[b a i t]like_mine|| open

If he had been any other, the nameless one would have recognized the spike in tension, would have felt that something ominous was coming this way. Maybe he would have noticed that the entire population had seized up and receded like a tide, brief but purposeful -- opening the gateway to something more, something powerful: but he was not like the others. He did not watch for emotions, for he could not understand them, and instead his focus had always been on motion, on the silken movement of muscles, the twitch of an eye or an ear. He often watched because he needed to know. But now was not one of those times. The voices had started, an echo of his own that slithered into his brain and polluted what little good had been left there. Abandoned, forgotten, unloved; it was a simple song to sing, and one that hurt him the most -- the one he treasured the most, yearned for with everything inside of him. In another life, he may have begged for it; now, silence had been beaten into his very soul, and he could not loosen his voice any more than he had already. Shut up, he had snarled. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. No more -- but in his heart, he did want more. He wanted to feel the lash of words, to feel it rile up his blood into something that made him appear alive. No more darkness, no more death; he wanted to remember what it was like to live...



The void swallowed all of it.



His tail was longer than his body, meant for balance when scaling nearly vertical mountains; it lashed, like a whip seeking to decapitate what came near; even if his mind could not cope, his body often moved on ahead of him. Could he catch up? His low growl had trickled down to a sonorous rumble, whiskers twitching, teeth not quite sheathed, but buried under the blackness of his lips. Even his shoulders, taut and still, suddenly surged into motion as if his very physicality had decided the next move; the muscles unraveled from their stiff hold, claws unsheathing, kneading at the very ground in agitation. I'd say a prayer for anyone who angered you.



The Nameless didn't acknowledge at first; he was slow to surface, slow to realize the voice he had heard was real, and soft, and feminine. There was nothing in the words, an emptiness he could tune himself to and anchor the rest of his disheveled mind. So he rotated, pulled in by the gravity as the moon to the earth; his ruffled thoughts dying as he aligned himself to what was living, and real, and outside of the chaos in his head. His expression trembled to stillness, leaving the teeth to hide behind his lips, though any question of their existence was abolished. He turned his head, one ear flicking toward the sound, toward the breath that eased out of her lungs, the softest sound of her paws pausing on the earth and shuffling back a half-step to settle on the ground. He listened to the sound her tail made in the air, tasted her scent on his tongue; the moon moved toward the earth, and it was a dark expressionless thing. His eye roved over her face without pause, without consent and clearly without any shame, moving from the splatter of dots on her face, to the dark glow nestled against her throat. His tail twitched, at the very end, but drew itself close to his own body. His eye swept the curve of her shoulder, took in with calculated coldness the colors that swirled out of her spots, luminescent and reminiscent of stars. She was relaxed, muscles lying quiet underneath that startling pelt.



No sound, but for her breathing and his own until his eyes came back to hers. He took a step toward her, claws sheathed, his own pelt as still, as harmless as she was pretending to be. He copied her motions, attuning himself to her, to her mannerisms, transforming the confusion and the stillness into this mask that stared at him. Will you wait until she sickens and kill her too? So it came, his ear flicking back, ignoring the sound that bounced back and forth from the inside of his skull; that sickening sound, that sickening, chortling laughter.



"Do you pray?" He asked, head ever so slightly tilted in her manner. He rose up, recognizing their body types were similar, even if she was slightly taller and more elegant. He was thick, where she was grace; her bulk was in her shoulders and sides, where as his was in his shoulders and legs. He could not smile; his stone pulsed. "I don't imagine you do." His mouthed opened slightly, recognizing in her a power to be provoked, and teased. His fearlessness and his desire to find the one person who did not fall before him rode him as he inhaled her scent, tasting it on his tongue. He did not desire her, but he needed to feel something -- anything. So he said in his low, unsmiling voice, her stench in his mouth, "Will you make it better if the Gods will not?"

