There was a tumultuous crash, that reverberated throughout the hall, followed by a gentle tinkling of ceramic on stone. Alrik’s attentions, grim and fierce, sprung up from the heated hippocras, where it twirled colourfully in the sculpted flute. His hand was tighter upon the Flaying Knife, keen, black eyes scanning the surroundings. There, the thrower stood, wearing speckled furs over one shoulder, the rest of his body naked. Both hands were pressed into the stone table, the knuckles turned white through pressure.
The Wolf within lets out a mournful howl and prowls forwards, snout furrowing, fangs aglitter beneath midnight-dark fur. Small, calculating eyes stare on, in predatory awareness.
He threw an insult towards the revered Long Fang, who remained silent as a Grey Hunter spat back a retort, eliciting four of the aggressor’s Packmates to stand.
‘Sit down before you make more of a fool of yourself,’ Tyr said, gnawing voraciously on a leg of meat, before adding silently, ‘Let’s hope this continues, for their sake.’
‘A green-blood, one,’ Alrik said, eyes flickering over the instigator of the argument. ‘Who, I would believe, pisses grass.’
He stood, feeling the tension in his arms ease. The soreness was calming, though there was still a fiery ache, subconscious and insignificant. ‘Sit down, fool, lest I make you rue this day.’
Harsh laughter erupted from Alrik’s throat, booming as loud as thunder, but as sharp as lightning, when the other Blood Claw vented his opinions. ‘Brave boy,’ He spoke, sharing a knowing glance with Tyr, the man-mountain, who was still engorging himself on the meat and mead.
The Long Fang’s reply was quick and blunt, his voice reminiscent of crashing glaciers, cracked and wise. The ensuing silence was unnerving, as the Blood Claw stood, chest-to-chest with the ancient Long Fang, and did the unthinkable.
His hand connected with the older Wolf’s temple, sending him clattering over the table. Chalices, flutes and plates went skittering, landing amongst the corpse-still Wolf, who’s chest rose and fell shallowly.
Alrik was between the Blood Claw and the downed Long Fang in an instant, his lips peeled back in a venomous smile, revealing his razor-edged canines. The Cretacian Blade, smooth and light-swallowing, came hissing free of its’ scabbard, twirling dexterously in the air between the two.
‘Fine, time for someone to put you in your place, Firehawk; maybe improve your features.’ The Blood Claw said, through gritted teeth. He was tall and wiry, all whipcord strength, where Alrik was brutish and broad. A trio of rings glittered in his earlobe, hanging heavily. His nose was twisted, gnarled in some forgotten brawl.
With an almost ignorant flick of his wrist, the Blood Claw threw a stone bench into the air, and towards Alrik. The Firehawk was quick, swinging his free hand into the bench, curled into a monstrous fist. When it met the bench, stone splintered and broke, a fine mist engulfing Alrik’s hulking, wide-shouldered form.
From it, the Blood Claw emerged, crouched low. A trio of punches were swung, each of which were nimbly deflected, accompanied by determined hisses from Alrik.
The Firehawk smiled hideously, ramming the pommel of his Cretacian Blade into the Blood Claw’s cheek, eliciting a cry of agony. He went reeling, and Alrik was upon him instantaneously, plummeting into the other Space Wolf’s torso.
Both went tumbling, crushing a table beneath their combined weight, cutlery and drinking vessels raining down on Alrik’s back. The instigator’s fist rammed into Alrik’s side with a crack, a black-purple smudge blossoming suddenly. Warm, putrid breath washed from Alrik’s mouth in a gasp of shock.
‘That’s all you’re getting, bastard,’ Alrik said, ripping up to his feet, yanking the Blood Claw with him. His Flaying Knife was at the post-man’s neck, the wicked barb pressing into the soft flesh there, drawing a glob of rich crimson. His other arm went around the Astarte’s surgically enlargened chest, pulling him in close, so that his mouth met ear.
Thin, leathery lips retracted over barbaric fangs, filed into cruel points. ‘Insolent, little, green-blooded bastard,’ he twisted the blade, placing pressure. A globule of blood grew around the oil-black tip, the acrid smell dancing into the Firehawk's nostrils. ‘Should I bleed you dry here, or later?’
The Wolf’s maw opens, in a cruel mirror of a smile, and howls. It is oblivious, to the crimson tide in which it stands, lapping at his ankles. In his mouth, small and insignificant, is the torn form of a smaller canine, hanging limp from monstrously oversized fangs.
Alrik’s eyes locked with those of another. Vermundr, his Packleader, wearing but little. For a moment they stared, Alrik’s eyes dark and tempestuous, Vermundr’s coal-black and calm. He shook his head, distastefully, and Alrik knew what he wanted. A warm trickle ran over his thumb, turning the skin crimson. Cruel urges coursed through him, to tear the Wolf's throat away, and fatten himself on gene-enhanced flesh and harsh, augmented blood. Battle was coming, and his lust was aflame, his thoughts and mood as black as the night. He, as with all of his brethren, was a monster. A murderer, a pillager; the ultimate instrument of war, borne out of fire and ice.
And unlike the others, the whelps who had recently poisoned the Pack’s purity, he utilized it. Honed it, tested it - Perfected it.
Alrik's head bobbed, in agreement with Vermundr; this Wolf's day was in ruin, Alrik had destroyed his standing, barely breaking a sweat in the process.
‘You bleed later, then,’ He whispered, sibilantly, drawing away the blade and with a feral kick, sent the instigator sprawling. He half-turned, locking eyes with the Marine, lips peeling back in a rumbling snarl. ‘You are worth no more than a lame foal, I am ashamed to call you brother.’
The instigator looked up at him dispassionately, clutching his neck, eyes hooded and vehement. 'Cross my path again,' Alrik warned, his voice thick with sadistic intent, dexterously twirling the flaying knife. 'And I will wear your hide as a cloak.'
His attentions turned back to the downed Long Fang, still laying amongst the broken table. He stalked towards him, sliding the Cretacian Blade back into his scabbard, still glistening. It made a wet rasp, a curious, hollow sound.
He smiled woefully, placing his hand in the void between them. ‘Need aid, oldtimer?’
Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.
"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"
'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
Last edited by dark angel; 10-12-11 at 03:29 PM.