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alarashinu · 7 years

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(So I could have sworn I posted this back when it happened but apparently I’m just losing my mind, so here it is now. This was a retroactive/memory scene between myself and @mundanemike detailing how Lysandir and @ravenswitte became a mated pair, and was written out during the now-concluded Demon-Jacked plot.)

Massive trigger warnings for blood, gore, torture, and (technically) cannibalism.

(It’s also quite long!)

He couldn't think straight enough to have any real processed going through at once. He couldn't move. His eyes wouldn't even respond to his wants, though the want wasn't as strong as the desire to make it stop. There was so much sickness lacing through him, walking hand in hand with the agony that burned from ever bruise, cut or gaping wound. He had lost track of himself, not sure how long the red eyed man had been there with his creatures, tormenting him like a handful of demons and twice as cruel. He had no idea how long he'd been left here on the cold, gore-slicked floor of his cell with only the rotating thrum of the turbines to keep him company.

He was...

Fairly sure he was dying.

That was, to be honest, terribly inconvenient. He was pretty sure that crazy fucking bitch wasn't going to be able to raise him anew like she threatened all the way out here. Something of a pained, crackling rasp escaped his broken and bloodied lips as he tried to just breathe and laugh. It was excruciating, the whole ordeal, and new coppery warmth came to greeth his muddled senses as the hot iron nails of it dug into his veins and slithered to his core. If he wasn't dying he was possibly losing what was left of his mind in here. That, or the strange, ribbons of sticky flesh piled in the crook of his curled body were actually his guts. Had he tried to put them back...? He thinks maybe so...

"Ahahahahah....HA."

It wasn't funny, but what else could he do?

He wasn't a big crier.

Never had been.

Plenty of times he'd thought about it. Like right now. He...Wasn't sure how to just do that sort of thing anyways. He always laughed when it looked bad. Right now he was half off his gourd, numbly pawing the mess closer in towards himself, and...And he didn't think of the bitch.

Nah, she'd be mad but she'd be fine..

It was that stupid deer that kept popping back in, smiling and sighing at him for something awful he'd done or caused. He was real good at filling that irreperably ruined bad dog, wasn't he...? He wasn't just going to sigh this time and it caused the mongrel in the cage to linger there, close to his face. It was ok that he was so disappointed now...

He'd deserved that sort of look for a long time. "...bloo'ee puss..." He spat the words with some of his own fluids into the night, mangled cheek tearing more as it peeled from the metal where it'd been resting. He wasn't mad, he was...Was he mad? Maybe. Maybe he should be. After all, he couldn't even give him that look when he first found out. There had to be something wrong and broken with the creature, not like him but still there. He'd never know why he kept coming back...But maybe it was because, no matter how much he deserved it, Lyz never gave it to him. Even with someone else's guts in his hands.

Never.

Not even once.

The smell was what really brought him back, though. That, and the taste of his own blood thick in his mouth before it dripped in a slow, thick stream. He'd been a very, very bad dog and Lyz kept him. Even when he broke his toys. He couldn't help himself, you see. Somethimes it just...Got the better of him. Most people didn't want that. They ran or fought or screamed or...Anything. Staring the feral and enraged wolf in the eyes with the guts of that poor boy twisted all about his rending claws, the warm, crimson wetting the fur and spreading across the open clearing...He was some sort of saint or something, the way he did that...

That thing he...

How he...

He had smelled blood.

It was probably nothing. An animal he got too rough with.

It was human.

He got too rowdy at one of the taverns, got someone's blood on his fists.

It was hot.

It was fresh.

And then it was everywhere.

Lysandir stopped on the edge of the clearing, just where thick undergrowth gave way to shorter grass. That was all. He just stopped, and he took in the scene before him, amber eyes glowing in the dark even as the rest of his sleek, feline form was wreathed in shadow. His pupils, widened to nearly perfect circles in the night, narrowed to slits, until nothing was left but that sea of gold as he watched the wolf, guts hanging from his claws like macabre streamers, and the body lying broken under his paws, its ribs pried open wide like gruesome wings.

