come_sailaway | unzip my body, take my heart out [open]

Entry tags:

unzip my body, take my heart out [open]

Who: Siffleur and you
What: Catchall
When: Mid-end October
Where: Various
CW: Violence, maiming, death, possible cannibalism (opt-in only)

1. Fate's Design

Siffleur has gotten the impression that he's been brought on board at a strange time. There's blood everywhere, people avoiding one another, and nothing seems to be working. It reminds him too much of his brief time in the oil sands, though at least the scent is more pleasant, and there's fewer drugs lying around.

He's never seen a casino so empty in his life and he's enjoying it. The slot machines hold no real appeal after the first few times of using the infinite supply of chips to get fewer chips back. For now, he's settled on one of the tables with a deck of cards, playing solitaire while cross-legged.

When he spots motion, his head snaps up to see who else has come in here. Siffleur does not do this subtly - he stares openly and unabashedly at the person, the queen of diamonds in his hand.

2. Promenade

There's a cougar lounging up on one of the awnings of the faux-street's various businesses, one leg dangling over the edge. He's terribly bored. The sushi bar isn't working anymore and while he can get food from the buffet, it's not the same. There was something pleasing about having it go around on that little track. It didn't scratch the itch to hunt, but it served some other base desire he apparently had for a carousel of never-ending fish.

Which means that when he spots a human wander by, his ears perk up. Hmm. Giles said they can't die forever here, and the remains he's come across prove that the others aren't shy about exercising that ability. And while he's certain his prey of choice might be sore about their death, they will come back. So will he, if he's picked the wrong target.

He carefully draws his leg up and shifts into a pouncing position, taking a better look at the human walking down the promenade, trying to decide if they seem like good prey.

3. Spirit Halloween

He likes what's happened to the clothing store. It doesn't stink like perfume anymore, or play those awful songs. Someone trashed huge chunks of it when he was out, but it just made more hiding places for him to lurk in. The clothing monster is still here, slouching around to and fro with various costumes stuck to it's body, but it's easy enough to outrun it. He's also made a few good sleeping spots high up on the tallest displays.

Siffleur's marked his territory here and there, just on the off-chance there's more creatures on the ship like him. They can have other places to claim for their own he likes this one, so it's his now. The various hanging ghosts and skeletons provide him with plenty of camouflage. And he mostly has the trick to finding the exits when he wants to leave. Mostly.

There's a person stumbling around the store right now and it's woken him up from his nap. Siffleur watches them browse the various costumes and try some pieces on before he stretches out and yawns, emerging from the wig display he's been sleeping in. "Doesn't suit you." He offers the unsolicited criticism shamelessly.

4. Wildcard

Anything you'd like. He's always around somewhere.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ylva, on some unimportant mission from point A to point B, happens to wander through, as one does. She is... an interesting sort of person. Scruffy, bare-footed, tangled hair pushed behind pointed ears, and also currently wearing a really cool t-shirt. She is very cool. And stylish. She mutters to herself quietly, gesturing vaguely as she goes.

She pauses abruptly in the middle of the promenade, scenting something familiar on the air. Cat. Big cat. And any predator worth her teeth knows better than to be caught unawares, but here she is, out in the open.

Ylva growls softly, turning slowly, trying to work out where it is.

His ears immediately go flat against his skull as he hears a familiar growl from the person below. Though he's mostly met coyotes in his lifetime, he has occasionally crossed a wolf's path now and then. He's more familiar with the sound of growls than their sharp teeth, and he prefers to keep it that way.

But he's also interested to see another creature like him, or close to him. He shifts on the awning, giving up his pouncing position for one more suitable for defence. The high ground isn't worth giving up.

"Here, wolf." Siffleur calls down to her, making it his voice to give away his location. "Are you like me? Or are you like the panther?"

She turns to face the sound of his voice, eyes narrowed, suspicious. There's tension in her body; she's met weretigers, and they were not friendly. Werelions are a bit out of her experience.

