Rip her tongue out; what Tzilan did to him. Poetic. No, just violent. Would it make him feel better? No; worse, undoubtedly. Would it serve any point? She wouldn't do it again. Or she would feel more miserable the next time she did it. Fuck! The next time? Was that what he prepared for now? Next times?
"Were you," he snarls, "my kin, truly my kin, was this my world, I would have your head. For—" He turns to stare her down. And can't. His anger at her collapses, and his head droops. She's about the age he was when he was sired. He remembers coming to covered in blood. The bad-dream nonsense of it, almost funny in its absurdity. Sitting still and trying to wake up, occasionally calling out pathetically for his travelling companions as if he hadn't put everything together—the ruined campsite with its the bloodied hoof-prints, the fuzzy fever-memories of Mirja whispering just put the knife in his throat before he comes around just please just give it to me if I have to I'll, the strange, delicious taste in his new-tongued new-toothed mouth.
He was supposed to stop this happening. He should have watched closer. "Understand, Paloma," he says, "how much better we have to be than every single quick fucker if we are to do anything more than survive. This freedom we have now is too hardwon, too rare, too fragile to weather such foolish losses of control." He swallows, bares his teeth. "I spent decades a beast—no—nothing so proud, just a skinny bit of vermin too hardy for its own good. Do you want to end up so debased?"
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Rip her tongue out; what Tzilan did to him. Poetic. No, just violent. Would it make him feel better? No; worse, undoubtedly. Would it serve any point? She wouldn't do it again. Or she would feel more miserable the next time she did it. Fuck! The next time? Was that what he prepared for now? Next times?
"Were you," he snarls, "my kin, truly my kin, was this my world, I would have your head. For—" He turns to stare her down. And can't. His anger at her collapses, and his head droops. She's about the age he was when he was sired. He remembers coming to covered in blood. The bad-dream nonsense of it, almost funny in its absurdity. Sitting still and trying to wake up, occasionally calling out pathetically for his travelling companions as if he hadn't put everything together—the ruined campsite with its the bloodied hoof-prints, the fuzzy fever-memories of Mirja whispering just put the knife in his throat before he comes around just please just give it to me if I have to I'll, the strange, delicious taste in his new-tongued new-toothed mouth.
He was supposed to stop this happening. He should have watched closer. "Understand, Paloma," he says, "how much better we have to be than every single quick fucker if we are to do anything more than survive. This freedom we have now is too hardwon, too rare, too fragile to weather such foolish losses of control." He swallows, bares his teeth. "I spent decades a beast—no—nothing so proud, just a skinny bit of vermin too hardy for its own good. Do you want to end up so debased?"