the way. He let rest a heavy paw on Setebos's body, leaning on it while Nereid had his fun, resting off a sudden head rush that made his insides gurgle and churn -- ooh, he was dizzy. Just like a swarm of bugs to ruin a fun time. So disoriented he was swiftly becoming that he didn't even know he was being ambushed before... well, that aforementioned wail.

Big brother turned, his fat tongue still hanging. ZzzzzzING, pain exploded on the base of his right ear, and there was weight on his broad back, little dagger-point paws clinging. He saw a striped tail in his periphery, felt it slide across his gruesome face. Someone was on him. SOMEONE WAS ON HIM. Jette bellowed, a deafening roar of a sound more surprised than angry, and braced himself to fling the little effer off, shaking, spinning, his gums shining wetly and his eyes rolling to whites. Kashmir held tight, locking his front legs around the bigger beast's shoulders. Kashmir held tight, and he pulled that ear, and he steered the resulting bared neck right into --

The marchioness rammed into the spectre with the force of her every terror realized. She attacked him with the power of his own atrocities. It buckled him, forced the jackal to let go; he landed on all fours and darted in an instant to Setebos's prone body, nudging it with a cold nose, get out GET OUT OF HERE. "Preeeeeeetty," taunted Jette meanwhile as he grappled against the one he recognized just as well, chuckling deep in his throat. "'C'mere pretty preeeetty, y'wanta play girl, y'want sum more, eheheheeh ah'll give ya s --"

Moons latched onto the front of his throat. Just like that. Good luck, bad luck. The decisiveness of a heartbeat in time. He uttered an awful retch of a sound and instantly surged forward (had he been greener, he'd have pulled back, and that was the only reason he went on to live another day) as she tore at the hold. Fur gave way, plucked by raging teeth, and she bit through the folds of skin beneath and lacerated and punctured and severed something beyond that which filled her mouth with dark red blood and sent his entire body into a violent seize while his brain meanwhile floated above it all, too calm, too serene, his thoughts like so --

oh i guess that's it. she got me good. fun while it lasted. sorry mama.

But he wasn't dead enough not to try once more to save himself. Tucking his head to stifle her movement as much he could, using his greater weight, Jette continued to push forward, his face so close to hers she'd be able to see the stinger wounds, and with all luck... he'd steer her right into Nereid's jaws, or even Nagamaki's, given a misplaced bit of friendly fire.

Setebos ran. He ran for his life. He wept, like Moons wept, and if he saw their tears in another time, the wolfdog might wonder why they did so.

Why are you sad? asked a little boy in a monster's body.

What are any of us really doing wrong?
« Last Edit: March 19, 2017, 11:32:28 PM by Jette »
Don't wanna follow the laws of man
Bloody apron, leg of lamb
It's so hard to win
When there's so much to lose

Played by Kotake