word count || 884 

tags || Nayva ^~^  

OOC || He's so happy to have something to distract him 

There was no meaning to anything -- it was something that she would eventually learn, as he had, slowly and painfully. Nothing mattered, nothing lasted. Everything tasted like ash in his mouth, all looked dull and subtle, slow moving before his roving, quiet eye. He had learned, if nothing else -- and learned well. Ignore the sounds in his ears, the buzzing in his bones. She had taught him well with each scathing look, and every touch in between. She had taught him how little it all meant, and how life -- no matter how brilliant it appeared on the outside -- was as rotted as a fallen log. It was a festering thing, just waiting for death to come claim it's stake in his body. He moved because he had no other option - he had simply sat, once, and now, almost free from her leash, he could not simply sit. Restlessness itched along his legs, his shoulders, the uneasiness of stillness plaguing him like maggots. His pelt shivered, wrinkling along his shoulders and bunching up in his neck.

He was unblinking before her, that little bit of push he had half-heartedly thrown at her face falling before it even made it's mark; his eye strayed, as it always strayed. There was only so much interest in her eyes; but in her throat there was a darkness that pulsed, like his heart, his soul-stone, pulsing, throbbing, smeared with black. She carried a plague around her neck, and he wanted it, to roll around in it, soak it up in his flesh and roll it around on his tongue. She was too calm; it agitated him. Too calm, for all the chaos she held thrumming around her neck. Too calm, too fucking calm. It aggravated his restlessness. The nameless one held onto that emotion, treasuring it for what it was: a sign of life.

Holding onto that feeling, fueling it, the nameless' ears perked forward, savoring the sound of her voice. You have my word I would do what I can. Though my word may mean little to you. He snorted. Little indeed. There was no true meaning in words; none in actions, in feelings, in life at all. She'd learn, one way or another. His mouth moved, a glimpse of fang, the flush of aggravation dissipating as quickly as it had come. Gone too soon. The Nameless felt in himself the vast emptiness that was spreading like a plague -- before him was a play, and each character was pantomiming these imaginary things called emotion. He couldn't feel. Why couldn't he feel anything? He moved, the moon caught in the tide of the Earth's pull -- and he went to her. He came like darkness, like the lithe motion of smoke whimsically twisting and turning, his maw within a foot of hers even as she continued to speak, her voice like a soothing song (but he would not be fooled) slipping it's fingers through his fur. No, no, he would not be fooled. She was calm, perhaps, but inside of her raged darkness. Her promises meant as little as anything else; Knowing what ails you would be a good start to making it better.

Another snort, this time less softly, more of a chuff of sound puffing out of his mouth as he pulled up beside her, his chest aligning with her tail, his own sweeping around the front of her and dangling on the opposite side. His instinct was to remain silent, to hold onto the quiet and keep it forever, as stubborn as death. If it didn't matter, what was the point in talking? But she was here, and she had asked. More importantly was the shiver of potential he knew was inside of her, somewhere. And of course, the silence of the demons inside of him. His thoughts strayed toward the female who haunted him, her voice as clear in his head regardless of how many times he had killed her; his muzzle wrinkled, fangs unsheathing as his tail lashed, sluicing away from the delicate looking creature, leaving her untouched as he moved up the other side.

He spoke, though perhaps he was speaking more toward his own memories than the female before him; for while the dark goddess before him was indeed delectable, there was a part of him that would ever be disinterested and detached, that would lean toward the quiet and ongoing, searching endlessly for something he was only half certain he even wanted in the first place. So when he spoke, perhaps he was speaking to the cackling laughter in his head, the only sound he ever heard, and the sound he treasured most before he had killed her; "I --" and he paused, laughing at himself, chuckling ever so quietly, "Would like to know what it's like to feel." His claws unsheathed, kneading at the earth. He lifted a paw, earth crumbling away from his pads as his claws flexed, "To know what sadness is. Or happiness. Or -" he paused, "---Anger."

