James whimpered. The poor animal, a small puppy, well wolf cub. It was on the bar counter, moaning horribly as things set themselves in motion. When demons meet lycanthropes. The combination is usually something mal-formed horribly and disable. But when they did connect, some serious sick shit did happen. James was a combination of this mating which shouldn't take place. He was suffering internally. Although on the outside he appeared normal, healthy on inspection. He was dieing on inside.
It wasn't a form of radiation poison, or any poison. Or even sickness of the organs and muscle. It was growth, inhumane growth. He was shifting, not from this form to his true, blood hungered form. But from this form to a pivot. The small pup, perhaps the runt of the litter grew large. Like a full-grown wolf, his fur lengthened, and darkened, he wasn't a pitch black; he was a mouldy dark grey. With what might have been green dandruff, more likely mol on the fur. Tufts of hair dropped from his body as if cut cleanly off with a knife.
The hairless parts of his body gave way to the skin to fall off, revealing working muscle and organs underneath. His tranquil blue eyes faded to a glowing yellow, and an extra two eyes opened on top of his head. He was no longer a cut animal, but perhaps a walking corpse of a month old scavenged corpse. You could see his chest move up and down, one of his lungs pump up and down, the muscles contracting as the vacuum sucked air into the lung. His lower segment of his black leg left gave a rip, and all the flesh and fur off fell off with a rip, laving a dirty yellow skeleton.
James jumped off the counter, letting his skeleton leg drag behind him. He had no muscle to manipulate it. A feral growl was ever present from his half visible voice box. Another rip and his right ear just dropped off. He barred his fangs, long and each canine serrated, yellow, the area near the base a deep dark red. His breath stank of festering flesh. Ah it felt good to be true to yourself. He was ugly, disgusting to look at, he was no longer a cute puppy. His face mal-formed naturally and one set of eyes lower than the other. His face was whiley, lacking any cunning air, or sense of nobility.
A croaky call left the beasts mouth, a call most closely resembled to the french word.
'blooooooooooooood' in other words.
The blood was running freely from her sliced lips down her pale chin, only to drip onto her black leather clad legs. Her grey eyes, still shining with insanity and temporary happiness stared unblinkingly into space when she heard the voice. A voice that was akin to her own hideous rasping voice. It made her pierced, pointed ears twitch and her grey eyes blink. Slowly they moved so as to look out of the corners at a creature that won her instant and undivided attention.
Her lips, cracked, sliced and blood stained, parted in her admiration and awe of the hideous creature. A carcass, decaying and yet still very much alive. The sheer raw power emanating from it made her eyes widen with wonder, and the stench made the very corners of her lips turn upward. Her head rolled to the side, as if all the muscles holding it up had been sliced, yet her eyes remained glued. Never blinking, never moving away from the sight.
A gasp of awe escaped those wretched lips before the voice that made cats drowning in liquid concrete sound lovely.
"Lenore, oh Lenore! Such a sight I behold, such glory that doth make mine eyes shine. If only I had six more eyes to take in this sight, to print it in my memory. Ack, Lenore, such a gift it would be, for such a one as me!"
Still staring unblinkingly, she rose to her feet jerkily, as if pulled up by puppet strings. And with that same, graceless jerking, she shuffled forward, her short black hair falling in front of her eyes. Her hands, gloved and chained rose just the slightest, as if she wanted to touch this creature. She wanted to touch, taste, see and hear this creature, so as to capture it in her memory for the centuries of life to come.
The almost gormless face of the wolf turned and faced yours. Its eyes blinked suddenly with emotion. If one can imagine it.
'Suspends from chains, tight chains, ones that suspended you in air, but pulled your arms and legs back, so that just the torso was forced forwards. Imagine if you will, a 13 year old, a smart one, a boff, a nerd, innocent, guilty of nothing more than maybe being too interested in Star Wars. Young, innocent, but forced to face agony. Starved, but also thirsty your throat dry, like the morning after a stag night. The sort of cracked back of the throat feel which will just go away with one sip of water. This one sip of water not gifted to this boy.
The boy would breathe heavily, and quickly, desperately. His thin chest rising up and down with each short gasping breath. Pumping up and down like an engine pump. His body in perfect form, it portrayed the desperation perfectly. Apart from one flaw, a rusted metal spike, going in through his back, and coming out the front, forcing aside to ribs to make room. Sweat didn't grace his face, he was thirsty, he didn't have moisture in his body to sweat with. A cry.
