Claim

§ 2020-04-12 04:21:55

[04:23] Javu had settled down to rest.

It was a frequent occurrence. She could walk for half an hour, maybe an hour, then her aching muscles demaded she rest. She could run for ten whole minutes – more than enough to outrun a Nayabaru in pursuit – but at cost of nearly all perception once she slowed to a stop, straining body rendering her all but blind, as though her racing blood rushed to fill her eyes.

Right now, her senses were fine and her mind was sharp. She tugged with her teeth on dried meat she carried on her necklace – it was running out and she would have to find the energy to hunt in the coming days, and a good place to dry the spoils, assuming the rains of Idiishi didn't mess with her plans.

It was rather likely they would.

It had been quite a while since she'd last spoken to a kavkem. She practised the language in whispers every once in a while, cherishing what Jinoka had taught her, fully aware how easy it was to forget. Jinoka had made that, above all, clear to her – how easy it was to forget and, conversely, how important it was to remember.

The others she had spoken to had warned her not to go here. Kaaru, they had said. Someone who had been taken by madness.

But what if it was reality shining through? What if reality had touched this kavkem's soul and he could not express it? Perhaps finding this mad one would be the most valuable information she could obtain – at a risk, of course, but little in this vast, twisted illusion was without risk. She took solace in that none of it was the true state of things, but her body wouldn't make the distinction.

After five minutes, she pushed back to her feet, letting her snack dangle from her necklace once more, licking at her teeth to clean them of meat crumbs. She knew to spot tracks – Jinoka had taught her – but she hadn't yet found those likely belonging to the kaaru.

§ 2020-04-13 02:39:57

[02:39] The hunt had gone well.

Zyrhe had meat to last for at least another few days; he'd dragged his kill up into the small cave he'd claimed as his own, and was now taking a well-deserved rest. Crouched in an alcove between two rocks, shielded from sight by most directions but with a high enough vantage to see a fair way, he surveyed his domain. A light breeze carried the scent of earth and pine. Insects sang to each other. Tonight the skies were cloudless, the jumble of misplaced stars peeking through the night. For the moment, at least, things seemed peaceful.

Motion caught his eye, and a wariness slowly crept into his form. Too large to be a mammal, far too small to be Nayabaru. Kavkem. The feathers on the back of his neck stood up, rage simmering in his blood. Trespasser. Come to hunt in his lands. He slowly peeled himself from the rock, approaching the source of motion in silence. It was only minutes later that he was close enough to clearly see the interloper — confirming it was a kavkem who dared set foot here.

[02:40] A low, threatening growl from behind Javu alerted her to the kaaru's presence. He was standing on a rocky outcropping a bit to the left of the path she'd taken, glaring down at her with a venom she'd never seen in a kavkem's eyes before. He looked unkempt, perhaps unsurprising for one who lived in isolation. But more immediately he was threatening. There were no need for words; his actions spoke with perfect clarity. This was his spot, the growl had said. She wasn't welcome here. She should leave.

Now.

[03:00] Each vibration of the growl seemed to pick up one of the feathers of her spine individually. She didn't dare spin around, knowing better than to make sudden movements when another was perhaps expecting a fight. Slowly, she let her attention creep to the side and back.

The menacing outline gave him the impression of an animal. It took conscious effort for her to remind herself this was a person – one that deserved the respect that came with any acknowledgement of sapience. He had a notion of territory foreign to his nomadic kin, indulging in some basal instinct they had all decided to discard.

She was violating that territory.

Cautiously, she let herself sink into a submissive, apologetic posture – not too much, lest he expect it to be a precursor to leaving him be immediately – before whispering, just loud enough that he would be able to pick up on it: "...my deepest apologies, I mean no disrespect. I— I will leave if you wish it."

A hint of a nervous tremble touched her voice – the threat was real to her, she had no illusions of being able to prevail against this feral kavkem in a fight, she would have been delusional and insincere if her tone had spoken of any confidence. "Yet before I do, I hope you might reconsider. It is you I have come here for, not your lands.

"I would like to speak to you, to hear your stories, if you permit it; I think you may know things that the others do not. I promise to take nothing from you."

The more Zyrhe had the opportunity to study her, the clearer it was how frail she was – unnaturally so, as though something had hampered the process that would have turned her into a hunter and a formiddable opponent to any male of her species.

And yet she was here on her own, requesting an audience, turning herself into a perfect target.

[03:32] The kavkem's trepidation and the ease with which she yielded calmed Zyrhe's rage, but left him with a sour taste in his mouth. Another snivelling coward. For a moment it looked as though it would resurge when she said she'd come for him, but the clarification gave him pause.