Anyone else would have run, screamed, attacked... something. He thought dimly that maybe he was supposed to do that. He thought maybe that was the proper thing to do when faced with such grisly horrors. When faced with monsters.

Instead, velvet paws and dainty steps brought him from the edge of the clearing towards the scene illuminated like a spotlight to his nocturnal eyes, the cold silver light of Mother Moon refusing to leave anything to imagination. He felt his toes squelch in the wet grass, and for a moment he wondered if it had rained. But the thick copper stench in his nose wouldn't let him entertain that thought for more than a heartbeat, and he found himself wondering just how much blood was in a human body.

He stopped mere inches from the beast, thrusting out his nose and bristling his whiskers, not in anger or fear, but in... curiosity?

Witte, in his haze of mingled agony and time and distance, was more right than he could know: this creature -- this delicate, gentle creature -- was a deeply, irreparably broken thing.

Roughly about five to six liters. That's how much the average human had, but this one was running short. Though it wasn't running short enough not to gurgle and spit some of it. For the love of the Light, the poor man was still alive. Witte had forgotten him for a moment, the golden sets of eyes meeting and staying hung there for the moment. He should say something, probably.

The monster that was The Raven at the time, had turned back to the prey however. His claws digging into the skull along the hairline as he grabbed its face in both hands. It was an interesting sound, the human's head crushing in and squeezing out the breaks and past his fingers. He didn't stop, though. Not until there wasn't even a head left to recognize. It's popped like a melon at one point, spreading bloody cleared fluid into the mix as it rushed out in the face of the pressure. Of course there were still some moving parts here and there, twitching and settling...

But that's when he lowered his muzzle and started to eat him.

Maybe Lyz being there had made him more vicious in the end, though it wasn't conscious. It reminded him of why he'd stalked the young cobbler home in the first place. His home was a warzone in the wake of the struggle and Tegwynn's outrage. He hadn't really done anything, though. Well not anything a person might consider acceptable terms for murder.

But he kept looking at the deer. He even gave him something. Witte hadn't asked Lyz about it, no. The devil inside had taken him by the reins and led him right into hell again without looking. He got ahead of himself thinking and--

Well, to be honest, he didn't remember much of it after the fellow answered his back door.

Lysandir took one step back as skin and bone and brain gave way under the immense pressure of the monster's claws, but it seemed more to avoid getting any of it on his pristine black fur, the little ponce. You know how cats are. In fact, he even gave his shoulder a vaguely irritated lick, tasting blood on the roof of his mouth. It made his whiskers bristle again, and when he looked back at the Raven -- his Raven -- something warm and wet was being shoved in his direction.

He sniffed at it delicately, as though appraising its suitability as an offering, and never once did his eyes leave Witte's as he took it and swallowed it down.

He should be horrified, he thought distantly. He should be disgusted, perhaps even vomiting at the idea of making a meal of another sentient creature, of sharing that meal with the beast who had killed it.

He should be a lot of things, he knew, that he was not.

He could have backed down and shown some sort of remorse, some sort of attempt to hide what it was he'd done and would do...But he wasn't particularly repentant either. It didn't help that Lyz took his heart like it was intended. Alright then, his slowly returning sensibilities decided to just say fuck it. Like usual.

There was another moment there where all that could be heard was the soft, peeling of flesh from bone as he lowed his head to feast upon the one who had probably wronged him in some way his warped mind could twist it. He gave the antlered one all of the best parts, his favorites at least, if he would join him.

It was...Kind of pleasing though, watching the cat do as he did. He was by far no wicked creature like The Raven, no. He was wild and beautiful, as gentle as he could be fierce...He never seemed the sort to make sense around his sort. The sort that tried to save you and then hated you when they couldn't. He just wasn't though.

Maybe that's why. Maybe.