The nameless had imagined the world as a play, the characters pantomiming these illusionary feelings in order to live their life a lie, but he, while disconnected from the play, still tried to act. He could pretend -- but at most, he felt flares, little sparks of light in the darkness before even that was devoured. He chased those little lights, those little spurts of emotion that others inflicted inside of him, but no matter how quickly he ran after them, they always, always, disappeared. Except for the voices, for her voice in his head. "Or, to make it all go away." He said, without realizing he had even spoken the last. Realizing too late, the taste of satisfaction on his tongue. "Yes, that would be best. Erase all the curiosity." He raised his head from where it was tilted downward, completely unaware of how dangerous a situation he could have been in. His eye held the first currents of intensity as he stared at her, feeling the desire slowly beginning to form a shape. "Use me, and make me forget the rest."

word count || 1036

tags || Nayva

OOC || Sorry it's so long!

There was darkness, and then there was darkness; there was the darkness of night like a hand stretched out over the sky to block out the light, and then there was the pitch of dark that was only found festering in wounds, and in the deepest vestiges of hell. He walked that line, especially tonight -- so clearly alive, so clearly thinking, breathing, and yet there were blurred lines of reality, where his paws often crossed. He walked a dark road, with no light behind him, and certainly none in front. He ran blind, most days, reacting without thinking, or falling so deep into stillness he could have been made of stone. It was this darkness he carried, this stillness of nothingness that he held like a perfume in his flesh. It clung to him, this stench, let others know that while there were others more wicked, more lethal, there was none as disturbed, as unnerving as the slow motion of his head, his eye searching out yours. He was a force in itself, meandering between the lines of the living and the dead, always trying to dig up the coals in his heart and start a fire, trying to find a clue, a feeling that lasted more than a heartbeat. She had to have left something behind.

Was she right? He remembered her throat beneath his paws, his claws flexing out in a curious manner; he remembered her frantic eyes, her desperate, if weak, struggle. Yet nothing burned him. She had died, by sickness and his claws, and still she lingered as pestilence deep in his marrow, her voice the sound he fell asleep to, the sound he woke to, walked to, ate to. She had become the rhythmic beating of his very heart, and it all echoed with that foul wretched laughter. {You are a fool} she said, it said, and he remembered her eyes, her scent, her silhouette in the moonlight. Dead, but never dead enough. And he? The nameless one. What a terrible thing, to leave a creature without a name, without anything in the world but the flesh to carry on, with broken heart, and broken soul. She was his acid, and he kept her close; it was the closest to a feeling he had ever had. Was it any wonder he chased her through his dreams? Was it any wonder that any other leopard that looked like her was his next target? That he followed them without words, without any true purpose, and that they too, eventually died by his claws? No wonder at all, when he was a broken thing, only good at one thing.

The nameless had spoken, and they were words he could not take back; but they settled in the air with a finality that even he, so disassociated, could appreciate. It lingered in the heart of his audience, and that, if nothing else, was that. He did not want to let her go, but to be rid of her would be a relief that he would learn to abide. His tail ticked at the very end, drawing close to his body as he caught the heat radiating from the jaguar's body. She was a pretty little thing, he imagined.

If he were to give himself wholly onto another, it may as well be someone as beautiful, and as wretched, as he. He could not ignore the vibrating chaos nestled against her chest; it was an impossibility. It was a tension that shimmered against his flesh, as if a hand had come out to stroke his fur, and he settled himself against the pressure of it, feeling it beginning to spark a little as if in warning. The audience was wrong; if there was anything he could truly enjoy, perhaps it was the physical feeling of pain on his skin -- so he leaned a little heavy to the side, feeling the skittering warning deep in his muscles, curious as how to much he could push before she lashed out with all of that darkness she kept so skillfully hidden. What is it that you do here in Naxorus? she asked, her ears turning, her eyes searching as if the clue to life itself were somehow buried inside of him.

You don't look like a merchant or a healer.

Oh yes. Yes. Yes. He chuckled, knowing feel of sarcasm when it bit at his nose. His face wrinkled, fangs glimpsed and then gone. "No. Not a merchant," he paused, a chuff of appreciation preceding the rest of his statement, "and not a healer." He opened his mouth to speak again, getting used to the feeling of his voice when his mind skittered to a halt, much like gears caught in their circuit, unable to pick up the belt. He paused, his face settling into quiet lines, eye clouding over as darkness, much like that hand outstretched over the sky, closed over him. Sometimes these gaps came, and sometimes they stayed.