"Stories," he repeated, tone suspended between suspicion and derision.

She was no ryrhakenem, that was for certain. She lacked the staff and the overbearing attitude that she knew more than you. Or if she was, she was a young one still in training. And a weakling, at that — she seemed barely strong enough to take on a Zarmat, let alone a kiikam. "What fool sent you to hear my stories?"

She was alone. She was sufficiently naive to come here alone, and sufficiently weak that she'd be easy to overpower. And like a fool she'd wandered here, in search of him. It seemed too good to be true. Too easy.

[03:50] "No one; indeed, all I have spoken to advised me not to come here, though this... certainly does not flatter them," she assured. "I come here out of my own curiosity about the nature of the world.

"I reason that if you did not see the world from a... different perspective, you— you would not be as you are now, here, on your own, cutting your own path through the thicket. The others fear it; I must admit I fear it, in all honesty, I don't mean to mislead you; but I see the value in the different perspective, and I would be truly humbled if you shared your stories with me."

Her posture still spoke of a fearful caution, though her words were sassy – she wanted to hear his stories to scratch some kind of metaphysical itch? What mythology gave the perspective of a kaaru so much weight that a runt like this would risk his presence to obtain it? Why would he have interest in being some kind of tool to her enlightment?

...not that kind of enlightment, at least.

"But I will leave if you prefer your solitude," she said, as though the solitude were a choice he were choosing to indulge in, an opinion to respect between intellectuals.

[04:14] My but this runt was a little chatterbox. Dancing her words around what she actually wanted to say, as if fearful that she'd upset him. As if she were worried her words were claws, that she might wound him if she were not careful. As if they mattered in the slightest.

She didn't know a single thing about the world. And here she was, delivering herself to him in the hopes of hearing a story. It seemed too good to be true. Too easy. And yet... here she was.

He'd give her a story, all right.

Her final words promised an alternative ending. No. "Come closer." There was an unyielding intensity in that command, a blaze in Zyrhe's eyes. "You want to hear stories, come close so we can speak more softly." He beckoned her over as a crooked smile crept across his features — perhaps an expression he had little practice with, as isolated as he was?

[04:25] The beckon constricted her throat with a flavour of terror she'd never felt before that froze her into place as though her toes had sunk into the ground as roots. She looked at him with undisguised fear in her eyes, a silent plea to spare her. Her hands had clutched themselves against her tool necklace, bundling into the feathers of her thin mane.

But what was the alternative? Excuse herself, claim she had been mistaken? Run? She could outrun a Nayabaru, but a fellow kavkem? He didn't look like he would let up if he did choose to chase her; he looked as though he were more interested in devouring her whole.

But it wasn't real. None of this was real.

Very slowly and cautiously, she began to approach him, her heart pounding in her chest, her muscles tense in anticipation of flight that she could not disabuse her instincts of entirely.

If he wished her harm, perhaps he had enough respect of civilised behaviour to kill her quickly.

§ 2020-04-18 01:45:20

[01:45] ...It was working. It was actually working. She was obviously terrified, and yet obviously not terrified enough. Perhaps she was foolish — too foolish to listen to her own instincts, too foolish to listen to her fellow kavkema. Even a rodent knows to fear a predator; how foolish must you be? Or perhaps she was too stubborn, her superstitions — whatever they were — blinding her to the world.

Either way, it was unbelievably convenient for him.

He held himself as still as he could, waiting for the right moment as she approached. Too slowly. Just a bit closer. Perhaps some kind words would reassure her. Now if only he could remember any.

After long moments, he slowly raised a hand towards her, trying his best to offer an encouraging smile. "There's no need to be so afraid," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you." A boldfaced lie. But she was too trusting of words; that was a lesson she'd have to learn as well.

[01:57] A kaaru could not be expected to be particularly socialised – it was that fact which gave her hope he might mean what he said. His body language was a self-contradicting mess; but to what degree was that 'normal' amongst kaarua? How much of the madness was trying to think two things at once?

It made her no less terrified. She was convinced he would break her bones; what kept her from fleeing was the hope she still maintained that were she to plead for death, he would do her the favour and cherish the easy meal. What would he gain from keeping her alive as the Nayabaru might do? Nothing. It would be tedious work.

So the alternative was between death and a conversation. That was a set of chances she was willing to risk. Cautiously, she came close enough to nudge the tip of her muzzle, as in a silent greeting, against his fingers.

