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Gin: "How long do you intend to be away?" the kitsune asked, examining her immaculate fingernails rather than the wolf woman she addressed. Leaning against the golden doorway to Fang's room, Gin had come upon the other Lunar seemingly out of thin air, materializing into the doorway with the same serene expression she almost always wore.

Things were in motion. Fang's to be departing to fight the Fair Folk and rid the townsfolk of their nightmares. Leaf would have to be throughly disguised before he was to fight the Four Falling Roses sifu, of course; it wouldn't due to have one of the township's soon-to-be ordained goddesses seen with the very threat Fang's would appear to vanquish. But her place was with the Solar, for better or worse.

Bold as this plan was, there was much that could go wrong and timing would be everything.

Fangs-of-Winter: She held her hand before her, and felt the tendons flex beneth flesh as she brought her claws into a fist. She could smell Gin before she saw her, and did not look up from her contemplation. "Depends. A night, or until my next life. It is of no difference." She flexed her hand again, the great muscles of her ascended form tensing with the motion. She closed her eyes, feeling the reaction of her body. The pace of her breathing.

"I assume you will be occupying yourself with Leaf?" She said, a thich stream of steam coming from her mouth as she said his name.

Gin: "Hmh!" She answered, a soft laugh from behind closed lips, their corners bent upwards into a smile. Gin spread her finger's apart and held her small hand high to examine them better in the light. Her tail's flickered to-and-fro. "More that Leaf will be occupying himself with me. His hunger will undoubtedly be that much more great without you present to... distract him."

Fangs-of-Winter: "Soft. He spent all his time in the dojo, in clean fights. He needs to know the taste of blood in his mouth, of desperation in his heart." She huffs softly, "Maybe he belongs with you."

Gin: Gin arched a delicate eye brow, looking past her hand to Fang at last. "Whom he belongs with is irrelevant. I belong to him. Be that in his best interests or not, it is where I shall stay until he or my father say otherwise."

"My darling, if you're truly so intent on pursuing a relationship with master Leaf, then you'll have to grow use to that idea, rather than sulking and cursing." She smiled once more, lowering her hand and gracefully crossing her arms beneath her chest, head tipping to the side. "And if makes you any less sullen, master Leaf's fights are anything but clean."

Fangs-of-Winter: "For his opponents, perhaps." She huffs again, but it draw a little smile on her face. She looks over her shoulder at Gin, and arched an eyebrow at her, "Just keep him from getting his head caved in before I can do it, would you?"

With that, the tattoos that flow over her form glow a gentle silver, and she's off like a shot through the forest.

Gin: "Hmh." She laughed behind her lips once again. Sauntering casually in the path Fang's had torn through the manse until she stood at the doorway, Gin watch the faint glimmer in the horizon that was all that could still be seen of the other Lunar. "Like a kit with her first crush upon the Fox Lord. You are adorable, Fangs-of-Winter."

A smile played about her lips, one different from that she had shown to the Lunar. A little sly, a little wicked, and between the two, every bit foxy. Resting her chin upon her hand, she tapped one of those perfect glistening finger nails against her soft lips thoughtfully and there is stayed as she turned her back to the world outside and strolled back into the manse, her nine-tails swaying impudently. "So truly adorable..."

Fangs-of-Winter: In the North, she was but a shadow upon the Snow. The howling wind did not break her mind, the bitter cold did not ice her flesh. There, she was death on the breeze, every bit as subtle in her step as Gin was with her words.

In the East, she was a kin to a bull. Twigs broke under her step, and branches parted noisily as she ran through the forest. It was good to feel the heat of her muscles again, the burn of her breath in her throat. No diabolical kitsune to confuse her, no beautiful bastards to make her feel irrational. Just herself, the forest, and the hunt.

Yet, the conversation she had with Gin played out in her mind. There was no doubt in her mind she hated the woman.

A nearby sappling was cut short as she bowled through it.

Gin, after all, was everything Fangs was not. Elegant, poised, controlled. Leaf responded more to the velvet hand than to the icy claw.

The Wolf-Bitch was just another conquest to him. The Companion was... something else. It flamed her anger, this ignorance.

Burning Star of Demise: Even from a distance, the scent of ozone is strong in the air. A crimson glow stretches across the horizon, and the crackling sound of fire and lightning accompany every step. Without context, it would simply be a pretty nest, if a bit colorful... but it is spaced between trees the size of mountains, titanic branches holding up a ring of fire and thunder, a great palatial complex shaped like eggs and crafted only of finest marble cradled within the architecture of destruction.

This is where the proud lunar must step. This is where they wait. They are writing down her mistakes. They are documenting her downfall.

Fangs-of-Winter: The mountain breeze blows back the proud banner of her ivory hair, and she moves proud and undefiant in the fact of such ominous tidings, for what horror was there in this world greater than her?