Like the first anal experience of a young twink bisexual. Painful, but loving every moment. A second spike had touched his back, and was driving itself in slowly. The slow tedious pain.'
That was what the wolf’s eyes showed. Its eyes slid over to you, they simply glow white, there was no pupil, or iris. But you could tell, if it had them they'd be on you. It was seeking revenge for its inner Childs suffering. Its throat let out another cry.
Ah, the eyes of the beast, a glorious and revealing white. The images that poured so freely were all too familiar, all to close to something that she had known of. Yet they were beautiful in their agonizing horrific meanings. They did not turn a hair on this woman, for they were the images that many others had shown her, yet different in their own way. She admired them, she coveted them, they would be her treasures in lonely times. Insanity had made its mark plain on this woman.
Again, her voice escaped those tortured lips, but a smile bare the several fangs stained in blood that were meant for ripping, shredding.
Oh sweet, deary. A wish for the weary. Oh how you suffer, oh how you long! But Lenore cannot grant what you wish tonight. Lenore will not, and if Lenore will not, then I have no choice but to disobey her."
A smirk, a sneer. A smile twisted and painted red. Her gloved hands, covered in chains that glittered and jingled, rose toward her face. Her fingers, gloved and hidden from the light, ran along her chin and made markings in the blood that stained her pale face. She smiled that dreadful smile, her eyes wide, blank as a doll's, yet seeing everything and everyone she wished to. Six claws, one between each knuckle on the backs of her gloved hands, broke through the leather and shone bright white. Six long inches of death, of pain drawn in the bone, were gracing her long fingered gloved hands.
The lovers will love, the mourners will mourn, and the reaper will reap. Oh the suffering of our mortal hearts, oh how they long for release! Does thine heart long, yearn for that blessed release? The reaper shall hear your prayer.
Her gravely voice tried to portray sadness, but her body was quivering with anxiousness, her eyes having gained a new shine to them. Her question was wrapped in rabble, her curiosity veiled behind the anxiety. It was a still dance of emotions and movements, making her head sway from side to side like a snake.
James was not insane. Far from it, he was the vile product of demons and lycans meeting. He was the excess, the failed prototypes. The thing that didn't quite work out. He wasn't insane. Not even slightly, he wasn't gone. He was hungry; he just wanted to eat fresh meat. He was the genetically faltered. An ugly, decrepit beast. A mongrel, something to shoot for fun on a day. She was his prey, although he was smaller, diseased, and fragile. It was for this form. He was going to consume her.
His muzzle came forwards and he sniffed the air about her, one sniff, before his rotted nose dropped from the tip of his nose to the floor with a light thud. The creature tilted its head to the side, and dispersed. It dispersed as in melted. Its form lost shape, and sank into a black pool of thick goo with tufts of hair sticking out. Than from this, a hand emerged. A hand, cut off from the wrist, a human hand, with the skin peeled off to reveal yellow bone and muscle beneath. The lower jaw of a human, in the same skin peeled fashion was attached crudely to the underside or palm of the hand at the point where the thumb and hand connected, and the opposite side of the hand.
The jaw was suspended there with a few rusty nails and it appeared to be in working order. It was easily capable of clamping and biting stuff. Its nails were long, and it clicked along the floor when it moved. An eyeball, the type of squished eye. Like one thrown against the wall and splattered, most of the inner goo hanging out and the iris and pupil shattered, distorted and broken. This eye was affixed to the back, or top of the hand, by a single staple. The black fluid it emerged from seemed absorbed into the floor.
The hand moved forward, scuttling like a beetle, the fingers were like legs and they pulled the hand along. The meat on the bones of the hand was like biltong, but with each movement it made, you could see muscles contract and bones move.
Surprise flickered in the grey depths of her eyes before the smile widened, the flesh on either side of her lips stretching, ripping to reveal the rows of sharp bicuspids and molars meant for grinding and ripping. She loved surprises, be they ghastly or common. And this was a surprise she wasn't ever going to forget. Her eyes in the light as her leather clothing stretched, her chest cavity broken open to reveal the black smoking mass that should have been lungs, heart and stomach. Short black hair grew incredible lengths and turned rotted grey as a third eye burned its way through her bone and skin on her forehead. A red, burning and rotted eye that smoked and let small dark trickles of old blood run down her pale forehead. Her fingers broke through the tips of the gloves, revealing the dark claw like nails that had grown. Spikes, black and shining burst from her elbows and shoulders, having no particular purpose other then armour. Surprise, surprise, oh how she loved surprises. Both given and received.