[02:54] For a brief moment, the kaaru held still; the tension in his posture briefly dissolved. Contact — genuine, physical contact, simple as it was. It had been so long since he'd touched a kavkem; a genuine smile touched his features, and he rejoiced in the moment. It was real. She was real.

For that brief moment, it seemed as if everything was going to be all right.

Then the moment was lost forever, as the fingers lunged forward and closed around her throat. The rest of his body followed in a fluid motion; his other hand grasped at her shoulder, claws piercing through feathers and clutching at skin; the rush of momentum brought her to the ground in a thud. He was on top of her, one foot pressed against her abdomen, the sickle-claw dangerously close to her belly.

His face loomed in her vision, eclipsing the night sky, a predatory grin distorting its features. "You should have listened to your fellow kavkema, kavama." Before she had a chance to reply, a burning pain shot through her upper arm as his claws dragged through skin, drawing heavy lines of crimson.

[03:08] Something sincere flashed through the kaaru just long enough for her to realise that she had been wrong about the mixed messages his posture had been sending – he was perfectly capable of normal expressions.

But it was too late for even her instinct to pull her back. Claws locked around her throat and an impossible pain crushed her shoulder. Her limbs were working on instinct, forepaws trying to grasp at and dislodge the grip at her throat, her legs trying to kick at his side or belly. Then his weight leant into her abdomen and claws lacerated her arm, whiting out coherent thought.

Her muzzle snapped to the side, eyes widening for a split-second before they squeezed shut, her jaws opening to silence, her scream expressed only in tension. Her toes touched against his thigh, but even instinct struggled to form a plan past the intense sensation.

It took an eternal moment for her thoughts to coalesce enough to truly notice what had happened. Her heart drowned out almost all other sounds. He'd torn into her shoulder and arm. Yet, although he had a firm grip on her neck, he'd barely harmed it.

Dimly, she classified it – a display of dominance. Her instinct seized the insight and ran with it; her posture slackened, quivering but submissive.

[04:58] There was a low rumble of a purr from the kaaru, a deep contentment mixing with electric glee on his face. "You wanted to hear a story, yes?" The claws around her neck tightened a smidgeon, three sharp points gradually dragging along the exposed neck, not quite breaking skin. "Here, let me tell you a story.

"Once, there was a foolish little girl who wished to understand the world. She searched for wisdom wherever she could find it, but could never find enough. She heard tales of a kaaru who lived out in the mountains; her elders told her to avoid this kaaru, for he was dangerous." As if to punctuate that, he put more weight on her belly, then slowly dragged his sickle-claw along the skin, not breaking it but leaving a very clear impression of how easily he could tear into her.

"But she was too foolish to heed their warnings, and sought out this kaaru, thinking him a source of wisdom." There was a single bark of laughter at that — the absurdity of it. "Needless to say, she was very wrong. Do you know what happened to her, after she fell into his trap?"

§ 2020-04-18 13:17:28

[14:07] Had she been at all lucid enough, she might have observed that he could hardly have planned for this – the others avoided him, he would hardly have expected a visitor. Had she been at all lucid enough, she might have asked him why he was so keen to play the role of an outcast. But she was terrified, so neither thought crossed her mind.

Her arm was screaming at her and even out of all context the claws against her belly would curl her innards in a quiet dread. "Please," she said, her whisper thick with fear and close to tears. "I have done you neither harm nor insult. Wh-what is it you are punishing me for?" Her tone twisted into a whimper.

For the moment, she could still hold herself still, albeit by the skin of her teeth, guided by an instinct that told her to stay down when threatened by a stronger kavkem. But that same instinct expected to be rewarded with no further pain; it had never evolved to deal with Zyrhe in particular.

[17:16] "Punishing?" He asked with mocking amusement. "How little you understand. Here, let me share my wisdom with you." The claws in her shoulder dragged another inch, while the hand at her throat slid up to the base of her jaw, twisting her head to the side and pressing her skull against the rocky earth. His thumb hooked under the edge of her jaw, while the fingers pressed against the skull, framing her eye with claws.

"The girl begged her captor for mercy," he continued, dropping back into the story as if nothing had happened, "But he did not care. For in truth, he was a kiikam, and she was his prey." He paused, finally pulling the claws from her arm, taking a brief moment to admire the gashes of red and to lick the blood from his claws.

"And the kiikam said:" He leaned his muzzle in close to her ear, speaking in a quiet growl. "Now you are mine, to do with as I please. Your body shall be my plaything, your soul my sustenance, your fear my entertainment, for as long as I choose to keep you alive."

[17:29] Kiikam. The term seared through her thoughts, charring them. In an abrupt motion, he spine twisted, her limbs alive with motion, hefting surprising strength against her captor.

