<font face="Georgia" size=1 color=darkred>LET ME RIP OUT YOUR HEART AND EAT IT</font> -- The Pasture

The young demon continues at a rather brisk trot, long and sinewy appendages churning beneath burly physique as unkempt and blood-stained daggers rip at the forest floor below with each angered stride he took, muscles rippling and flexing beneath scar-ridden hide of bloodied dirt emulsion. Long and thick neck is curved in a rather impressive-looking arc, the savage skull pulled tightly to the underside of muscled nape, ashen mug scarcely colliding with his broad chest. Ink-stained spikes are pinned tightly against cerebrum, buried alive beneath the thick webs of ebony tapestry that seemed to serve as their own personal little graveyard, and charred whip lashes violently against muscle-laden haunches. His eyes - like pools of blood streaked with the flames of Hell - remain narrowed to tight slits within twin chambers of abyssmal blackness, and devilishly handsome features continue to be distorted into a horribly grotesque snarl, serrated enamels bared in annoyance, nostrils expanding wide as a puff of carbon is released in the form of a sharp snort. He was still pissed - both at the chestnut lamia, as well as himself, for being ignorant enough to "spill his guts out" to the little bytch. And now, as he trotted away, he cocked one ear back atop the savage skull, listening for the familiar hoofbeats of the young vampiress in which signaled that she was following him. However, he heard nothing. Just barely audible, stammered words. They were almost mournful sounding... as if she was fighting to choke back sobs... and, what's more... was she... actually agreeing with him? Suddenly, Nos just stopped in his tracks, turning his head around to gaze at the filly, a brow cocking slightly as he slowly allowed the hostile look to fade from devilishly handsome features. His words had hurt her, he could sense it - though she was desperately trying to hide it, there were tears pricking her powder blue optics, and her head - usually risen haughtily aloft upon her neck - was hanging in defeat. Her harks were no longer laced, but they weren't pricked either, they were just... flat; it was if she didn't care anymore. And - dare he say it - Nosferatu almost felt kinda... bad for the girl. Sure, she may have been an annoying, overly-arrogant, prissy little brat, but no one - not even someone like her - deserved to be taunted about how they had never met their father; how he had split a couple weeks before his daughter's birth. And, all at once, the stud-colt felt pretty bad - he lost the angered look; replaced by one that was almost sympathy, but not quite. He wouldn't pity her - he doubted that's what she wanted, anyway - however, tapered thorns rose slightly from their grave beneath charcoal dread-locks, and muscles relaxed beneath mahogany pelt, a deep sigh heard from him. And as Morse turned to walk away, the colt dipped his crania ever-so-slightly, tenor chords that were deepening to a baritone in their pitch released from decayed larynx, barely audible as they were spoken just a hair above a whisper.

"I'm sorry."

The minute the words were released, he felt pathetic. What the hell was happening to him?! What the hell was he sorry for? That he hurt her feelings? Who cares! He hated her... didn't he? Shaking his dial sharply, in confusion, the young demon pivoted sharply upon his haunches, heading in the opposite direction, daggers plodding upon the forest floor in a rhythmic three-beat, mane and tail flying in a frenzy behind him. He didn't want to stick around and hear her reaction to his words - he hadn't really meant to say them, anyway... they just... slipped out.

NOSFERATU
HELL-SPAWNED COLT
ARABIAN/FRIESIAN MUTT
STAINED OF BLOOD AND MIDNIGHT
ONE AND A HALF YEARS OLD
UNDETERMINED HEIGHT
REVEILLE X FLAMES O' HELL

Subject	Author	Date
OOC	Meg	16:44:48 09/01/05 Thu