What was he saying? His muzzle wrinkled, turning forward, then away from the jaguar beside him, forgetting she had spoken to him at all. Was he saying anything at all? He thought, brow drawn together, trying to reach into that momentary darkness that shrouded everything. It was like reaching into an abyss; reach too far, and be devoured -- but he never minded the devouring. The nameless moved then, almost as if he would walk away from her, as if everything they had built together in the last few moments had been burnt to ashes and meant absolutely nothing. One step, two -- another, four, tail twitching, an itching in his back. He was forgetting something. Something important. His maw opened, breathing in the open stench of the bars, the stalls, the vermin that crawled from one space to the next -- inhaled, tried to remember -- looked back. A jaguar was watching him, expectantly, as if waiting for him. Did she know him? Did he know her? Something tangible stretched between them, a black thread of fate tying his heart to hers, though never for the reasons that others would bind themselves. He looked at her, stopped. Wondered. Shook his head, as if to rid himself of a buzzing deep in his ears. {Half-wit}

You don't look like a merchant or a healer - an echo from another life, as if he had missed a step and found himself stumbling over nothing. "I'm not a merchant." he said, carefully, pronouncing each word with a strange sort of exactness, as if feeling forward blindly in the dark. "Or a healer." He blinked, looked to the side, slightly downward. What was he? Was he anything? A sudden memory of blood, and dust, and sweat. Ah - A - "A soldier." he coughed a little, ears down, though never in embarrassment. "Sometimes."

word count || - not tellin 'cause I feel bad.  

tags || Nayva  

OOC || I do apologize for the length, sometimes I just go a little crazy. Nameless's muse is lovin this.   

Nameless. The silence of his existence echoed loudly in his head, a thunderous nothingness disintegrating everything he thought he knew. He was a thing without a label, without anything to call his own -- even his own flesh had been given over to others countless times; in a way, he was still the small little cub mewing in the darkness, unable to see, looking for the flash of warmth he knew instinctively should be within reach, and yet never was. It was how he lived, now -- though his sight was only half-pure, he still lingered, sniffing out that warmth and investigating every little glimpse of that fire his instincts told him had to be so close, but never was. Often, he was the one to extinguish that which he thought he loved; his claws too sharp, his embrace too lethal. A pitiful creature, learning from the beginning that he wasn't worth anything, that nothing mattered in the world - not a mother's love, not a woman's word. It was written in his flesh, this story -- though it was garbled among the spotted rosettes stretched in horrendous streaks, warped by those very same marks. It was a story that only the half-crazed could read, could see, could taste on their tongues, and understand. It was a story written in the trash-tongue, spoken only by vermin and the unwanted.

It was the wickedness of the world, an intaglio of scars that didn't just speak of a past abuse, but the shaping of the creature before them; a creature made of darkness and smoke, a wistful motion of stillness and utter silence. Yet he had spoken, and the inferno of his haunting was churning deep in his belly, urging him to walk forward, to run, to chase, eat, destroy. This nameless creature, nearly rendered faceless, so terrible to behold, not for the instantaneous fear of intimidation that some of his brethren possessed, but the utter void of nothingness that radiated off of him in cold, cold waves. He was wrapped in that icy grip, and comforted himself in that black grasp. He had lost the thread of his life as blackness descended; had lost the knack of his words and now as he stumbled through the darkness he tried to piece together what had been lost. It wasn't a new sensation, but it was one that still left a distaste in his mouth -- her eyes were boring holes into his skull, and he watched her with a stranger's expression. Familiar, yet unfamiliar, strange, yet comforting. He felt himself being drawn into the darkness he saw there, in the vibrating chaos that spilled outward from her.