The image of him smouldered in her mind's eye – for a moment, she became convinced his feathers might turn into flame, into brightness and pain and horror. She made no sound, any howl of terror she might have voiced instead catching in her throat.

One hand tried to grab at Zyrhe's tool necklace – at the current angle, it was more accessible than hers and contained all standard trinkets, including a blade, wrapped in a thick, protective sheath and hilt, so that a fall wouldn't stab the wearer.

Kiikam. If what he said was true, she had an obligation that went beyond her own life. If this was a kiikam, she had to fight him to the death. She owed the world to rid it of him. She owed it to Jinoka to let this panic guide her.

[18:53] The sudden burst of motion was met with a quiet snarl; the foot on her abdomen relented, and he shifted his weight on top of her, his legs straddling her chest, quelling most of her writhing. Her attempts at grabbing the tool necklace were successful, though not for long enough to make a difference — with a growl, his free hand grasped at hers, driving his thumb-claw punishingly into her palm as he peeled it away. His feet shifted to pin her elbows to the ground, her damaged arm crying out in pain at the new source of pressure.

Then he released her hand, reaching instead for her own toolchain. He grasped it near the back of her neck, twisted the cord once around his palm, and yanked at it, drawing the necklace against her throat as a makeshift garrote.

[19:47] The kiikam was sitting on her chest. The panic already threatened to crush her breath out of her – some part of her imagined that might be his goal, the slow, methodical excising of breath. His toes grasped at her arms like the talons of a bird of prey, his weight pinning them down, even as his thumb tore into the palm of her hand.

And then, as if to prove her frantic fear right, the string of her necklace twisted against her neck, biting at feathers and skin, squeezing dangerously at her throat.

A soft, frantic, curt and pathetic sound escaped her, some manifestation of her alarm. Her fervour did not die down; some survival instinct had kicked in and was making her risk her limbs to escape. Her legs kicked out behind him, trying something she wasn't consciously aware of: To unbalance them enough to give her a chance to flee.

§ 2020-04-25 19:15:25

[19:15] The wriggling of his prey screamed into his instincts. Go in for the kill. She's vulnerable, now is your chance. Claws shifted from her head to her throat, pressing sharp points against the veins, her racing heartbeat tangible. It would be so easy.

No. He held himself still, breathing heavily, the scent of her fear intoxicating. I want this one alive. His features distorted into a grimace, pulling his claws away and slamming them into her shoulder instead, trying to make a point to himself. Still, he had to do something to stop her futile attempts at escape.

As he looked down at her writhing form, his eyes settled on her tool necklace, and a thought occurred to him — a wicked grin spreading across his face. "You think you can escape?" he asked in a ruthlessly mocking tone. Fingers reached for the blade at her neck, tugging it out of its sheath. "No, I don't think so."

His grip on the necklace finally relented, the constricting of her throat finally easing up. That hand freed, he twisted to the left, grasping for her flailing leg. After a couple tries, he managed to connect, following up the relatively weaker grasp of his fingers with his jaws. Then he grasped at her foot with one hand and slowly sank the tip of the blade into the sole of her foot with the other.

[23:21] Her body jerked into a fresh squirm as his claws slammed into her shoulder, an abrupt, strangled motion in light of the pressure against her throat, dulling coherent thoughts. His words pattered uselessly against her conscious mind; something within her parsed them, but forgot to pass them on to anything that might have reacted to them.

As his grip locked around her leg, it felt for a moment as though her writhing was yielding something – his posture was far less stable than it had been before and her spine's frantic winding to the side visibly shifted him. Her left foot caught a claw against his back, but the resulting scratch was shallow, barely worth noting.

The cut from her stone blade was not.

Her head thrust back in a silent howl of agony, body bundling all of its measly energy into tearing the limb out of Zyrhe's grip. Ankle and knee swiveling wrenched her foot an inch away from where he had been holding it steady, but not out of his hold. Instead, the stone twisted against her flesh, rending almost that same distance through her skin.

Her hands were grasping for his calves, claws of her fingers driven by an instinct that knew that assailants withdrew if they were damaged enough. But there was only a feeble strength to guide them.

[01:44] The writhing of her foot seemed to have caused more damage than the initial incision; the blade left a nasty gash behind as he withdrew it and released her leg. Perhaps more than he intended, but it had done the job. He kicked at her grasping arms in halfhearted instinct — it was becoming clear to him that she didn't have the strength to cause any serious damage.

That kick turned out to be just enough of a chance. A lucky twist of her spine later she'd managed to get him off-balance enough to slide out from under him — though with her injured foot, there wasn't much she could do to get away.

