if i had a heart.

She reminds herself the coffin is empty.

Varian is absent from this ceremony in body and spirit. (You searched.) There are only a horde of weeping, sweating mortals. Her skull fractures under the incessant pounding of their hearts. An ache throbs through the roots of her teeth. Her hands are far too empty. As empty as the --

Tiris presses against her, whining. Deep sorrow washes through her mind. In the river: the metal-blood-warmth of Varian’s scent. His hands, caught gently in teeth nipping greedily at treats. A palm as broad as the wolf’s skull, resting on the fur.

Her own hand is cold and half-bone, but when she winds her fingers through his fur, Tiris leans harder against her. In stillness they remain for the rest of the ceremony. Zoen closes her eyes to help stave off temptation. Not one of the gutless mob deserved to share the day with the old man. And it’d break his heart, if he’d still had one.

( If he had, you could have – no. Close that door. )

The speeches end, and the sobs settle down to mere sniffles. When the headache becomes manageable, he opens her eyes and seeks out the king.

You don’t get to die.

“Oh I don’t waste time on remorse, Andi.” His mouth quirks into something almost a smile. Tiris shakes Zoen off and approaches the king, sniffing at his hands for food scents. “It’s unproductive. And besides – there’s still so many sins to commit.”

Fewer by the day. He ignores the chill presence lingering at the edge of perception – and it, disconcertingly, returns the favor. The Lich King had been quiet since the reckoning at Antorus.

Aegwynn.

assorted setting prompts -- accepting

“ Oh, shit. ”

THIS ISN’T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE dies on her tongue much the way the nobleman -- cultist -- fuck he better be a cultist -- did just a moment ago. Her teeth are stained red with his gore. His throat clogs her throat, and there’s a panicked moment (spit it out!?) before she swallows, instinctive -- oh fuck is that worse? More incriminating? 

The body falls from nerveless hands, onto the plush cushions of a pale chaise. His blood is luridly dark amidst the fluff and lace. Tiris pads forth to nose at the carrion, shameless with hunger. He shows little interest in the boy. The witness.

Gods and dark. He’s so young.  

The face isn’t one she recognizes immediately. ( Neither is your own. ) But the clothes are rich, and the demeanour is a noble’s. And his age… what, ten? Thirteen? 

Her throat is still clogged. She dares not clear it, and her voice croaks. “ He-ey there, little one. This is, ah -- ” what it looks like. “ This isn’t your business. Go away. ”

A sudden, awful thought occurs to her. The cultist was a noble.  

he did TRY THOUGH . the horror of the running from his slow glacial march is unmatched

There is a wolf. A girl. Find the line between.

Raw excitement fills his skull. The air is gore-thick and red misted. His face twitches. Lips pull back, and bare white, white teeth. A meal, still steaming, hangs from the claws of his best-beloved. Mercenary dogs skitter around them, warmblooded beasts his best has convinced him are not prey. Yet. 

Picky eaters. They are not a threat to the feast, so he pays them no mind. Four lungs fill deep with the rich warm stench of innards rent open. It will feed a hunger. 

The gore falls from the claw, and a bright joy overtakes -- Tiris, yes. Here is a chickenscratch delineation. Tactile and practical; the wolf cares little for suffering, and all for meat. He is on the corpse before it hits the ground. Muzzle-deep in its chest, chasing the body heat. Warmth soaks him to the bone. A rib cracks between his jaws. 

A face deep in gore; another, fixed on their best. Mograine. 

( his heart in your jaws, his gore clotting your teeth. him, yours. are you in love or hunger? )

Zoen blinks hard as he settles back into his own skin. He is grinning -- cannot stop if he tries (you do). Tiris’ happiness covers him like a haze. It lightens his step as he saunters around the wreckage. Her Highlord and his pathetic little matchstick entourage are a messy bunch.   

“ Why, the salvation of all mankind, of course! ” she proclaims when she remembers the shape of words. She flips her hair regally, and catches a champion’s gaze.  “ Barring a few specimens, here and there. ”  

Brave little bug -- it holds her gaze with a glare of its own. Zoen’s smile grows pointed, and she looks away. There in the mud -- a diamond. The head of a man’ari lay some feet from the rest of its corpse, the body ravaged by plague and frost. But its horns are unbroken, and she can see scratched onto them the sigil Grimm told her about.

" And if in the process I get to lord my successes over... oh the list goes on... why, that's just economical. "