I smell your fear

Possible joining thread for LAB, set just inside their pack borders.
@Madmortigan <3
Anyone else from LAB is also welcome :)

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Fire, fire, fire! It burns his body — his soul — singes the hair from his shoulders, back, legs, face. It blinds him, melts his eyes. The demon doesn’t try and run — no, no, no, he deserves this suffering. But this pain isn’t like any he’s ever felt! It’s hot yet cold, it makes him want to scream and howl until his throat bleeds and his lungs and stomach fill up with blood. It makes the beast writhe and crawl on an unsteady rocky ground — his paw pads searing off, turning red then brown like cooking a steak. Maw wide and dropped open, panting, panting, panting — hot, hot, hot — it’s painful, but such actions only display his stress more than they help him. He’s burning alive — screams, he hears scream and howls and jeers.

He’s in hell — burning for all of his sins.

The hellhound doesn’t know how long he’s been here burning and screaming and writhing. Has no idea how long he’s been tortured or how long it will continue, but somewhere along the way he accepted it. And only when he accepts it, he feels like he’s being suffocated. His lungs shiver and quake at the lack of oxygen, his vertigo fails.

And then he smells dirt — a new smell among the constant cloud of burning flesh he’d become accustomed to. He’s still burning, but he hears rain and then -

Crash! Boom!

The sound of lighting striking the ground gets him moving. A sliver of the sky is revealed in the wake of the lightning strike.

He’s underground — burned and buried, sealed away like some monster. Like they were frightened that he’d spontaneously come back from the dead.

Dig! Dig! Dig! His mind supplies — not him, but someone else. And he does just that — all while feeling the fire-ice feeling of the world around him. The hole he’s in — like a a coffin, but there’s flames licking his skin even here, their daunting, flickering light singeing his fur and skin. But the sliver of sky reveals a heavy rain that falls, pittering again his nose and paws as he digs it open deeper. There’s fire above him too — from the lightning — but the demon just assumes it’s another test from the devil himself.

And so he digs and when his large paws breech the surface, his head quickly follows — desperately sucking down fresh but smokey air.

Here, the fire licks his skin too. Despite the rain, it burns his paws as he claws at the ground to pull himself up straight out of hell. Bloody eyes are wide, a crazed snarl marking his face as he strains to deal with the fact that he is still on fucking fire. It hurts— it hurts! Hurts worse than usual. It feels as if his skin is melting off.

And that’s because it is. It bites his arms where they’re scrabbling for purchase despite the dampness of his skin. The heat warms his face and the fire beneath him nips at his hocks. So he kicks and scratches his hind legs, arms flexing as he pulls himself from the hole in the ground with a strained growl snarling from his lips. And as his body becomes visible to the world, flames would follow, stuck to his hips, tail, and shoulder blades. He stands in it as rain pours down on him, eyes striking, wide, horrified, traumatized as his chest heaves quickly.

And for a second he stands there, head hunched over the smaller flames on the ground as he’s literally on fire. Until the pain becomes too much and the rain doesn’t immediately distinguish the embers on his back. Suddenly he’s snarling, rain and saliva dripping from his maw as he fervently stumbles from the flames — away from the hell hole he’s crawled out of. Curling his body into a tight ‘c’ he’s snapping and biting at the flames on his back — the ones that have already singed off his fur and left raw, welted skin in its place. And his teeth — they cut into his own skin as he bites the flames like a rabid dog, falling onto his side from unstable paws and the sheer panicked biting, he finds solace on the damp ground. The cool wetness of the grass burns, but eventually fire dissipates and smoke billows from his seared flesh while he writhes on the ground.

There, coat soaked through by the rain and patches of fur missing, skin raw and melted, he lies flat on his back. Forearms curled and shaking beside the arch of his chest and hind limbs limp but quaking. But his eyes…traumatized and wide — so wide they appear round and glowing — unblinking. He stares into nothingness while not a single thought moves through his animalistic brain. He basks in the pain and lets the rain drench him, soaking wet in the middle of nowhere.

There, he realizes that he is alive again…and so the torture continues…
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 The commotion would have woke him had he not already been stalking the ruins. The Harbinger slipped towards the sound, a black and white aberration melting through a territory he knew well.