[02:48] With her reason burnt up in instinct, Javu wasn't thinking that far. She'd successfully twisted out from under her assailant; a surge of partial triumph gave her a fresh boost of energy as she rolled to her side, onto her belly, then onto her side again.

Then something in her, still on auto-pilot, realised the fight had to be continued, and tensed her limbs, holding them ready to claw at the kaaru if he dared approach. Her foot stung in the posture, but adrenaline was muting the pain to a dull, nagging sensation – not nearly enough to discourage her from using that foot as a weapon as well.

The roll had gotten dirt into her lacerated shoulder – it burnt angrily at her peripheral senses, but it too was being drowned out by her body's survival mode. Her muzzle opened, lips pulling back from teeth, snarling silently but threateningly at her assailant. There wasn't enough cognition coded into her expression to speak of 'confidence' or 'fear', she simply functioned.

[04:07] The kiikam recovered his footing, taking a moment to take stock of the situation. Was she trying to threaten him? Did she really think she was threatening? A single bark of a mirthless chuckle spilled from his chest. She was weak and naive. At this point it was only a matter of time before she lost whatever will to fight she'd managed to summon.

He raised the blade to his face, inspected it for a moment, then ran his tongue along the edge, relishing the taste of her blood. With a flick of his wrist, the blade skidded off to the side, landing in a bush. He didn't need it; his own tools were more than sufficient to deal with this prey.

Then he lunged forward. There was a flurry of claws and feathers. Fingers grasped at her wrists, then pressed them together and held them against the stone. She managed to get in a couple scratches with her legs, but not nearly enough to matter — he was stronger than her, and in a moment he was on top of her, his legs firmly planted on hers, pinning them to the ground. A hand grasped at the base of her skull, trapping it against the ground.

For a few moments, there was silence, aside from the sounds of her struggles to free herself, to attack him, to make any progress at all. Then a low, rumbling growl vibrated against her chest, and his muzzle dipped close to her ear. Whispered: "How do you think this story ends, theresh?"

[04:23] Her joints protested as her struggles broke against his grip, her teeth trying to bite at his fingers before he shoved her head down against the ground. The fire inside her tugged at her bones and muscles and tendons, twisting and turning in subtle variations, but he was too heavy to dislodge and her posture did not let her repeat the earlier trick of unbalancing him.

Very slowly, the fight bled out of her, replaced by a numb shock. The aches and pains, the cuts, the dirt in her wounds, the torn feathers from the fight, all of it was still fairly dulled, but the driven panic from before was beginning to be replaced with a simmering despair.

He'd asked her a question.

She wasn't sure how long ago he'd asked the question, but it was clear in her memory. How does the story end? All narrative rules promised her death, but she was still alive now, well past any sane expiration date. Her papery breath hissed past her teeth as she panted against the ground. How does the story end?

She didn't know.

Perhaps if she had been more coherent at that moment, she might have realised that was why she had come here – because kaarua lived in narratives she couldn't grasp, because that's how their stories played out – and that this was still an opportunity.

In her current mental state, she couldn't appreciate it. She'd lost a fight against a kiikam and he would doom not only her but any other hapless kavkem he came across.

"It is in your hands, kiikam," she observed, her whisper quivering, but undisguised disdain in her resigned voice for what other kavkema had told her were the children of Tkanetar. "It ends how you wish it. And what is it, then, that you wish?"

§ 2020-05-02 00:59:52

[00:59] The kiikam rumbled in satisfaction, claws whispering along the back of her skull. "What do I wish?" he echoed, a sinister grin spreading across his features. He pressed himself against her, a spike of pain in her shoulder pressed against the rock. The claws slipping up to the feathers on her scalp before grasping at them, twisting her head back, her neck arcing to expose her throat. "To keep you for myself."

His grip on her wrists relented, shifting his fingers instead to her throat, claws tracing her trachea. "Your life, and your death, belong to me now. You will live for as long as I choose — until your body is a ruined husk, or until I drink your soul dry." He ran his tongue along his teeth, looking down at her like a predator who had just caught a delicious meal.

Then the fingers grasped at her chin feathers, while his other hand snapped to her upper jaw, starting to pry her mouth open. "...I wonder how it tastes."

[01:34] To her perception, there was so much of him – crowding out the starry sky, blocking her view of the trees, pressed against most of her body to prevent even the touch of the wind from finding her. Somewhere was her discarded knife. Somewhere was her breath, gently crushed out of her by the kavkem on top of her.