"That depends on what you are," Ylva says. "But you're right. I am a wolf." At least he noticed. So many people don't, and this is definitely a thing that eternally bothers her. Shouldn't it be obvious? Never mind that she often doesn't look like a wolf.

A cautious answer. Fair enough. The shewolf has sense at least. She's in human shape, and so after a moment of consideration, he shows her exactly what he is.

The process of transformation is unpleasant to behold. Even ordinary humans can hear the grinding of bones and tearing of flesh, and they're certainly able to see the way his flesh sloughs off his form and melts away, turning pink and hairless, the way his jawline grinds back to form a more human shape, with more human teeth. His body assembles itself, his scent changing with his transforming flesh, until he settles into a familiar configuration with practised ease.

It takes very little time, and then a tall and naked man remains sitting on the awning, looking down at the wolf. He's moved to a squatting position, not wanting to be caught on his ass if this goes poorly. "I'm this. And you? Shapeshifter, skin changer, werewolf?"

Well, it sure is convenient that she doesn't have to worry about being naked when she changes shape. She shifts as easily as she breathes, and that looked painful. Lording that over him is... probably unnecessary. At least at this point in their acquaintanceship.

"... shapeshifter. Druid." She squints assessingly at him, not terribly bothered by his nakedness. "I have a lot of shapes, but I'm a wolf first. And you? Are you a werecat?"

A beat.

"And are you hunting in here? You know there's a whole buffet of whatever you might want to eat, right? And no one wants money for it?"

Another shapeshifter. He feels a slight pant of disappointment before it fades. It seems that whatever he is, it's rarer than whatever she and Giles are. He nods. "Yes, werecougar. I have two shapes, the ones I was born with."

And he snorts softly as she chides him for hunting. She's not anything like him then, which is a shame, but he doesn't dwell on it. It simply is what it is. "I know where to find food. I was enjoying the sushi, until it stopped. I'm not up here because I'm starving."

He's up here because he enjoys hunting.

"The sushi was good."

Cat priorities vs. dog priorities.

"I've met weretigers," Ylva says. "Never a werecougar, but I guess it's not surprising, either. No reason they can't exist, even if I never saw them around where I live." She starts pacing back and forth, her eyes on him. Cougars are trouble, or potential trouble. Solitary, and territorial.

"But you are hunting, though." Which is a little alarming for someone with a rule of "never eat anything I've spoken to" but technically he hadn't spoken to her, either, not until this point.

Weretigers? Hmm. Makes sense. If he could exist, if wolves could exist, then tigers could. Any animal could change into a human, if there's enough of it to make up a person. Or if it's magic then mass doesn't matter.

"Yes, I'm hunting." He repeats, baffled by how appalled she is. He tips his head to the side, his eyes following her as she paces back and forth. She's more human than animal to fret about this. "Eating dead things fills the belly, but it doesn't satisfy."

Human? How dare. She would be very offended. She's just attached. And maybe protective.

"They won't like that, you know. I know nobody stays dead, but they won't like it. You should've been on the island we visited, though. All sorts of things to hunt. And delicious." A tangent. "But if they start hunting you because you're hunting them, then what's keeping them from deciding I'm next? They've seen what I can do. They know what I am. I want them to like me."

And abruptly, Ylva makes an irritated grunt of a sound. "How can you think about eating anything you've talked to?"

"If they kill you because you are also sometimes an animal, then they were only waiting for an excuse to kill all animals. They would have invented one eventually." Siffleur points out. He has worked in too many slaughterhouses to believe that good behaviour gets rewards. After all, the cattle and pigs and sheep who make their way through the chute are always obedient and have never harmed a hair on a human's head, and yet there they are, meat all the same. "I do not expect my prey to enjoy being eaten, just as I will not enjoy dying. And as I do not expect my prey to be easy to catch, I will not be easy to kill. This is the way of life."

