' ' narcissistic_c a n n i b a l || nayva

It was as if the tattered remains of his soul had been seized and tied around her paws; before she was even close, his eye had turned toward her, much like the force of the ocean, turning toward the brilliance of the moon. That's what she was to him -- this omnipotent force in his life, a god, a goddess, shaping his very existence in her hands to suit the needs of the present. Without her, he was adrift; without her, he ran amok into slaughter, unable to stop the voices, the rumbling, aching magma that had begun to bubble and boil over within him. Without her, he raged. But now, now, with her so close, with her scent wrapping around him like thorny fingers running through his fur, he felt the tension in his gut ease out. Here, the mistress had wrapped her hand around the handle of her weapon. Her control was absolute, and in that knowledge, he was free.

Though her eyes barely fell upon his face, it didn't matter; her nearness alone made the world center and steady beneath his paws. Her voice, dripping with underlying excitement thrilled through his bones, turned that earnest eagerness into a sharpened blade. Do whatever you can to get him away from the others without causing a stir. I want him alone. Her eyes gleamed like luminescent pearls staring at the elusive cat nestled like a king in his patch of soldiers. One soldier, ten, a thousand, it mattered little to snow leopard; his eye flicked up toward the moon, the overlying darkness smothering everything in their sight. Alone, he was nameless, a wandering, discarded creature -- but here, right now, in this very moment, during the very darkest of this night of nights, he had a name, and he had a purpose. His teeth gleamed, stone pulsing in it's socket, as his own purr rumbled out of his chest, intermingling with fading sound of hers. The general didn't have a chance against the darkness that was slowly, but inevitably swallowing him whole.

She departed, slinking back like shadows, leaving the trace of her deliciously intoxicating poison on his flesh as she did so; he did not watch her. He moved, his shoulders roving in that predatory manner, tail curled upward from the ground. The taste of her pheromones clinging to his fur brought with it it's own delight.

Fires flickered, laughter echoed, the stench of burning flesh filled the skies, and spilled blood only heightened the eagerness inside of him, the roving madness he had slowly begun to understand as his own manic power. He held it tight in his mind, holding the white static close to him, even as he returned toward the rowdy crowd of felines. Even the females were contorting on the ground in drunken stupor, their hips shifting in that knowing way; he did not care. He never had. He had one eye, and it was ever staring in the Goddess' direction. There was no room in his world for anything, or anyone else.

Especially on this night of killing, with the killing rage so close to breaking free. He sat amongst a crowd, close, but not too close to where he had been earlier, lifting one paw and licking the pad, tongue slipping inbetween the toes as he unsheathed his black, black claws. He waited, and waited -- it was something that could not be rushed, for all that he felt the tension beginning to build in his stomach, in his very veins. He felt his insides swell outward, even as he expelled the beginnings of his own magic, hiding it away in the abysmal darkness of his soul. Not yet, not yet -- not until the glowing cold eyes found him again in that cold, cruel way. How long they played this flirtatious game, even the snow leopard didn't know. Time was nonexistence, only the eternal dark, and the slow, ever dimming light of the fires as cats gorged and feasted, and slowly, inevitably, passed out. For all that he did not comprehend the emotions that underlined the accompanying facial features, the nameless, no, no, Mustaire knew how to mimic -- and so he played this cold, cold game.

A disinterested stare, fleetingly caught. A snickering smile. Ears tuffed backward with indifference. He knew the aggression was building, the oncoming stare becoming more forceful, the longer he played. The General, this elusive father figure, was as dominant as they come. He was the type to come like a storm to shut down even the smallest glimpse of mutiny -- and it was mutiny that gleamed with the indifferent amusement in Mustaire's glorious galactic eye. Eventually he moved, daintily lifting himself from the nest of laughter and limbs and picked his way toward his General, toward the cat who sat like a false King amongst the rabble of inadequate cats drifting in and out of drunken dreams.

He did not pass close - no, no -- but he passed, carrying with him the delightful perfume of his mistress Goddess coating his fur like something torturous. His eye gleamed, his magic pulsing he let go of the reigns just a little, letting the bleached white run it's fingers through him in a shimmering, shattering illusion before disappearing again.