Your death belongs to me now. The concept filled her with dread. It clutched at her chest, squeezing her heart, dotting her vision with dark blotches.

She had no energy left to struggle as his hands drew her head back and began to prise her jaws apart. Muscles tensed to stop it, to delay it, to make any difference at all, but the obstacle was barely worth noting. He loomed above and beside her, laying claim to her with his presence.

Something stirred in her, something primal and cautious, an instinct that had once belonged to a dying animal. It clutched her spine with anticipation, raised the feathers of her spine, and doused the pains he had caused her with a much less frantic chemical; ready to yield to a fatal blow that even her foggy rational mind knew would never intentionally come.

[03:44] While she had put up a good fight, her struggles had exhausted her. The token resistance her muscles offered was easily overcome. He tilted her muzzle towards him, gently tugging her mouth open until there was enough room. Then a foreign presence — the kiikam's tongue — slid past her teeth, to the roof of her mouth. It lingered there for a moment, a gentle but persistent pressure, before it pushed deeper in, past her own tongue's attempts to resist it, dragging an unbidden pleasure along with it.

The scent was all wrong; his breath smelled of blood and prey, of a completed hunt. This was no seira, certainly nobody she wanted to be this close to her. After a few moments, his muzzle dipped deeper, jaws locking with hers, his tongue forcing its way towards her throat. Then he inhaled deeply, dragging his tongue back across her mouth as he pulled his head back, snapping at the air. "Delicious," he whispered.

§ 2020-05-02 12:51:59

[13:33] His actions sunk a barbed hook of plesure into her gut, a sudden, sharp jab before it dissolved at the edges, gently poisoning her blood stream. A muted cousin of her earlier panic tried to pull her muzzle back, wrench it out of his grip, but only locked her neck into tension.

Her eyes squeezed shut as though it made a difference. There was no sound, all her desperate pleading silently coded into her body language instead, the cautious but desperate motions of her arms; one hand rose to touch at his wrist, pressing against it in an attempt to dislodge his grip, but it was weak not only from her physical exhaustion, but out of fear of upsetting someone who was in the position to tear out her tongue if he pleased.

A barbed hook. The analogy lingered and transferred as he withdrew his tongue; she could imagine he had torn something from her with it, all too well, losing some small part of herself to the physical onslaught, as though an invisible, internal wound had been inflicted on her.

He had threatened to drink her soul dry and she believed he could do it. She was his to toy with, that much was unmistakably clear; if she wanted to retain herself, if she wanted to resist this gradual unravelling, she would have to bargain with him somehow. She would have to convince the predator to relent from her metaphorical throat.

For now, eaten up by her silent fears, she made no attempt to speak, simply holding herself painfully still.

[21:47] Now this felt right to him. Her strength was wasted; there was no fighting back, only a tense attempt at resistance. She had no choice but to yield to him. He had her; he'd won; now was the time to claim his prize. His hands released her jaws, his claws tracing lightly along her face. One hand clasped at her throat, the other dragged down her neck, finding her damaged shoulder. He shoved it to the ground, twisting her torso to lie on her back; a moment later he shifted his weight off of her legs, forcing them apart and maneuvering himself between them.

Then the hand at her throat pressed a single claw against her trachea, and slowly dragged downwards, past her tool-necklace, past her collarbone, along her sternum. It wasn't nearly deep enough to draw blood, but it still left the illusion of being split open, a visceral reminder of just how easily he could tear into her. There was a rumbling purr from the kiikam as the claw slipped lower, dragging across her belly, carrying a fresh terror with it.

[22:01] All the instincts that wanted her to fight were still there, prattling uselessly at her psyche, numbed to inaction by the paralytic resignation to her situation. The softest sound of protest – an actual vocalisation – escaped her as her wounded shoulder was ground into the dirt again, the pain briefly puncturing the submissive frame she was caught in.

The claw bit at her skin past her thin feather coat, to her terrified mind promising disfigurement. Again her hands reached for his, with the same cautious protest as before, trying to steer him away from what she imagined was him gouging into her gut.

[22:24] Her weak protests were met with a low growl, the claws near her shoulder pressing punishingly against her flesh. The lone claw continued its gradual descent, ignoring her hands, tracing the path he'd no doubt use to slice her open.

But the promised shredding of her innards never came; evidently he had other uses for her in mind. The claw's path reached her underbelly, where it was joined by a second finger's claw. The path split, one claw going left and the other right, then the fingers pressed down, parting the feathers around her slit. He released her shoulder, moving that hand to just above her knee instead, tips of claws biting lightly at the inner leg. His weight shifted once again, further down, trapping her tail beneath him. His muzzle lowered, taking in her scent, before the tongue came out again, pushing itself inside of her.