 He arrived to see a stranger at their borders, a hulking, ugly mass of muscle and singed fur. In the dark Madmortigan stared, violet eyes landing on severely cropped ears and shifting colors, the pattern that belied dog.

 Sniffing the air to confirm his suspicions was useless, as the night was choked with from a fireless smoke. “State your name and purpose.”

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Lying there, in the cold pitter-patter of the rain does nothing to him. He feels cold, but it’s welcoming. He feels the burn marks on his back, shoulder blades, and wrists turn into an icy-hot type of pain. His chest heaves and his eyes gather rain water because he doesn’t feel like he has the need to blink.

The ground not far away still has small flames licking and clinging to the grass where the lightning struck, but he pays it no mind. Subtly, he hopes it would spread and eat him whole again. Send him back down to hell and continue his torture that way. Not like this. This is a different type of torture. One he must bear until he’s rotting in the ground once more. When he’s where he belongs — hell.

And then, another descends upon him in the heavy rain. Banesteppe doesn’t care to look at them, he can see a vague black and white silhouette in his peripheral. Could care less if they ripped his throat out right then.

Their voice is cutting through the rain, State your name and purpose.

And for the first time in a while, he thinks. And thinks. And thinks. But finds nothing. My name? Don’t know — can’t remember. My occupation? The devil — a demon meant to cause pain and destruction. A tool.

Banesteppe doesn’t move a fucking muscle. He lets the silence stretch for a long minute before even contemplating answering back. No other muscles move beside the ones that help him speak. Another thing he hasn’t done in a long time.

“I have none.” He’s answering emptily, emotionlessly. His voice accented and deep, raw and ashen from misuse.

And that’s all he says. Because what else needs to be said?
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 The smoke persisted, billowing from the ground and the frankenstien form standing at their borders.

 Madmortigan’s lip curled, a subtle snarl that belied a fraction of his disdain.

 “I advise you to find your voice quickly. You’ll need a better answer than that.”

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Anger is a constant in this state — a forever burning flame just like the ones that licked and bit his skin like a passionate lover down in hell. Hades domain. He wonders (but doesn’t) why he’s here. Can’t find it in himself to truly think it though — he doesn’t give a fuck why he’s here. Can’t — doesn’t — think past the pain and instinctual hunger in his empty soul.

It seems this thing — whatever it is — cares not for his answer. His honest, real answer. He doesn’t know either — doesn’t care to know or find out. But the things spitting tone and voice has Banesteppe’s eyes widening further.

It makes the bugs crawl.

His skin feels like it’s moving like it could just get up and walk right off of him, like dragging a blanket off of a bed.

His lips curl into a tight snarl. He has none — no occupation, no name! What else could this thing want?!

Finally, he’s titling his head to snap his eyes onto whoever dares to speak to him. He finds a wolf — black and white in stark difference to one another, very unlike his melting tones of black, brown, and tan. And a pair of gemstone eyes look back at him — meeting the blood red of his own.

His snarl deepens, dangerous, merciless teeth show as he raises his head and rolls onto his side. The hellhound’s movements are jerky — very uncanny valley. He’s snapping his jaws in his direction, saliva and blood spewing from his lips, it drips in strings from the corners of leathery, black lips. And after, he does what the other bids of him and finds his voice.

“I have none!” Its roared quick and chopping, threatening, but he doesn’t move to get up —

But these fucking BUGS!

The wind up of him yelling has his skin crawling, suddenly he’s whipping back on himself. Forepaws digging into the sodden ground to curl his neck back towards his ribs and savagely take his own flesh into his snarling, snapping maw. He tugs and snaps, shakes his head the tiniest bit with his fangs sunk into his skin.

And suddenly…the itch is gone — the pain satiated it. It always does. It makes him huff out an aggressive breath, long, flat, and forked tongue falling from his jaws to sweep over the bleeding wound and then to rasp over his own lips and teeth.

Body still curled, eyes wide and unseeing — furious and dead — he freezes there, shaking his head, ears twitching. He growls out lower this time,

“I have none.”
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 As the smoke thinned, the breeze carried the stranger’s scent to him at last. But it did little to burn the fog that lay thick around the question of his species, faint as it was.