It did not take much more antagonizing for the rumbling beast to follow, his pride too large and egotistical to call for help for such a small peon. Mustaire didn't even look back, his tail flicking up antagonistic and rude, leaving a trail of his own stench for the general to follow as he headed toward the back of the encampment, where the General had a very temporary tent pitched up for himself.

The darkness deepened.

word count || 952

tags || Nayva Aeron

OOC || Hope this was okay

The world was an ocean, dark, dark, sweeping out all of the ruffage and swallowing it up in the maw of its raging, merciless hunger. The darkness was all encompassing, and he, the weapon grasped firmly in her hand, was the force of the tide surging toward the face of the moon. So they moved, intertwined in a complicated intaglio, etched in veins, and star-crossed destinies. Their hate had bound them together, their mercy destroyed by the darkness that consumed them all -- yet they were all different flavors, different shades of that all-encompassing dark. The weapon moved, by the will of the hand. The hand moved, by the will of the heart. The heart ached, by the neglect of the false king that followed in the weapon's footsteps. So many steps that had been taken, so many that could never have been retraced -- and so here they were, this triangle of love and hate and violence, entrapped in a destiny they had no influence on. Was he to die today? Yes, yes -- by the will of the Weapon.

He smiled, that dark, delicious smile, curving the blackest of lips, his face etched in scars and the semblance of tar stretched over over his wretched, wretched features. He was not a creature of light -- light had given him up upon his first breath, and ever since he had known the hand of death curled in his hackles. It was there now, that feeling, that touch of the other world, caressing his fur, warming up his blood, surging forward with the quickening heat of the insanity that resided within him. He could not stop now, even if she asked him, even if she begged him with all of her might -- the weapon had been freed, and the weapon would act.

____ 

So it was, so it was -- and they came, together, as one, silent arrogance taking Mustaire's steps into the very bowels of hell, as the leopard came near, so near, finally near the target of weeks of agitation. He could not understand the unease that tickled his gut, and threw it away as useless. Nero did not need useless things in his life.

He had tossed away the cat that had come crawling into his bed one night, and he tossed away the brat that was birthed from that union. Everything in his life was built of solid lines, and anything that fell on the wrong side of that line was ruthlessly cut down and exterminated. Much like this pest, this stupid little cub that came in bristling with scars and silence, daring him with every glint in his malicious, childish eye. He followed because he had decided it was time to exterminate the vermin before it decided to breed anything more foul in his ranks -- and so he followed, hackles raised as they went to his own tent. The arrogance set his teeth on edge, the dominating force of his personality exploding outward in a rage that could scarcely be suppressed for much longer -- but Nero, a leopard that had clawed his way infamously up to the very top of his poignant throne of power, knew about patience and hunting, and quietly, tensely followed the animal to it's death. A scent lingered beneath all of that male musk, one that he knew, one that spiked the unease that twisted and writhed -- and like everything else in his life that did not serve a meaning, threw it away. Ambiguity was not in his nature. There was no room for doubt. He came for the kill.

____  

The world narrowed down to the darkness, to the brightness that never was, and the aching need that had subsumed everything else in his entire life. He was no longer simply a snow leopard; he was no longer one of the common rabble that squabbled their daily lives among themselves in quiet misery. No -- he felt, he moved, by the hand of forces beyond his control. He was not a person, not a thinking, live creation with his own thoughts, his own actions -- he was a moving object, a force that had been birthed and reshaped into this very moment, this exact moment of renewal and revival. This moment, caught between the female he knew and adored and gave himself to, and the nonentity that followed like a black tide behind his footsteps. He let the walking corpse come like a raging bull, closer and closer, his eye flicking back to give him the last considering look he often gives his victims. {Will you feel anything this time?} the voice crooned ever so gently in his ear, a voice of the past that was ever present, ever watchful, and ever sinful.