[22:46] A surprised, soft panting leapt from her chest, bewildered by the unexpected sensation pressing into her between the pinpricks of pain against her inner thigh. Her hands hovered near his muzzle, not daring to try and seize a hold of it while his teeth were precariously close to sensitive skin.

The crumbs of pleasure that had scattered through her during his earlier assault of her throat now served as the seeds of this new sensation – her battered body eagerly embraced it, perhaps instinctively misjudging the attention that had wrought it as some kind of peace offering.

Again her tension held her still, her eyes closing, her head cast back in silence, a quiet plea for coherence and mercy, while her mind reeled, struggling with the turn of events, them brushing against his threat – I will drink your soul dry – and adopting a dreadful, sinister undertone that she had never before experienced in any intimate encounter.

Silent tears of cognitive shock trickled from her eyes as she squeezed them shut. It was intense for all the battering she'd taken, searing through her as though all her aching had been inverted. "Please." A whisper; she wasn't sure what or to whom she was pleading. For it to make sense, for sanity and civilisation to prevail?

For more of the pleasure to wash out her pain? For him to simply finish devouring her soul as that she could stop being lucid of her own helplessness?

§ 2020-05-16 20:03:05

[20:03] The scent was intoxicating; tugging at the strands of memory. Of before he understood the truth, of the time of pain and rage and confusion. Of before he'd accepted the monster into his heart.

It was overwhelming, it was too much to bear. His claws grasped at the insides of her thighs and raked through the sensitive skin. He pulled his lips back, shuddering at the taste, hating it, loving it, wanting more of it, wanting it all to stop. He grasped at her arms, pinning them to the rock at her sides, slid forwards and forced himself inside her. Teeth closed around her throat, claws sought purchase against her flanks and sunk in as he thrusted into her, fueled by a distorted mix of lust and rage.

[22:39] A faint, high-pitched mewl wrenched from her as the claws raked at her inner thighs, a sensation like a blade of fire cutting through to her bones. Something instinctual blossomed inside her as he shifted, as he was suddenly inside her, his teeth locked around her throat – a violent game of dominance, the threat of death real, and she was mere prey, the spoils of a war for territory no one had fought, invisibly bound by the victors, a toy for their men who too had teeth and claws with which to rend her apart in her weakness. Pinpricks of greater darkness spattered across her vision from the pressure against her throat. There was no mistaking this for misplaced tenderness, not like the gesture before; her body yielded to the onslaught in pain more than in pleasure, sensitive skin pulled taut from its fill, the friction teetering in perfect balance between burning and intoxicating, hypnotic in its violent steadiness, stray filaments of intense pleasure at its sharp edges, as one might expect from the thrusts of a jonikam. She held perfectly still, instinctively fearful that any motion of hers might tear thorns through her innards or inspire her captor to tear out her throat.

[00:35] It was all real; it was all feverishly, overwhelmingly real. An eternity of spite and crushing solitude was crumbling before him. She was real, and more importantly, she was his. Intense pleasure curled through him, flooding out the rage. His claws pulled out of her, only to drag more hot lines of pain down her sides. The scent of blood and fear mingled with arousal. His thrusts came faster now, each accompanied by the rough texture of feathers against sensitive skin.

Finally, after what felt like an agonizing eternity, the knot of twisted pleasure in his gut released. His teeth released her neck, twisting up to gasp for air as his claws dragged across the outsides of her legs with rattled energy. Finally. For a few precious moments, there was silence and stillness aside from their breathing, his chest pressed against hers. A light breeze ruffled his feathers and stung at her wounds.

Then he closed his eyes, a deep, satisfied growl rumbling through his chest and into her bones. His claws pulled away from her, one hand grasping at her muzzle and lightly pressing it against the ground. His muzzle dipped, and he whispered to her: "You'll never leave. You'll never escape. You're mine now, now and forever."

[00:58] Her body was abstractly aware of its pain. Her attention could cycle through the wounds – her foot, stained red from her blood, useless for running; the scratches on her shoulder, aching from dirt; the pressure marks on her neck; the claw marks on her legs; the burning sensation of her ravaged slit reeling from the additional pressure of his seed inside her – but it was an endorphin-numbed inventory, each element losing its focus whenever her attention wandered to another.

Her awareness was filled with that she was breathing. It was a steady, dimly reassuring motion, her chest rising and falling as it always had. The kiikam loomed over her, pushing her head into the ground, and whispered words she already knew to be true.