Her irritation amuses him this time, and he shifts how he's sitting to be a little more casual, less worried about needing to pounce on her since she wants to talk. "Why would that make a difference? Even if I do not talk to them, they still talk among themselves. Either way, their flesh tastes good." Siffleur pauses, then with a sly smile, he adds- "Sometimes, I enjoy understanding what their screams mean."

"Cats. Like I should expect a cat to understand the importance of helping each other, or taking care of each other, or maybe not wanting to eat things I've connected to as an equal."

She doesn't really hate cats, not really, but in her annoyance she's going to grasp at some explanation as to why he's being, in her opinion, dumb. The strength of the pack is her strength, after all.

"Numbers will always win. You want to make enemies for yourself right out of the gate? Go right ahead. But you will not take me down with you."

Siffleur simply gives the shewolf a bemused look. "You speak as if this is a peaceful place. You can smell the blood as well as I can. They are already killing each other for amusement and sport. Why should I be different?"

He tips his head at her, eyes tracking the agitated woman as she moves below him. "You're very strange. Why are you so certain they will turn against you simply because I exist? If I'm all it takes, then they never trusted you to begin with. If they truly know you, then they will know that a thing like you can never be a thing like me."

Oh, that... that stings. That stings more than she expected it to. Here she is, not one thing or another, not properly wild or properly tame, not human or elf or wolf or anything at all, and all she really wants is to know that people like her.

So that feels like maybe no one ever will, when possibly the closest thing she's ever met to a creature like her calls her 'strange.'

"They don't know me yet," she snarls, "most of them. I don't know anything about peace, but I want them to know I am fighting with them, and not against them."

Ah, so that's it. She's kept herself apart and now she's afraid, and it's easier to place the blame on him, on what he might do, then to blame herself for being unknown to them. Of course, if most of them don't know her, she could simply hide among them. But then she would have to hide, and Siffleur has done that all his life, and he knows intimately how exhausting and lonely and isolating it is to hide yourself.

"Will killing me make them like you?" He asks the wolf. "Will they see my blood on your hands and know you're fighting with them? Or will you wait until I eat one of them first, so they know I was a threat when you killed me?"

"If you try to kill them, I will stop you. That's all there is to it. You don't need to go complicating it. You're right that this place smells of blood and death, but I have no intention of facing it alone, like you apparently do."

She will make it simple in her head, as much as possible, even if it's not quite so simple in reality. She almost has to.

He lets out a soft huff, a sound just barely on the edge of a laugh. It's a wonderfully dramatic little statement, but she hasn't actually thought it through, and she doesn't want to either. Which is fine by him. He doesn't care about winning her over, and he certainly doesn't care if she's hurt by the consequences she's ignoring. Plus he's sure the humans will be happy to help her lick her wounds, since they like obedient dogs best of all.

"Then feel free to wait around for an opportunity to kill me." Siffleur smirks ever so slightly at her before he goes back to scanning the promenade, content to sit here for hours if he must.

For a moment Ylva paces, frustrated, not sure what she wants to do: storm off in a huff, just attack him anyway, yell more? All of these are terrible options.

A display, though, to show she's not someone to be trifled with. That strikes her as the right thing to do.

She runs up under the awning Siffleur is sitting on, muttering under her breath to produce a small wave of flame to set his perch on fire.

The shewolf keeps pacing back and forth and he pretends to ignore her, just to frustrate her more.

But instead of her attacking him, or storming off to fetch others to fight with her, she does something that was unthinkable a moment ago: she sets the awning on fire.

He lets out a guttural sound of surprise and above her comes the sound of cracking bones and tearing flesh as he changes. The moment his legs have their flex to them, he leaps off the awning, aiming for another across the way. This one isn't quite as good of perch, since it has decoration on the top of it, and he slams into it as his body finishes transforming.

Then a very angry cougar turns around, baring his teeth and snarling down at her. His first and obvious instinct is to attack her and fight her here and now. But Siffleur did not reach his age without having some sense, and while fighting a wolf is difficult enough, fighting a magical shewolf offers unknown dangers. He isn't afraid to be killed, but that doesn't mean he's eager to die.

