(( OC: Lily Whitedawn, Blood Elf/Felblood ))
The problem was that Anguish felt like everything she lacked—warm, urgent, alive inside her... the thought made her chuckle - bright fangs, airy laugh.
Who said demonic urges were ugly? She had. But they felt beautiful - especially in the moment. Especially with Anguish. It pulses down her blade, dances through her veins - thrumming, alive, making her fangs ache in a way they hadn’t in years.
The crystal vibrated, resonating with his Anguish.
She didn’t question it anymore - whatever she’d become, instinct came with it. Predatory. Certain. She could feel him: the once-Farstrider in the brush behind her.
“I understand the need,” she says softly, conversational.
She doesn’t turn. What could he do to her? If he spilled her blood, it would only make things better.
She wanted him to: Look at her... young, slight, blonde. She knew the picture she painted.
Her back is yours. She thinks she’s untouchable.
“I at least have an excuse for the bloodlust,” she adds, voice lilting. “You… you’re just wrong, aren’t you?” The insult does it.
The arrow bites deep into her side just as she lunges—twisting midair, hooves tearing into earth where he stood a heartbeat before.
She was tired of helpless prey. Screaming sailors. Weak cultists. Predictable kills. This - this was better.
The arrow burns as she rips it free. Poison sears away in her blood, and the pain-
It coils tight with something else. Something hotter.
This is what the demon made me for.
Violent delights. Visceral beauty in motion.
The thought doesn’t unsettle her anymore - not when she's hunting. Anguish surges, urging her forward - hunt, harm, devour.
There’s something pure in it. Raw. Intimate.
Killing like this - close, breath to breath, eyes locked - it becomes personal.
She likes it that way - up close, heart-in-hand, teeth in your throat, drinking-down-your-last-breath kind of personal.
Magister Bloodsworn had known that before he gave her the crystal, and sent her to gather Anguish in the way someone like her did it best: by being messy. Creative. Hungry. Pure predator, no taint.
The way Anguish wove into the Chaos of her was a delight – when his voice resonated through that crystal, and half-coaxed, half-commanded, “Perform for me,” she wanted to.
She had already planned on enjoying herself.
“Whitedawn – you're quite the tall sprout now, girl. But what would your father think? We served together, you know. Before the Amani got to his patrol.”
She moves - fast, wings tucked tight as she crashes through the undergrowth -
And the words hit: her father.
She lets it come. Lets it bite.
Not a mistake - a calculated choice - because she sees it: the disturbed leaves, the setup, the trap he wants her to spring aside into.
She hears his voice. That’s enough - closing the distance is effortless.
Anguish makes her stronger. Faster. Hungrier.
It's clever, the trap – the second one that is. The one behind him, that locks every single muscle in place, as she does close the gap on him with that impossible speed.
Regret is a wasted emotion, however. Perhaps she even deserves this - rushing in like she had.
She holds his gaze as he steps in close - too close - and drives that Farstrider blade into her abdomen.
The phoenix head on the hilt gleams in a blade of sunlight that cuts through the forest canopy - just like the ones on the blades her father had always worn.
It's a surreal, slow sort of moment. There's pain, oh yes – so much of it that her vocal chords feel like they're seizing, when not a single pained sound can crawl its way out. It's an eerily silent sort of torture; birdsong warbles in the distance, wind rustles and plays in the leaves... a lynx growls down in a gully.
Demons love pain. They use pain.
She’ll be free in seconds... she knows that. She’s endured worse.
A few seconds is an eternity, as the blade runs through her with that slow, inexorable push – and pierces its way right out of her back, when their bodies press close enough to mimic intimacy, as blood races down the pommel of his blade.
Endure. That's what Iloam and Jericho taught me, isn't it? Just fucking endure it.
It's a reminder. A reminder that even now, she can still be made fucking helpless.
In an instant, he’s on his back - darkness coiling around his throat, crushing, as his blade slides free of her body - and then into his.
By the time the deed is well and truly done many long, loud moments later... she’s swaying slightly, his heart crushed in her clawed grip. The demonic form strains her - mind and body both - healing is faster this way... but she has to change back. Can't risk it. The Anguish. The urges.
Can't get lost in the high now, can I?
The heart drops wetly into the leaves.
She sets to bandaging herself before teleporting back to the city with visible holes in her torso – the nobility already talked about her enough, she didn't need to show up looking half dead, to be further humiliated in the streets. Caitiri was... old enough to hear the things said about her mother, and understand them, now. 'Whitedawn' would be her legacy too, one day... so she covers the worst of it as best she can, with the degree of blood loss.
The wounds should... heal on their own. She healed relatively fast on her own, typically; moreso, if she could harm someone else, but... he'd roused her ire to the point that she'd killed him too swiftly to use him.
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