Muscles flexed under tattooed flesh, the scar of her Abjuration tingled faintly along her throat, her voice yurning to give loose its howl, to allow her foes the knowledge of just whom they faced.

She smiled, wickedly. Let them drown in their ignorance.

Her markings glowed as she moved under the sway of her anima, moving as a stray ray of silver light up the chains that held aloft the mountain. She braced her steps upon the backs of eagles, and her claws bit into stone to give her purchase as she reached the base.

Burning Star Of Demise: Guardlings shaped like doves flit hither and yon, small fae colored to represent each grace subserviant to the sword. They sing of the sword, the slashes and cuts, the thrusts and parries, the end of all things in Creation written in the feathers of a great bird. A flower blossoms out of the flame, long petals curling forth to touch the proud lunar's face. "What business have you here? What drives you to harm such beauty?"

Fangs-of-Winter: She doesn't reply immediately, she merely keeps her dreadful smile. Her breath came through her fangs, icy and burning. The petals grew icy and grey with her nearness.

She lifted her hands, and brushed away the flower, and left it smeared with her blood, for the fanged bracelet at her wrist had bit her deeply, and a slow steady trickle ran forth.

Leaving her path writ in blood.

"I have come, and you shall bow at my coming.," she announced.

Burning Star Of Demise: Steam, crimson and gold, ten thousand dragons birthed of her sacrifice, coil forth to twine in her hair and whisper in her ears, forked tongues flickering as they share words of poetry. The beauty of the end, the end of beauty, and the knowledge that bowed is not broken as she shall be, cast down in pieces to grow the rage of the world until it bursts forth, too hot to hold and cracking the sky. It is not a threat, they say. She should be thankful that their lord promises this much.

Fangs-of-Winter: She curled one of the serpents around her taloned fingers, and brought it close to her lips. She gazed into its serpentine eyes, and knew it was but a small thing, born of her. She let it fall from her hand, even as they writhed in her hair, and raised her head back.

The Fangs-of-Winter let forth her howl.

And it was as if the world shattered.

In the boundless depths of chaos, Nirhkirya stired in his timelessness. A thing greater than all the lands of shape, greater than the dreams of the Primordials that glanced it, shifted its timeless thoughts for a spec of time onto the shores of Creation.

Her howl was certainy. The certainy of eternity. The certainy of desolution. There was no power against it. There was no struggle.

It was Doom Knell.

At the sound, color fled from the serpents that writhed in her hair, and heat left their flesh. The spirits of red, purple, yellow, green and all colors of life fled for sake of their own, a monochgromatic dreamscape in its wake. The doves fell dead, hearts burst from there terror, and the earth trembled as she held the note.

The flawless stone beneth them cracked.

Burning Star of Demise: Weight. The life she has taken presses down on her, the corpses of the dragons and the falling doves anchor her more surely than any chain. The heart's blood coils within her veins, pressing down, draining her strength as once she drained theirs.

Fear. Her howl cracks the world, and through the cracks glorious light pours through. Flame in the purest form, not so much the element as the idea, the ideal, the perfection of devouring. a rain of metal pours forth from the weeping sky to form the kneeling figure of a fae, towering so high that even on a knee his head rises above hers like a parent to a child. He smiles, leaving her breathless... voiceless.

"That was not so bad, child... but please, if you are going to challenge me here, do not profane my good name with your blasphemy."

Fangs-of-Winter: She grins at that, even as she could give no reply. His smile burned in her throat, even as his serpents fell from her. She stepped forward, unaffraid. She smiled at him..

...baring her namesake.

Half-dream, half-flesh, her fangs knew the final screams of a dozen cataphori.

Still, it was gratifying to find one worth of them. The muscles of her body tensed, and she charged the Raksha.

Elegance was for kitsune.

Burning Star Of Demise: Still refusing to stand, the long shadow of his arm reaches across the walkway as his hand clasps her head, a thumb pressed firmly into her eye as he draws out a star encased in a cage at the end of a chain, purple fire pouring forth to surround them, curtain them off from the outside world. It is only them now.

Fangs-of-Winter: She was unphased by the fire, for the star of her eye was of her own vision, and nothing could defeat her gaze once she set it on something. She dives through the fire, headless of its burning tongues, and reaches toward him with outstretched claws.

Burning Star Of Demise: The flame burns. The hot air rushes out, holding her away. The fire trickles along her back, rushes along her front, twisting and turning to shake her grip. The star falls, chain wrapping around her shoulders in an intricate constellation of chains, straining against her motion.

There is the quiet snap of metal bones, the moaning of motes forcibly drained, and the crackle of flame to cover their battle. A body unmatched in perfection by any real form strains to break free, a star slithers across her body, searing it with the pure essence of endings and change, and in the end, the titan simply smiles and smashes his head into hers once, twice, thrice to knock her to the ground.

Fangs-of-Winter: Fangs form wasn't meant to be perfect. It was only meant to be deadly. She knew the taste of his blood now, felt the metalic twing of his bones crushing on her endlessly powerful jaws. She was Luna'a child, and she was worthy.