She was calm, calmer than a female ought to have been, setting his teeth on edge, setting every alarm he had ever had instilled in him -- but instead of fear there was the first threads of eagerness, the beginning of a tingle in his loins, in his toes, circling up to wrap it's chills around the center of his chest cavity. She came like everything dark in the world -- like all the horrors he knew he buried deep inside of him - - darker than the night, than the shadows that circled them. Closer, closer; he watched in stillness, his muscles relaxed, knowing the touch of domination when it came, and yet unwilling to fight it yet. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Her mouth was cracked in the corner, much like a crag that split the very mountain in half -- would it spill over them all and drown them in the heat of the earth? Would she fume and boil over spreading her wrath like a fine fiery plague to destroy them all? Then she was there, her presence reverberating against him, pressing against him like prodding fingers looking for the holes in the armor. He knew the reaction he was supposed to have: he should grin, push all of that anger she held like a careful bottle and crack the top off. He should smile in a rakish, uncaring way, say something insulting, push her to her limits and see how she reacted. These were the lines that were supposed to be spoken, the actions that his character was supposed to subsume, but he could not let go of the coldness. Especially so close to the heat of her, the stench of her, the utter vileness of her closeness that repudiated everything he sought. She was the darkness, the reverberating restlessness of the shadow, and it came encroaching with each footstep. She was close, so close. So close he could almost feel her pressing against him.

The nameless one saw the stone nestled against her breast and felt himself align himself to that feeling, the utter destruction held within such a small, tiny stone. It held all the evil-intent in the world, much like Pandora's box, waiting for some one's claws to come pry it open. Dare he open it? Dare he lay his paws on this creature even when everything he touched died? Was she even capable of dying? His thoughts spun in circles, unable to pick themselves up as they tripped and tripped and tripped again.

What's your name, soldier? The taste of her on his glands, permeating his very essence triggered his memory more than time had ever done for him; the shadows didn't disappear, but they let him glimpse inside of them for the briefest of breaths before closing up again: her eyes, her stone, his pledge to her, and the necessity of her existence to him. The wave of recognition him hit powerfully in his chest, sending a shiver through his flesh as he leaned closer, ever closer. Could he feel the beginning of her excitement? Was blood to be shed? It wouldn't matter either way. Blood or no blood, whatever she wanted, he had already decided he would give, as long as he would cease to wonder about the power of emotions. To shut it all off, to remember none of it -- just her words, and the actions they triggered. Yes, yes, an intriguing thought, that. A powerful one, that.

"I don't have one." he said, revealing everything in those four words: he wasn't worth having a name, wasn't worth loving, living, breathing. He was only good at one thing, and it was ending life, even the ones he wanted to keep: especially the ones he wanted to keep. Her eyes were drowning pools of light, as if the power inside of them were calling to him; he reached out knowing that even if she wanted to destroy him with all the radiating energy he would not stop himself. His muzzle vibrated, a sound akin to a growl and a purr rumbling together before his fangs unsheathed and he nipped so carefully, so artfully at her oh-so-close nose. His tail lashed, longer than his body, almost as thick as his foreleg, cracking like a whip against the ground.

word count || 1162 

tags || Nayva !!   

OOC || Muse exploded. Oh my goodness Maybe he does wanna die  

How to explain light to the blind? To explain how many shades of green there were in the jungles of Naxorus to those who had never even heard of it's syllables? It was an impossible thing to describe that which one has never experienced, and so it was between the two of them; not a dance between devils, or demons, or even soldiers fighting for a patriotic death. It was a noxious thing, pulling and pushing them together, a knotted string of rotted emotions knotting them up and tangling them together. She was a creature of emotions, fueling her motions with her exacting ambition; and he, the poorest, dearest, pathetic darling was nothing of the sort. She had purpose in her life, a path she followed, goals that she fulfilled, while he wandered from path to path, sniffing at the corners for traces of the devil. Had he found it in her? It would have been a painful reunion had he not already been forged into this spectacular weapon; hadn't she seen the scars? Hadn't she understood the root of his creation? His beginnings? His teachings? Had she never tasted the touch of claws on her flesh, digging deep to find the bone? Had she never known the touch of fangs burying in her neck, seeking that one little glitch that'll end all the spark there was left inside of her?