 But it was enough to stay his hand, to keep from lunging, to keep from rallying the pack so that they might rend this intruder’s desecrated skin from his bones.

 Forked tongue of a serpent flicked out, lolling like some limp and broken instrument before the beast turned and chewed himself as viciously as a leftover femur.

 “Then leave.”

the staff team luvs u

Bane is attacking in this post, I’m thinking we do an HP system of 20 health per wolf with a damage roll of 1d10? Unless others join, in which case we can go for 25 HP?
Rolled an 8 earlier on Discord for this post. Feel free to nudge me if you’re wanting to change the rules and I’ll edit <3

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The creature stares, and stares, and stares as Banesteppe rips and flays his own flesh. Blood spills over and he’s lapping at the fresh wound, then his lips and teeth. He raps out a ghost of his much louder, chopping reply.

Then leave.

Banesteppe leaves the wound he chewed into his own flesh be and shifts his gaze towards the black and white thing staring back at him with those bright, odd eyes. He stares into them shamelessly, challengingly. All while he tucks his paws under himself and robotically stands. His movements are unnatural and jerky, bloody eyes stare, stare, stare right back. Red orbs flicking over the markings of the others face — split in half with white down the middle. Judgemental and belittling — the most emotion he’s ever shown is those dead orbs.

“Make me. Mutt.” He rasps out, confident and challenging. There is no snarl on his face, but his lips are wrinkled in an emotionless sneer, brows pinched tight.

Death glares back — eyes that hold intelligence, but are beastly, instinctual, and dead. And in a flash, despite being burned and having just crawled his godforsaken ass out of hell itself, he’s shooting towards the other man with surprising speed. Claws digging into the ground and propelling himself forward like a missile. Spit and blood flies as he aims his teeth towards the other’s face, shamelessly attempting to rake his teeth over the others flesh — to maim and disfigured — take out an eye or shred ears. He doesn’t give a fuck, he just wants blood.
the staff team luvs u

I don’t wish to engage and don’t consent to a continuing fight. Thanks for the thread!

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 The chosen insult was a weak one, given the scrapbook, stitched together appearance of the rotting canine before him.

 Madmortigan continued to watch, tense and careful. When the lunge came, he dodged, the snap of teeth close to his cheek.

 This close, the creature smelled more wolf than anything, staying the Harbinger’s hand. “Do not come back, this is no home for you.” For the first time torn, choosing to reject one for the sake of protecting his Order.

 With his final warning said, Madmortigan turned and left, returning to the center of the roots to warn the rest of the pack.

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exit Mad!

the staff team luvs u

No problem! We can archive it here, thank you <33

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Dirt kicks up and his grimy fur bristles — spiking up and making look closer to a hyena than anything. Especially with his hunched over head and snarling lips slinging saliva and blood all the same.

Oh, he’s hungry and his teeth fucking itch to bite.

So he does.

Lunging forward with a throat cutting growl he’s snapping and snapping for the other’s face. Oh, but the black and white creature is fast — or maybe Banesteppe’s slow… either way he misses and it only pisses him off more. Another infuriated snarl rips from his maw. The other man speaks, but Banesteppe doesn’t care to listen. No, words are not needed, only teeth. And when the other dares to turn his back on the hellhound and run it makes him see red.

He charges after for a few feet, trying but failing to snap and grab at anything he physically can. But the other gets away and Banesteppe’s growling and huffing with anger. Head drooping close to the ground and lips pulls back in a tight showing of teeth he stills there in the grass, watching the coward flee.

The bugs crawl, crawl, crawl! Fuck!

He’s dropping his jaws onto his arm and gnawing on it with a sickening pop of his molar diving into thick skin. It ignites a fire in his belly and his breathe pants out against the abused limb as he continues to mutilate himself. And only when blood runs and his tongue is coated in it, the crawling stops — the itch sated…for now.

Looking in the general direction of the black and white creature. Huffing out an indifferent but frustrated breath, he turns in a tight ‘c’ to begin stalking off in the opposite direction.

The interaction is already forgotten — his mind vacant and blank. Ready to snap up his next victim
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