He smiled, black tar draped over slightly yellowed teeth. Was that blood caught on his maw, or just a flash of tongue caught unawares in a sea of black? He smiled, a look as innocently thoughtful, as sinful trepidation coursed through him with the pleasurable tingle of a serial killer finally in his own territory. There was no forgetting now. There was nothing to forget. Just the same actions he applied with ease, the same motions he always made, the same testing waters prying into his heart to see if guilt would ever surface. He was a creation that lacked too many things to be left alone, and yet alone he had been kept for too long, locked with the voices and the fears, and the rage of an unsteady mother too willing to use him to balance her aggression. So he tested. So he knew, in a way that only the chronically twisted knew, that his beloved Goddess was near, so near, awaiting with her trembling, burning vengeance. So he knew, the moment the world held its breath, and the leopard lunged at him, the sound of his pads pushing against the ground, the sound of the claws extending, the bunching of muscles. He knew, and the weapon was ready, because it was a blade, and even resting, it was sharp, and dangerous.

Claws found purchase in the snow leopard's shoulders, fangs digging into the soft flesh near his spine; it was all motion, all vivid feeling as the madness rose and blinded him to reality. This was his moment -- and he gave, gave against the motion of the General's weight against his body, folding down against the ground and using his claws to push hard against the ground, forcing them to roll, Mustaire's back now pinning the General, this horrendously false, pitiful dead King. He laughed, a sound that pushed through his lungs with the exhilaration of the quickly damned. Blood made his coat run red, but it didn't matter -- it was a night for blood, it was a night for killing, and the killing had finally arrived. He grinned then, manic and delighted, using the force of his roll to get back to his paws, forcing the puncturing claws to rip away from him even if it cost him a little bit of flesh.

There was no fear, no wound, no amount of blood that would stop the monster now that it had been triggered. When the leopard lunged again, the snow leopard did not let him get a sink in his flesh, but collapsed and kicked him over into the tent, into the waiting jaws of his Goddess. Nero flew through the air, his own momentum being his downfall as he tumbled against the dry earth, through the tent, and skidded to a step mid center.

The weapon, the raging force of insanity, so wicked, so full of fire and flame and everything bright, soon followed, like a shadow cast against the brightness of flame. He followed like a portent of death, his jaws dripping blood, his eye glinting with the power that surged through his veins. Even the stone, set so fiercely in his eye, shone that new vibrant color, so content with it's level. The snow leopard came like death itself through the tent entrance, fat paws heavy where they touched the ground, tension rolling off of his shoulders in waves with each predatory step he took. A force of darkness, of brightness, of everything mixed up and jumbled in the world. Tonight, he was a weapon, and the weapon had been bared, and lay gleaming with wickedness at the behest of it's mistress. "Now, now," He rumbled, even his voice smoothing out from its usual tight pronunciation, "We've just begun, little king." And he laughed, though it was dark, and thick, and full of quiet thunder. Here, perhaps was his truest face -- the face of the snow leopard had the fever not taken away part of his cognitive ability to exist in the world. Much like Nero, the nameless, no, no, Mustaire, had no room for doubt.

word count || 1464

tags || Nayva Aeron

OOC || hehe! my fingers are killin me, but it was worth it

She was a thing of beauty, black on black, an obsidian blade lying in wait, swathed in the darkness of shadows. She was a thing of abstract reality, a creature carved in his mind from want, need, and unparalleled power that radiated like a dark sun from within her. She was all, and absolutely nothing -- and he loved her in the way a pet adores it's master, in the way the blade, this magnificent weapon idolized the controlling hands of it's mistress. His love was a need, a living thing, a parasite that he hoarded within himself, and cherished for all that it would soon devour him: it made him alive, gave him a direction to look at, a purpose to follow. And he followed, those impossible steps, this impossible river of sanity and rationality she gave him -- he simply followed the tug of her lead, adored the tightness of her chains around his throat, around his heart, and felt the world sigh around him when he bled from it all. It was alright, it would be alright

