http://rdi.dragonsmark.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=7000]
It was after midnight, which meant it was prime hunting time for the mutt. She'd just shared a drink with her best friend, Kristia, her belly was full with deer meat, and her head was swimming with ways to torture the slaver Kristia said she could kill—in other words, it had been a good night, so far.
The farther she got from the Red Dragon, the more restless she became. There was still so much ground to cover in her patrol. The trees closed in around her before she was really aware of where she was heading, but Trixie felt no fear. Being scared was not her style. The darkness sung her name sweetly, beckoning her in deeper with a crooked finger.
But maybe it was something else drawing her near.
As the rust-like smell filled her nostrils, her mind flashed a crimson that matched parts of her cat suit. It was a scent she knew well, better than the canine mark Keaton wore and the aroma of the Scathachian home she shared with her Sisters. It was her driving force, underneath it all; it was her life-giving elixir. Blood.
She forgot about the bad guys she was supposed to be finding. Her attention was locked on this hidden treasure. Yet, despite the promise of it, she was grimacing beneath the painted-on black lip color, mainly because she was fully aware it wasn't a dead animal she was looking for.
She stopped in her tracks when the odor got so strong it literally made her face snap to the left, as if she'd been struck. The faintly glowing green eyes locked on an unlikely tree-dweller some distance away from her. She crept closer, then froze. The process was repeated three more times before she was standing some six feet from the body. At this point, her upper canines were extended past her lower lip, itching to sink in to something, but their needs were ignored as she took in the splayed legs and the abused body. Such a pretty body, too. She felt a sting in her chest, the reprimand of her conscience for her death-lust, as the rest of her mourned for the poor girl's fate. She crouched to stare at the torn-up face, brow furrowed in the saddest expression the dark clown could muster. She wasn't one to cry over such tragedies, considering she faced a lot of them, but she was far from unaffected. That beautiful thing must have been envied by something truly wick—-wait. Beneath the blood and gore, there was something else that hit her now that she was so close. Familiarity. Aw, shit.
Her gaze stuck on the pink hair, and in the next moment, she was on her knees, directly below the body. Her flesh was traded in for thick black fur and her curves were transformed into sleek lines beneath a significantly smaller version of her cat-suit. A wolf in a costume might seem absurd, but a passer-by would be foolish to laugh at the scene.
The animal looked up sadly at the disgraced and butchered body of a once vibrant, and known, woman, a memorial building in her throat.
It grew and grew until the howl erupted from her mouth, more sorrowful than the usual song and louder, too. It was both a dirge and siren. She drew it out for as long as she could, until she was left panting.
All through the rest of the night, and into the lighter AM hours, she circled the hanging body in this form, making sure nothing she disapproved of neared the dearly departed Leslie. Her cry was repeated twice more, neither time lacking in strength.
It was after midnight, which meant it was prime hunting time for the mutt. She'd just shared a drink with her best friend, Kristia, her belly was full with deer meat, and her head was swimming with ways to torture the slaver Kristia said she could kill—in other words, it had been a good night, so far.
The farther she got from the Red Dragon, the more restless she became. There was still so much ground to cover in her patrol. The trees closed in around her before she was really aware of where she was heading, but Trixie felt no fear. Being scared was not her style. The darkness sung her name sweetly, beckoning her in deeper with a crooked finger.
But maybe it was something else drawing her near.
As the rust-like smell filled her nostrils, her mind flashed a crimson that matched parts of her cat suit. It was a scent she knew well, better than the canine mark Keaton wore and the aroma of the Scathachian home she shared with her Sisters. It was her driving force, underneath it all; it was her life-giving elixir. Blood.
She forgot about the bad guys she was supposed to be finding. Her attention was locked on this hidden treasure. Yet, despite the promise of it, she was grimacing beneath the painted-on black lip color, mainly because she was fully aware it wasn't a dead animal she was looking for.
She stopped in her tracks when the odor got so strong it literally made her face snap to the left, as if she'd been struck. The faintly glowing green eyes locked on an unlikely tree-dweller some distance away from her. She crept closer, then froze. The process was repeated three more times before she was standing some six feet from the body. At this point, her upper canines were extended past her lower lip, itching to sink in to something, but their needs were ignored as she took in the splayed legs and the abused body. Such a pretty body, too. She felt a sting in her chest, the reprimand of her conscience for her death-lust, as the rest of her mourned for the poor girl's fate. She crouched to stare at the torn-up face, brow furrowed in the saddest expression the dark clown could muster. She wasn't one to cry over such tragedies, considering she faced a lot of them, but she was far from unaffected. That beautiful thing must have been envied by something truly wick—-wait. Beneath the blood and gore, there was something else that hit her now that she was so close. Familiarity. Aw, shit.
Her gaze stuck on the pink hair, and in the next moment, she was on her knees, directly below the body. Her flesh was traded in for thick black fur and her curves were transformed into sleek lines beneath a significantly smaller version of her cat-suit. A wolf in a costume might seem absurd, but a passer-by would be foolish to laugh at the scene.
The animal looked up sadly at the disgraced and butchered body of a once vibrant, and known, woman, a memorial building in her throat.
It grew and grew until the howl erupted from her mouth, more sorrowful than the usual song and louder, too. It was both a dirge and siren. She drew it out for as long as she could, until she was left panting.
All through the rest of the night, and into the lighter AM hours, she circled the hanging body in this form, making sure nothing she disapproved of neared the dearly departed Leslie. Her cry was repeated twice more, neither time lacking in strength.