Her voice was darker, smoother and had many layers and textures.
"Lenore doth not love and Lenore doth not hate. Lenore hungers, and kills. Lenore, Lenore, my fallen angel Lenore. I do love surprises, young, lovely child. And this is a surprise I will enjoy."
The ichor oozing from the holes in her cheeks and from the huge cavity that was her chest smoked, and dripped in clumps to the ground where they made dark, unwashable stains. Her grey eyes were bright red, and their pupils were like needles. Oh, she was far gone in her insane joy, too far gone to come back. She waited for the gruesome hand, all the while admiring its structure, and wishing for such a hand to call her own. Like a pet.
The hand was merely an abomination. A Frankenstein in a sense. It was a collection of human parts, mailed crudely together to form a sort of mechanical scout. 'Click, click click' the nails of the hand skittered towards you as the clacked rhythmically on the hardwood flooring. The hand came to the base of your feet. Its distraught and broken eyes seemed to stare, although it was broken and didn't actually work. It just seemed to. It was true; he sought a master or mistress. But not one to serve in domesticity. But one to fight and protect in hopes of advancing in his own evolution. She was far too insane to fulfil his needs, to set him tasks to accomplish like an assassin. Although he preferred less of a killing profession, and more like a pet on leash, drooling, snarling, baring teeth. Ready to just be let go at his owners whim so they could stand back and watch him tear limb from limb.
The hand was no threat. It was just a hand with a jaw, and a useless eyeball. It felt and communicated to the greater essence of its master, by feel. It sent out small waves, high pitched frequencies and created a mental structure of the world around it like that. It was simply a use of the body, like the thumb is a use of the body, or the kidneys. One could easily crush and ruin the hand beneath a foot. It was just as rotted as the dog before it, frail.
The hand made a half circle round the target. She didn't seem so appetising. He was a fault of nature. He had no real need to consume something just as disturbed as him. She almost repulsed him. The hand raised its body to support itself on middle and index finger like two feet. Its thumb curved round behind the knuckle on the back of the hand and it bowed forwards. A sign of lack of hostilities. Before it sank back onto all five finger and pushed off, leaping onto her chest to, hope to delve into the inners of her body through the black cavity on her chest.
Her smile, gruesome and bloody, faded just the slightest as it bowed to her. Intelligence, she had not counted on. It appealed to her calmer side, to the one that wanted a companion, a friend. Her red, insane eyes widened as the third eye flamed briefly, burning the skin and bone that it had erupted through. It was no threat, and it would not cause her any stress. Would the surprises never cease? The jutting, charred ends of her ribs flexed like fingers and the sludge that were her lungs moved briefly, as if she were breathing. But she did not breathe, she could not. What was revealed in her chest was as useless as mothballs. Yet they moved about as if they were still in use before stilling again.
When the hand leaped for her chest, reaction was instant. Her one gloved hand caught it, carefully, carefully, so as not to destroy this admirable toy. She was enthralled by this hand, with its gruesome and vile appearance and intelligent manners. But she had interpreted its intent before it leapt, and with a smile and blink of rotted eyelids, she placed it inside her rotted chest cavity, her nose twitching at the weird feeling of dug about in.
"Lovely are those with friends, hated are those who shun. Am I shunning a friend, becoming a hated enemy? I think not. Lenore may be angry with me, but Lenore cannot do much more than yell. Hear her voice inside me, for there she dwells. Inside my rotted self. Do not dig, for you will find, a cage much despicable in design, for the Fallen Lenore."
Her dulcet multi voice was threaded with bitter contentment as she spoke about her Lenore. A ghost to the gods, a poltergeist to the weary, and her constant companion. She was there within, hiding, plotting, whispering things that would corrupt the innocent. Oh, Lenore of the Fallen was trapped inside. Trapped and screaming. Yet that was of no concern at the moment, for now that the hand was inside her, the woman knelt before the dark pool, curious as to how the awe inspiring carcass had disappeared in that.