For all her darkness, for all that her history was probably made of horrific things, she had not been taught step by step; she had been given the chance to find herself in the darkness, while the nameless one, the unwanted one, the wretched one never could find his feet beneath the surging waves of tar that dragged him downwards. The only thing that pulled him up from the swarming black were those fangs fastening in his neck trying to sever his livelihood. All he had were claws digging out the dark diamond of his eye. Whenever he was about to stumble, it was the pain that had come and wrenched him free of it all.

Perhaps she knew these lessons, but they had been spoken in another language that did not compute; she was female after all, and the entire breed were warped with a sickness. No amount of digging inside of her flesh would ever give him the answers he sought. They were their own breed, their own species, full of sickness, twisted to fit the narrow path where he fell off again and again. He had snapped at her with the artful skill of someone used to dealing as much damage as he had been dealt; it was a playful thing, giving in to the chaos he felt inside of her. He wanted to see that unmasked potential fall to shreds, to see what it was that lied beneath the surface of all that calm; she was the fire, and he had to either chase it or extinguish it. Or both; most certainly he would do both if given the chance.

Darkness had fallen silent around them; their onlookers no longer lurked but skulked away from the vibrating violence emanating from their bodies; he snapped at her nose, a little fearless motion that was met with unrelenting punishment --- but she didn't know how much he needed the punishment, how much his body folded against her, knowing without knowing the feeling of claws, and weight, and fangs. It knew, even before the nameless knew what was coming, and though she crashed against him, he was not the shore that was pounded upon. No, no. He was yielding where she pushed, his body folding around her as she fell atop him, meeting the ground with a near loving curl, his tail flicking up and around, caressing the side of her vibrating flank. His eye was focused on hers, mouth open but un-aggravated. She was quick to retaliate, her jaws snapping more ominously near his face -- but didn't she see the scars rippled across the left? He could not flinch; he would welcome her bite, welcome her claws, her violence, welcome it inside of him and slowly, slowly, devour her, bit, by glorious bit until even after her death she would haunt him as others haunted him. Make a foolish move like that again and it will be your last, she hissed.

Everything was black and blue, the brightest blue he had seen after the sun had died; the press of the black stone stole his breath. Even that was okay, for it spoke more truthfully than her words. It was something in which he could trust, this power, this suffocating thing thrusting into his lungs. It was something he could put his soul to and allow the darkness to eat at him as surely as he ate the darkness. Eventually, would he be eating himself? He chuckled, a purring laughter, throaty and strange in the situation as he pushed upward; she was withdrawing her pressure, retreating a few steps, wrinkled and tense. He rolled into a luxurious sprawl, his tail sweeping toward his head, touching but not quite touching as she re-settled her emotions in order. Rubbing his cheek against a clawed paw, he traced a line down his throat, claw catching flesh, nearly opening himself up. Pick a name. After all, I'm going to need to call you something, she nearly snarled.

The nameless one's ears flicked, a twitching motion catching the odd sound of her displeasure; he chuffed, "Die, or not die, it doesn't matter." he responded to her threat, rising up in a rippling, languid motion, almost as if nothing had even happened. As if nothing ever happened and all the scars on his flesh were but figments of his imagination. If he could have smiled, perhaps this would have been the time, but the nameless didn't smile, merely rose in that relaxed, instinctive motion and padded toward the agitated female. "Call me whatever you want." He said, passing by her, his tail flicking out and dangling near her face as he padded passed. "It doesn't matter either."

For all his words though, he felt the chain he had put on himself; felt the pull of that dark stone pulsing like a dislocated bone deep in his eye socket. His own stone was glowing a little brighter than usual in response, almost as if it were feeding off its energy, yearning to achieve what this one had. His tail flicked away as he murmured, "You'll learn nothing really matters."

word count || 1100 

tags || Nayva  

OOC || so exciting {{@.@}} 

Fear is a dangerous thing. It starts a small seed deep within the recesses of the heart, and much like ivy begins it's torturous life wrapping itself around each limb, each organ. Like a parasite, it destroys it's host with each passing moment, it's growth slow but sure, creeping in the darkest shadows, with the lightest, unbearable touches. It is a thing that pulls you under the ground and paralyzes your thoughts. The nameless one wasn't a fearless creature by any means, but much like all things, his fear was of a particular flavor, and it showed itself only in the darkest, loneliest moments; now, here, between he and she, where fear should have been running rampant one way or another, it's icy claws were skittering against his flesh without a hold. He could not be afraid of her -- and not because she wasn't a fearful creature. No, no; he could feel the intimidation of her presence pushing against him, trying to subdue all of his rational thought. He could feel her very soul shivering within the black stone, and he knew she was a lethal weapon lying still for the moment: his flesh still remembered the force of her body against him. He could not lie to himself.