{You are a stupid cat}

It didn't matter. His eye gleamed in the darkness, pupils widening to plates as his mistress revealed herself, as all of that elegance and grace manifested itself from the very hands of shadows. A Goddess! Nothing less than a Goddess reincarnated into flesh and blood and all that was right with the world. He did not speak, but watched, his eye holding onto that image, burning it into his mind as if it were something that could be forgotten. She was a Goddess of War, a Goddess of Death, as he was a creature of pestilence, the rampaging ugly death that did not come with her self-righteousness. The Goddess moved, her words purring into the air, her rage a striking thing as if lightning would come down exactly where she willed. Do you know who am I? No, of course you don't. You don't know me because you tried to have me killed all those years ago. You wanted me eliminated. So you wouldn't have to remember your night with my mother. Oh no, an entertainer wasn't enough for you. Not a high ranked general like you. Mustaire's hackles were raised, his eye boring into where she walked, even as she came so close, so close he could touch her if he dared to reach out -- but a Goddess was not to be touched. She was not to be dirtied by such hands, by such base need. His head lowered, tension running through his flanks as he turned his gaze to their victim, sitting stunned as he listened to her words. Perhaps, after all, the General was a little bit stupid.

Rage coalesced in her features, twisting it all into something vile and uncontrollable as she lashed out at the General, this little, little king. Nothing more than a corpse, really. The snow leopard held his spot, waiting, waiting, his shoulders bunched as if he would fly at the slightest movement the General made -- would he react? Would he give chase? It was all so delicious. Whiskers trembling, the weapon barely heard her when she said, I am the unlucky one. Because I'm suppose to call you father. She was near him again, the musk of her reality curling into his nose, adding weight to the chains he knew she had around his neck. Yes, yes, he was eager, trembling with the need to attack, to go, go, go. It was time, wasn't it? Like a kitten given the lead, he itched to move, to fulfill both of their mutual desires, but he held himself rigid in the face of that eagerness. The need and the hunger was a serpentine desire that slithered through his gut and clenched into knots. He wanted, he needed, he desired -- he was pulsing, his magic roving through him, potent and all-consuming, ready to be unleashed the moment she said it was alright, that she no longer needed any more closure. The Goddess was such a self-righteous darkness, so poignantly different than his own. He consumed everything without moral, without consideration, while she dealt the justifying blow to the evil in the world.

Her voice was a snake whispering in his ears of all the temptations he had within himself as she said Do you have anything to say for yourself before we put an end to you? Her voice so innocent, so pure, and unadulterated. She released rage, while he hoarded it -- and he took hers for himself, stalking forward toward the stunned, angry jaguar, the disbelief in his eyes a wonderful thing indeed. "Oh no, there will be plenty of time to talk." He rumbled in that deep voice of his, the fat pads of his paw, thicker and heavier than a jungle-leopard, pressed down on the General's neck, forcing the cat down with all of his strength, claws unsheathed, his back legs thicker, heavier, more muscular, rendering the cat useless. He leaned down, his tongue slipping out from his mouth and licking along the General's cheek where the Goddess had carved her rage into him.

The weapon chuckled, even as the voices in his head screamed out fury, one fat paw sliding down along the side of the jaguar's cheek, retracing the wounds with his own. "Maybe your eye first." He rumbled, as if thunder was made in the cavern of his chest. The jaguar reacted viscerally, thrashing around to unleash himself -- but the weapon had it's hold, his tail lashing in delight as he forced the cat down, down, rubbing the wounds in the dirt. "Oh yes." he murmured. "The eye will get you talking. Then maybe your claws, one, by one, by one." A thrill of pleasure tingled along his flanks, ears flat against his skull, the most adoring look in his one manic, galactic eye. Mustaire ran his tongue over the General's left eye, shifted his weight and poised his claws just below the socket, steady despite the twisting desperate flail of the cat beneath him. He held himself poised for this delightful purpose the Goddess had set out for him.

word count || 1024

tags || Nayva Aeron

OOC || mwaha!