Each piece was taken with that same delicate, soft mouth, half of it eaten and the rest offered back: an acceptance of the grisly gifts and a reciprocation. It was an intimacy, a joining, and he thought with dark humor that of course the most intimate moment of his life would be something like this: a freshly murdered corpse, a feral monster, and the Moon.

He looked up at Her for a moment, slowly blinking those depthless golden eyes. Perhaps he was asking Her about this strange path She had sent him down. Perhaps he was asking Her why this monster was meant for him.

Or maybe he didn't care.

Licking his chops, his teeth very white in the dark, the druid lay down in the still-damp grass, apparently no longer caring that it soaked into his fur and clotted between his toes. One paw hooked around a rib, yanked, pulled, and long ears flicked at the wet, visceral snap as tendon and bone gave way. Blood and clinging strips of flesh were licked away by a rough, skilled tongue, and a thick tail lashed with lazy enthusiasm, batting against the Raven's haunches. When the purring began, it thrummed through his entire chest and danced back and forth against the nearby trees.

A damaged thing.

A wrong thing.

A broken thing, bathing in blood and moonlight.

#lysandir shadeleaf #tegwynn witte #shipping: blood and moonlight #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: torture #tw: cannibalism

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alarashinu · 7 years

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About Lysandir

Full Name: Lysandir Shadeleaf Nickname(s): Lys, Lyz (to one person...)

Race: Kaldorei Age: ~300 Birthplace: Mt. Hyjal Residence: Varies

Height: 6′10″ Weight: Average Body Type: Athletic Hair: Black Eyes: Gold Piercings: Both ears many times, double brow ring, upper right nostril, snakebites; prefers silver, bone, or antler Scars: Around his throat

Physical: Shorter than average, but dark and exotically handsome like most of his people, Lysandir Shadeleaf seems an epitome of what it means to be Kaldorei: his features are angular without being sharp, strong without being overbearing, and beautiful without being feminine. His skin is dusky, pairing well with his hair, which is so black as to show blue highlights. He keeps his hair long but messily cut, looking like a wild mane, and usually brushed all over to one side. The opposite side is shaved almost to the scalp, with surprisingly intricate, viny designs cut into what remains. Contrasting this rather wild style is the single thin braid at his left temple; Lysandir never takes it out and seems oddly protective of it.

Noticeably, his eyes glow molten gold, traditionally the mark of greatness among night elves... although it seems any mention of them, or of the handsome antlers sprouting from the young druid's brow, is guaranteed to earn a glower and bared fangs from their owner. The only thing that mars his features is the deep, ugly scar across his throat, looking like Lysandir was nearly beheaded at some point, and how he survived is surely nothing less than a miracle.

Lys seems particularly fond of his stag and panther forms, and while the former is as impressive as one might expect from a druid so apparently destined for greatness as this one -- standing easily over seven feet tall at the shoulder and with an antler spread to match -- the latter is... decidedly less so, being quite a bit smaller than the feline forms of his brother and sister druids. However, a mountain lion is no less fierce than a tiger, and mocking remarks tend to result in immediate proof that despite his size, Lysandir can be just as ferocious as any Druid of the Claw.

Personality: Despite his rather... testy reaction to queries about his talents or his size, Lysandir seems to be a quiet sort, although he's less shy and more simply a solitary creature. And although he's hardly antisocial, there's something about him that seems vaguely distant, and almost... off, though it's almost imperceptible without spending a lot of time around him or knowing him well.

All that detachment vanishes, however, if he's comfortable with a person. Oh Elune, does it change. It's at that point that one learns that maybe his affinity for his feline side is, in fact, entirely appropriate. You'll never have personal space again.

History: Born with golden eyes, showing latent druidic ability almost before he could walk, and sprouting antlers early, Lysandir has been told all his life that he is destined for greatness, that Elune and the Ancients both must have smiled on his birth, and that he has incredible potential inside him.

Lys hates every single bit of it.

#lysandir shadeleaf

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