Oink. Oink. Oink.
Pigs root in groups. They build their houses in groups. They embrace their perceived invulnerability in groups. Hah, it was all so true. The insightful Grimms had all the tiny porcine facts down to an exact science. It was unfortunate that they didn't get the Wolf's role entirely correct. Nevertheless here was the barefaced fact, the cute little, red sash wearing piggies were back in town.
The massive lycan could smell these ornery, holy b*tches well over a mile away. There was no mistaking it; there seemed to be much renewed activity in the streets of Rhydin as of late. So when "Lord" Gregory Fairfax, heir apparent to all gory things Fairfax, revisited these old hunting grounds, he had taken note that the fortified Scathachian Sanctuary was up and running once again. That too didn't surprise him, for when head-mistress piggy, Isuelt De'Romiano, started messing with things it caused a certain sugary taint to the air. A certain need to feed.
That espresso haired gypsy was such a lush vixen; a wanton hooker with a heart of steel. Her and her little scantily clad piglets would make a fine feast in any circumstance, both violated from behind in a bedroom and then lying in a pool of their own shredded half-eaten entrails in some vacant alley. The past few nights, however, Gregory Fairfax had to nearly gore his own innards to keep from mauling the priestesses right at their gates of their own Sanctuary as they diligently returned home from their little patrol sessions.
The enormous lupine creature had been first drawn to the Great Park during the witching hours of the night to catch the strong coppery scent of blood on the wind. Why there" Who knew. Perhaps it was a hot spot for all things that go bump in the night. He had also been enticed to the outer walls of the vast IronHelm Flats as the divine odor of freshly skinned meat (and not of the mere quadruped kind either) had snagged his keen attention on more than one occasion. Though he hadn't entered the ghostly, "abandoned? building yet, he felt it was near time to prowl those endless halls in search of answers and naturally that sloppy, juicy meat. All in due time.
But now Gregory Fairfax, that albino goliath, was here a mere block from the Scathachian stronghold. Here and simply watching. Dressed in his midnight black suit and ground length coat, he stood like a menacing specter, arms folded behind his back as he savored the delicate aromas which assailed his acute sensory organs. His large, gloved hands flexed in their ebon leather encasings, eager to give way to ripping and tearing claws. Though his well worn, black fedora covered most of his alabaster face; the lower portion of his jaw, complete with hungry tongue stroking those thin lips, could be plainly seen as a little omen of sorts.
It was honestly a good night to devour a little schoolgirl...or a little Sister for that matter.
Pigs root in groups. They build their houses in groups. They embrace their perceived invulnerability in groups. Hah, it was all so true. The insightful Grimms had all the tiny porcine facts down to an exact science. It was unfortunate that they didn't get the Wolf's role entirely correct. Nevertheless here was the barefaced fact, the cute little, red sash wearing piggies were back in town.
The massive lycan could smell these ornery, holy b*tches well over a mile away. There was no mistaking it; there seemed to be much renewed activity in the streets of Rhydin as of late. So when "Lord" Gregory Fairfax, heir apparent to all gory things Fairfax, revisited these old hunting grounds, he had taken note that the fortified Scathachian Sanctuary was up and running once again. That too didn't surprise him, for when head-mistress piggy, Isuelt De'Romiano, started messing with things it caused a certain sugary taint to the air. A certain need to feed.
That espresso haired gypsy was such a lush vixen; a wanton hooker with a heart of steel. Her and her little scantily clad piglets would make a fine feast in any circumstance, both violated from behind in a bedroom and then lying in a pool of their own shredded half-eaten entrails in some vacant alley. The past few nights, however, Gregory Fairfax had to nearly gore his own innards to keep from mauling the priestesses right at their gates of their own Sanctuary as they diligently returned home from their little patrol sessions.
The enormous lupine creature had been first drawn to the Great Park during the witching hours of the night to catch the strong coppery scent of blood on the wind. Why there" Who knew. Perhaps it was a hot spot for all things that go bump in the night. He had also been enticed to the outer walls of the vast IronHelm Flats as the divine odor of freshly skinned meat (and not of the mere quadruped kind either) had snagged his keen attention on more than one occasion. Though he hadn't entered the ghostly, "abandoned? building yet, he felt it was near time to prowl those endless halls in search of answers and naturally that sloppy, juicy meat. All in due time.
But now Gregory Fairfax, that albino goliath, was here a mere block from the Scathachian stronghold. Here and simply watching. Dressed in his midnight black suit and ground length coat, he stood like a menacing specter, arms folded behind his back as he savored the delicate aromas which assailed his acute sensory organs. His large, gloved hands flexed in their ebon leather encasings, eager to give way to ripping and tearing claws. Though his well worn, black fedora covered most of his alabaster face; the lower portion of his jaw, complete with hungry tongue stroking those thin lips, could be plainly seen as a little omen of sorts.
It was honestly a good night to devour a little schoolgirl...or a little Sister for that matter.