What were words to him now? Even had the jaguar spoken, it wouldn't have meant anything to him -- nothing said could have stopped him. Even if his beloved Goddess had told him to stop, he did not think he could have stopped. This addicting smell, this fear he wanted to dissect, the desperation he wanted to tear apart bit by bit -- it could not be taken from him. What made this creature so different from him? Why did he not feel desperation? If their positions had been reversed, the nameless one would have torn his own ligaments to free himself - he would have destroyed his own body in the process to see how far his aggressor was willing to take this game. If their positions had been reversed he would not have been seeking to live, to see how far he could push death before it's jaws came to grab him by the throat. He did not understand this instinct that had wrapped about the cat beneath his claws. He did not understand the ambition that moved his Goddess toward this punishment. He did not understand any of it -- and in his ignorance, he followed the only instinct he knew: if he could carefully take apart these emotions, and compare them, maybe he could find his missing pieces. Hah. Hah.

The twisted nature of the beast was slowly growing with each kill, with each uninterrupted comparison between himself and others. How many had he already left in a tangled, mangled mess in the darkest alley ways? Too many to count; their faces didn't mean anything to him. Their death even less. They had possessed something he had not, and he had sought to figure out what the difference was. So far, he had come up with nothing. Tonight, it wasn't about himself: this was about the Goddess. It was about pain, and Mustaire knew pain. He knew the delicate touch, the agonizing writhing lash of pain as an intimate lover. Would this cat embrace his torture as stoically as the nameless one had so long ago? Or would he continue to writhe and fight until even his breath was defeated by the weight of this atrocity?

He felt movement -- felt the general seize up and power through the chains Mustaire had made of himself; he didn't flinch. What was a little shared pain? Their blood had already mingled together, weight pressed against weight, fur blending together into vicious violence. It did not occur to him to even evade it, but to accept it into his flesh -- not that it ever came to it. The Goddess appeared, her paws crushing bones into dust, rendering the thing a useless addition. The sweet sound of the little king's pain echoed loud and long -- too long. Mustaire shifted, his paw crushing against the animal's windpipe and cutting off the sound half-way. "Shush, little king. I do not want to take your tongue yet." he grumbled, body lowered, pressing painfully against the soft flesh of neck before moving back toward the eye socket. Proceed my dear. I don't think there's anything this bastard could say that I'd even want to hear.

Mustaire nearly cooed, positioning his weight against the jaguar's face, and digging his claw into the socket, plucking out the glistening orb with practiced ease. The pain gave the larger animal more power, and the snow leopard was heaved upward even as he chuckled, a sinister sound of delight. Yes, yes. This was the desperation he lacked in his life. This was the feeling of instinctual livelihood that separated himself from others. How to attain it? How do you grab this feeling and hold it close? He almost lost his footing as the beast trashed and heaved, the one clawed paw he had left swiping at his flank. "Maybe we'll de-claw you next." He muttered, side twitching, but showing no other sign of pain. His tail lashed, using the thick rope as a leverage to hold the jaguar down, Mustaire placed one large clawed paw against the windpipe, the other spreading the little king's remaining paw against the earth. He ground against it, forcing the claws to extend as he reached down.

Power pulsed, delicious and tantalizing, sweeping through him with the delightful rush he had come to crave. White fire, white static -- everything was awash in white as his coat bleached out to a true color of bone, this brilliant facet of death's shadow. It was pulsing around him, this very live, aching thing, the only thing inside of him that truly lived. Like a white fire he was freed of filth, but for the splash of red from commingled wounds. He tongue flicked out a moment before he set his teeth against the black curve of the General's claw and ripped it free from it's cage. It bled freely, strong, gushing out more potently than the clear water fall of his eye. He was ready for the pain, the surge of power, and though he caught a claw to the face, it mattered little. There were only four more to go. Mustaire, white and shining, lapped up the blood flow, feeling his hunger beginning to roar deep in his belly. Soon, it whispered to him in the white noise that buzzed around his ears. If the General screamed, he didn't even hear it anymore. Soon..

word count || 898

tags || Nayva Aeron

OOC || Dun-dun!