Her capacity for terror had evaporated. Instead, she was numb, resigned. There was a deep horror to her situation, but she engaged with it only on theoretical grounds, her emotions too beaten into meekness to yield as much as a frantic plea.

But her eyes were wide in her silence. Her body hadn't forgotten how to express fear and did it for her in automation, subtly but unmistakably presenting her belly and throat in submission.

[01:53] A grin crawled across the kiikam's features, innately pleased at her instinctive submission. "Good," he whispered.

With a soft sound, he withdrew from her, pulled himself into a mildly wavering stand. He was still a bit overwhelmed, high on the endorphins flooding his veins. He took a few breaths, then stepped over her, reaching down to pluck the leather waterskin from her tool necklace. A subtle reinforcement of the theme: This belongs to me now, too. He uncorked it, taking a drink from it, draining half its contents. He looked down at her, a vicious spreading across his features. "I suppose you'd like some too?" he asked in a venemous sneer.

Before she had much chance to respond, he began fiddling with his own toolchain, pulling a stoppered phial from it. This should keep her quiet for a while. He pulled the stopper out with his teeth and poured a helping of something powdery into the waterskin.

[02:15] Cautiously, she shifted as he rose, allowing herself the luxury of rolling mostly onto her side, without taking her submissive attention off him even once. Her body language was infused with a terrified flavour of awe, like one might expect from a mortal confronted with an evil god, but she barely felt it, her mind almost carefully blank.

There was no missing what he was doing, of course. He didn't want her to miss it. It was almost a ritual of dominance – the obvious contamination of her water supply. Abruptly, her body signalled that it would need water if it wanted a chance to heal, a thirst raking down her throat, twin urge to a non-descript revulsion: Don't drink it.

"Please," she whispered. "I'll make you no trouble," she promised, the words true, but empty of any meaning.

[02:49] He briefly paused as she rolled onto her side, his gaze burning holes into her soul, gauging whether she seemed likely to try something foolish. Once it became clear that she wasn't, he resumed his task, though with a fraction of his attention still anchored on his freshly-caught prey.

He re-sealed the phial, tucking it back into its proper place, before corking the waterskin and giving it a vigorous shake. Her words spoke an empty promise; she had no idea how true they would be. "No, you won't," he replied with a callous certainty.

Then he knelt down on top of her once again, uncorking the waterskin, and reached down to her muzzle with one hand. He grasped the feathers under her chin, tugging her face towards the sky and pulling her jaw open. "Now drink," he growled, and pressed the mouth of the waterskin into her maw.

At first, the water tasted mildly sweetened, adopting an herbal taste — until the bitterness it was masking slipped in beneath it, clinging to her tongue.

[03:04] For some moments of muted instinct, her head tried to follow the grasp of his fingers, compensate for the pull, before his stern air mingled with the sting of her lacerations made her remember her place and she let it happen, dread running down the lining of her gullet and knotting in her gut.

As the bitter taste of the water registered to her as a sudden sensation, she almost jerked back. Then a part of her remembered that she was willing to die, that if he wanted to poison her, she embraced it, she willed it.

...but what if she was drinking a fragment of a kiikam, a seed, like whatever had infected him? The thought came too late to give her pause – she could recognise a point of no return when she was immersed in one, closed her eyes in silent mental agony, and obediently drank her fill.

§ 2020-05-22 21:22:23

[21:22] Once she'd taken the last gulp, the kiikam pulled the flask from her lips, releasing the grip on her jaw. "Good," he whispered, hooking the empty container back into her necklace. A moment later, his hands returned to her face, one gently gripping at the side of her muzzle, the other tracing its claws in light strokes across the back of her skull.

"Enough for now. Time for you to go to sleep." The intonation of his words felt like a spell; even as he whispered them, she could feel what little strength her limbs still had start to leave. Her eyelids were starting to feel impossibly heavy, the exhaustion of her earlier struggles finally catching up with her. He slowly shifted his weight off of her, as he brought his muzzle down, his face eclipsing the sky.

[22:05] As he revealed what the concoction was for, the knot of tension in her gut resolved and she wept silently, both in horror and relief. There would be no escape, but perhaps she could still be herself a little while longer.

Just a little bit.

As the exhaustion ate through her like a painless acid, she took note of his presence, encircling, all-encompassing, claiming her as a thing owned. It soothed her as much as it struck fear into her – one did not, after all, usually deliberately permanently break things one considered one's own.

Maybe at some later date, she could flee. Maybe—

The exhaustion lay her head loosely in his grip, her eyes closing, and her mind disappeared into a vortex of soothing nothingness.