She shifts as well, though it's a swift and easy transformation for her, clothes melting into her new shape. She could be anything in this moment, any number of powerful shapes, but right now? This is about making a point, and at least half the point is the superiority of being a wolf to being a dumb cat only out for himself. And being a wolf, a regular old timber wolf, has always felt particularly natural to her.

Besides, allosaurus versus cougar is not a fair fight.

Ylva launches herself at him, snarling.

For someone who wants the humans to approve of her, she's even more eager to fight than Siffleur is. He jumps again, this time forced to land on the floor. The moment his feet meet metal, he turns swiftly and lunges back at the timber wolf. She's big - and he's rarely fought a timber wolf, and never without the element of surprise on his side. But turning tail and running is more embarrassing than dying.

The shewolf's jaws are what he needs to worry about most, so he uses his claws to try keep her at arm's length, lashing out with three quick strikes to tear along her sides. Her hide is thick, and it doesn't cut her nearly as deep as he needs to. The scent of blood hits the open air, but it doesn't gush from her guts, and he tries to twist around. If he can get his legs under him, he can make some distance between them...

Ylva yelps, attempting to twist away from his claws, but his aim is unfortunately good. If it had been more, well, she might've involuntarily turned back, and then she'd have been in trouble. Possibly. She's been in tighter situations, but she's also had backup.

There's no time to withdraw and regroup, not in a fight like this. There's only instinct and reaction. She doubles back immediately, scrambling after him to sink her teeth into the meat of one of his hind legs, growling around the mouthful of cougar flesh.

He screams as her teeth sink into his hind leg, and the instinctive panic builds. A wounded leg can't run, can't hold his weight, takes time to heal. He needs to get her off of him, and he needs to get away from her. There are many shops here, if he stops her before she tears in too deeply, he can get up high and hide.

Siffleur twists in her jaws and he kicks with his free back leg, aiming for her throat to tear it up. But the angle isn't good - he rips at the thick hide along her chest with his back paw, sinking his claws in deep as he can get them, but there's bone in the way protecting all the really vital organs. Throat or guts would have ended it, but he's missed both, and all he can do now is hope that the pain is enough to make her jaw open involuntarily.

Honestly, a leg is not ideal, and this is part of the reason. She grunts at the impact, and she does, briefly, lose her grip, but she's closer now, and that gives her the option to grab in a way that's better for her and worse for him.

She will hurt later. She will hurt a lot later. Right now, there's only adrenaline.

Ylva lunges forward to grab the back of Siffleur's neck in her jaws, to hold and, if necessary, to bite down with all the force she has.

For a moment, her grip breaks and he scrambles to get his legs under him. The floor is smooth instead of rough earth, and his paws struggle to get a solid grip. That second of failure is all the shewolf needs to get her jaws on the back of his neck.

He screams again but the sound goes wet as her fangs puncture his neck and squeeze his spine. Blood drips into his throat and though he still spasms and struggles, the grip is unrelenting. He can't easily reach her either with the bulk of her body on his back. Siffleur lets out another wet sound, an awful desperate pant, and his paws reach up to try tear up her face. But reaching over his body while she has his neck in her grip is nearly impossible at this angle, and the best he can manage is to graze her with the very tips of his claws.

It's only a matter of time before she twists her jaws and snaps his neck.

For the length of a heartbeat she holds him in her jaws, tasting his blood on her tongue, caught between the urge to finish it, and the desire to have some sort of moral high ground. It had been easy. She hadn't even really tried.

Ylva squeezes, and gives him a shake, the way she'd shake a misbehaving pup, though more roughly, a reminder of who had won, and what she could do in this moment. She lets him go, and dances backwards out of the reach of his claws, panting and dripping blood.

"You're not worth it. Remember that, cat."

(no subject)

teethoftherisk - 2022-10-24 02:30 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only