No, it wasn't that she wasn't a scary boogie crawling out the night that made him fearless before her. She could hurt him, paralyze him, and even kill him, and all that he would feel would perhaps be the unfettered touch of relief. Perhaps it was showing on his face, though he knew the mask he had crafted sat in silent amusement on his visage. What else was there between them now that the chain had been fastened: yet she followed him, her steps as soft as death as she padded up beside him, slightly larger yet all the more feminine for it. His bulk was of a stockier make than hers, and while he had not struck out, it did not mean he could not, and more importantly would not. His ears flicked sideways, tracking the sound of her breathing, the agitation that gusted out before she shut down with her iron will. He chuffed, a sound common to his particular breed, but one that expressed more than words. His tail, nearly longer than the stretch of his body, swept low with the last foot arched upward in an arc; the crowd, he noticed, had dissipated.

Mustaire. It means mystery. That's what you will be called. --- Ah, ah. He almost shuddered from the force of her words. There was a thoughtlessness in her words that struck him deep in his bones. So easy, it seemed, to throw at name at his face when he had been nameless for so long. So easy, her careless cruelty, so much like her gender, to throw in his face how unimportant such a thing was. He would have almost preferred to be called like a cur to her heel than to be named so suddenly, so thoughtlessly. Was this what pain felt like? It burned in his chest, a rough, callous grinding of bones against his heart cavity. His muscles tensed, hackles wrinkling like a wave across his shoulders before they lied still and he buried it deep, throwing it to hungry maw of the demonic void inside of himself. Yes, yes. {Let it all go} it cackled, {throw it all away like a nameless cur} His ears twitched again, but his expression remained the same. Let it go. Because a mystery is exactly what you are. and her careless, whimsical desires crashed against him, her eyes blazing as if she were suddenly come over with an emotion he could not name.

The nameless one watched her, his eye intense where it landed, scrutinizing with the cold calculating touch of the dead. She laid her claim on his body, as clear as day, as wretched as night, and someone like himself who had nothing to live for, nothing good to strive for, did not complain. What would he have done? Would he have continued to chase silhouettes of laughter? Or should he commit himself to the darkness and let it all be eaten away. His expression moved from stillness to something grim and satisfied, an insufferable look of pittance curling the very edges of his mouth before he removed it's existence.

And perhaps you've given up. But I have things to do. I have plans. And you're going to help me with them. He chuffed, ears erect and catching each syllable that fell from her lips; yes, yes, action. His body craved movement. He almost sped up his walking, his blood beginning to flow toward the meandering cause she was slowly giving unto him. "I'm only good at one thing." He said, and though it was said with that same expression, there was a thread of ready acceptance beginning to unwind in his body; each footstep he took would be made for her cause, for her desire, her whim, no matter how cruel. Mustaire she had named him, a cute little mystery pet; he did not mind the ramifications of such a thing. He did not mind anything, nothing at all, and it was a wondrous thing indeed to give over to instinct and let her mind rule him instead of his own.

Aligning himself to her steps, he said with the bluntness of his nature, "Who, or what, am I destroying first?" His eye was transfixed on her, like a pet awaiting the command of it's mistress, and again, again, that unbridled feeling of satisfaction. He would nurture that feeling if he could, and brace himself for the future. Maybe there was change ahead of him, or maybe, just maybe, an eternity of thoughtless, painless, emotionless action.

{Will you eat her, too?}

How utterly delightful; his face split in a crazed grin.

word count || 1002
tags || Nayva
OOC || What a lovely development ^_____^
I really like him as her little pet.