She grasped the Fair Folk like a lover, his chains carressing her form even as he attempted to bring his head down like kisses upon her brow. She smiled silently, and gave him another love bite to remember her by.

Burning Star Of Demise: His fangs clink against his, and somehow he has a grin on his face as his tongue pushes out to twine with hers. It would be a taunt, a strange joke for one who's thus far been losing. But suddenly, his mouth spits fire, rushing down her throat and burning in her gullet. Suddenly, he inhales, and her spirit coils as the fire tries to rip it forth from her.

Fangs-of-Winter: Fangs-of-Winter was not one to be taunted.

Her muscles flexed as she channeled the power of Luna into her muscles, her eyes wide with rage. Anger, pure and terrible, caused her muscles to tremble with wrath. The swirling tattoos that covered her form began to burn a brilliant silver, her breath turning the ichor on her fangs solid and cold. With all her rage, with all her hate, she struck at him again.

Oddly, she thought of Leaf.

Burning Star Of Demise: Blood thick like lava pours from his cheek, a large crimson tear caught by the curve of his grin, trickling across his lips to drip down her chest. "Are you running out of strength, little one? How can you hope to consume the fire that burns the world to ash? How can you dare to strive against the perfect ravening flame? I like you. If you will but swear unto me, I will adorn you with the Graces of the fallen when the time comes."

Fangs-of-Winter: She considers this for a moment.

A mayflies life.

She grins fearly back at him, and presses her attack. Of course, she could not respond. It would take her too long to recover it, and by then it would be over. Her fangs fell again, even as he finished his offer.

When he bowed to her, only then would she relent.

Burning Star Of Demise: Her fangs find no purchase. Rough metal scrapes along her body, fire seems to caress her, and she finds herself on her hands and knees, knelt before the ethereal figure of flame that holds an end of the chain still wrapped around her. He stands tall, defiant of his wounds... like a master unconcerned with scratches from playing with a favorite pet.

Her breath dies within her lungs, the oxygen burned out of it as the star flares up. The room whirls as the elemental form of the fae joins with the curtain of fire, sheer white and red mixed with the curtain of the purple. He seems to intend on simply waiting her out... Tiring her out, here in his home.

Fangs-of-Winter: Fire did not burn moonlight.

Chains could not hold the North.

She would not be broken by this petty dreamer in a radiment of his own petty glory. Her muscles flexed like iron hues, and she shattered the chains.

She rose to her feet, and as the ravening wolf, she came for him again.

She held the Fair Lord in her taloned hands. Her skin was matted with blood from wounds that had sealed seconds after being inflicted. Her knee on his abdomine, her face into his, she her hand gripped around the stalk of his neck.

"Yield to me," she said, her voice was harsh, "Or you will never see your vision."

Her hand grew tighter around his throat, and her eyes, like blue-silver pools, bore into his.

Burning Star Of Demise: "Your strength of purpose is to be commended... I will yield a favor, but no more. Some things are not worth the price, and defeat is one."

Fangs-of-Winter: "You will so swear on your one and True Heart that, in both action and intent, or with aide or motivation, to never harm any group in who's community a likeness of me is worshipped, nor harm any who bare my mark. So you will swear, or so you will die."

BurningStarOfDemise: "Swearing that would be worse than death itself. Your skills have earned you a boon, in the ways of my people, but not outright slavery."

Fangs-of-Winter: She leaned a little closer, "I could always just mount your head on a pike to prove my divinity. It would also serve the same cause, I should think." She smiled down at him, humorlessly. "Yes, perhaps that is best." She raised her claw, a silouette against the light behind it.

Burning Star Of Demise: "As you wish." He reaches up, and with a strange crackling pop his head comes loose, held out as an offering on one hand. "If your rites earn you power, and my eyes watch over your rites and people... think of me, and feed some dreams to my flames. I will make a pact with you in trade."

Fangs-of-Winter: She seems to consider his offer, "I will place your head near my statue. There, you will watch over the rites they make, and in return, I shall allow you to sip from the emotions I will stir in them." She seems to get an eery little smile, "For I desire warriors, not sheep. Inflame them and sip from this tea we brew. What say you?"

BurningStarOfDemise: "I will dine on their fears and nightmares, rend their weaknesses from their body and devour them... But you must return to me when a star burns on my brow, and we will do battle again."

Fangs-of-Winter: "So we are in accord, and these things do I vow."

  • Burning Star Of Demise almost gently sets her aside, the chain slowly slacking and loosening from her body like a disappointed serpent. "These things I vow. Be careful with my head, wolfling. I'll be taking it back soon."

Fangs-of-Winter: She takes up his head, and smirks a little. "With all the care you have shown me." With that, she places the head in a pouch at her side. It was not dead, but it would serve. She half expected the Fair Folk would just grow another when she left.