He was devastation, disillusion, the manifestation of death's truest, filthiest face. Where other's killed for vengeance, he killed for no reason, not even for the sake of killing. It wasn't the act that fulfilled him, it wasn't the struggle that amped up his adrenaline - no, no. It was none of those things. He killed because he could not stop. He killed, he hurt, he tortured because it was the only thing that made sense to him, the only thing that equaled out with each rationalized, steady wound dealt to their bleeding, trembling flesh. Even now, with her vengeance the thing that forged them forward, the nameless snow leopard, the nameless, nearly deathless creature was killing simply because he could. Originally he had sought his own death, a kamikaze assault that always ended with him the victor. Now, now he didn't even think about his own death. Now, with this force riding him, filling up him to the brim, he was as alive as he could ever be.

His eye gleamed in the darkness, pupil shrunk to the tiniest sliver encased in all of that bleached white. Power breathed around him as if it had manifested from the other world, wrapping it's ghostly fingers around his chest, his neck, his legs, panting in his ear with excitement. He drove forward, each beautiful claw forced out, dangling flesh at the end. So much blood, so much blood. Even the voices had been drowned in the blood, in the static, in the white noise that surrounded him, engulfed him, devoured him. Who was he? Was this the face the leopard could have had, had he found a way to escape from the glimmer of her affection? Or was this fate unavoidable? Was he always shaped, broken, and reshaped, to suit this purpose? It didn't matter, none of it mattered.

Claw, after claw. Each delightful pull of flesh sent thrills through his body, heating him up from the inside as the magma of his confusion, his rage, his insanity gurgled and bubbled, so ready to overflow, tingling right over the edge of all that bright-eyed pleasure. The jaguar snarled, his fangs snapping ineffectively at it's captor, but that didn't do anything but fuel the monster on. He chuckled, leaning heavily on the creature beneath him, rubbing himself in that tantalizing, horrifying way, spreading the blood, urging it to move faster, faster. "Can you bleed out from your paws?" he murmured, ears flicking back in casual thought, teeth setting around the fifth, and ultimate one on his remaining paw. Mustaire didn't jerk his head, no, oh no. Instead he applied pressure, slowly, so slowly removing the claw from it's tendons, from the pouch that connected to it's inner bone. So slowly, so tauntingly, his throat thrumming with a purr as it finally, so carefully tore free. "Do you feel it?" He murmured, his lips brushing against the jaguar's ears when he spoke. So low, so intimate, his voice carried with it the touch of a purr he did not suppress.

Magic drowned out everything else though: if the Jaguar responded, he did not hear it. Even when his mistress came near, he did not initially hear her words. Her nearness alone made him quiet, made him look up at her with his one, round eye, pupil thinned out to slits, monstrous in white and red, but patient, so utterly patient. When he finally heard her words, he paused. Ears flicked down, tail lashed. End him.

End him? His muzzle moved tilting down to look at the toy she had given him. Already? So soon? Confusion warred across his features as the sudden shift in their goals threw him off balance. He didn't want to. His claws flexed in the Jaguar's flesh, pulling out more blood. His power shifted, but he knew where he stood, and with a sigh, he nuzzled the Jaguar's head where it was held beneath his paws. "I'm supposed to kill you now." he murmured, his teeth running over the curves of those delicate, spotted ears. He nipped them, in a playful, intimate way. Rubbing his face against the curve of the General's skull, the snow leopard's claws flexed again, pulling the semi-broken body closer to his chest. "If she wasn't here, we would have been able to play for so much longer." Was that longing in his voice? The beginnings of regret? It was a dark path he traveled, and only getting darker with each step.

Pressing the jaguar's skull sideways to see his profile, Mustaire stuck one of his paws inside of the beasts's mouth, regardless of the wounds that ensued from its instinctual bite. He nuzzled down against his throat just as his claws extended, caught, and pulled out the tongue in a long stream of saliva and blood. The General screamed, loud and high, even as Mustaire put his own mouth against the softness of the General's throat and bit down, pulling out the windpipe. The sound died with the General, his body going limp.

Heaving himself up from his slightly awkward position, the snow leopard moved up and around, lying down by the jaguar, his underbelly near the dead skull, and lowered his face toward all that red, began to eat. His power folded away, all of that white bleeding away to his black and grey coat, even as the voices came back with a vengeance.

{Filthy animal}

word count || 904

tags || Nayva Aeron

OOC || I really like him as a torturer. Maybe it could be a new career path for him.