a wolf can't hunt without its prey

  Above, skies shed their rame, but as it went on and on, it thinned out into empty drizzles.
   Mizzles filtered through the intertwined canopies above, boughs hugging and leaves refusing to let go of each other.
Light flicks of rain made it through, sizzling in the grass beneath like the gentle frothing of the sea against its shores. Dew aligned perfectly amongst the blades of grass below her frame, like starry speckles across the night sky - if the night sky was narrow and deep, forest green in colour.
It smelled like pasture trimmings and wet, damp moss here, despite the apparent myriad of floralcy which usually lay within the air. Wild populations of flora and the occasional clusters of lepidopterans gifted these woodlands their name, home to all blue and violet. Lupines, strings of lavender, and the sparkle of watery drops flashing against background cornflowers trickled in the bottom of Melantha's peripheral vision, entertaining her pupils for a while. She didn't mind the wetness her limbs attained when she brushed past the recently showered plants, allowing for the morning to praise her pelage with its forenoon drizzle.
   A smile, slim but appealing parted her mouth in a line where both ends curved upward on her maw, a miniature croon emitting from somewhere within her throat as she passed by pockets of flora and insect sanctuaries, walking until the buzz of the bees grew faint within her ears and the feeling of dewy fronds against her hackles ceased. 

The lady seemed to have entered something of a glade within the forest - if it could even really be called a glade. Here, the plants were shorter as if trimmed, and of presumably different variety considering the sudden shifts in smell. Melantha's own smell hid well behind the ethereal forms of lavender and hyacinth, but an attentive creature's nose would still be able to pick out the canid's wolf-esque smell from the flowers and wet air.
   Her hum stopped as soon as she was faced with the middle of the glade, where a stump of olden timber origin stood, cut low with flecks that suggested the thick trunk that lay a small length away had had a sorrowful parting with its feet because of a storm. Well, what a perfect little throne this was, yes? Melantha slithered to the top of the stump, her paws gripping the fissured wood. Locks of her fur spilled down from the edges - it was hard to tell she was even sitting on something at all until she properly shifted her weight atop it, revealing bits of paws, legs, and belly. Perhaps - just maybe, there was the small possibility that she'd underestimated the powers that this stumpy bit of wood held. Though she could only imagine the myriad of thick, long roots that linked with the earth below her very feet, it was low and uneven, and sitting atop it certainly wasn't... as majestic nor as pleasant as she'd hoped. 
   Deciding to simply, abandon even trying, Melantha slid from the elevated piece of wood, ethereal like an alluring arachnid even for her debatably larger-than-average figure. 

    Melantha looked about herself in pursuit of what next to do. She was the type of wolfess who always had to be kept entertained - there were no still moments in her life... unless she was to relax under the sun, stretching in a sunbathing patch of grass, warmth licking across her frame. Although she had no problem with doing calmer things such as that, it was too early, and the ground was still wet. The zephyr was fresh - not cold, but not all too warm either - and Melantha had no interest in laying down in the dewy grasses. She knew that the water would cause blades of greenery to cling to her tufts, something which she considered less than desirable. Instead, she assumed a casual walking pace and decided to continue touring the woods for a bit, weaving through the far-apart but thick timbers with ease, simply enjoying the scenery which had been laid out before her.

ooc: intended for @Piper / @Angelus ? idk which account to mention sorry! anyway yes. it's 6:33 am and i haven't slept yet so further responses after sleepy
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Angelus pads through the flowers, her tail swishing low in a disdainful manner. She hates the rain, and she hates the scent of flowers. . .they remind her too much of Dahlia, and Angel doesn't like being reminded of Dahlia. With an annoyed swat of her rain-damp tail at one of the violet blooms, the raven wolf lifts her head high and gives the land a haughty assessment.

Drizzling rain doesn't much change the state of Angel's fur. It's too short to cling, and all the water does is make her appear darker. Deep grey has morphed into near-black, silver has darkened to dove, and the raven-wing patches on her back have become inky. Her missing paw is hidden among the fronds of flowers stretching up all the way to her upper forelegs.

With a shake of her ears, Angel treads deeper into the woods, eventually coming across an open space, where grey light filters through the trees to lend purple flowers a monochrome tint. Raising her brilliant silver eyes from the flowers, she spots a wolf white as snow standing bright against the dull rain-tinted forest colors. Immediately Angel switches her mindset from disinterested and annoyed to intrigued. It's been a while since she'd awoken here, in this strange land, and Angel still can't find a trace of anyone she used to know. No Lidon, no siblings, no more creative vengeance to seek. She's free of her past - free to experiment, and experiment she will.

Angel watches from the edge of the clearing with some amusement as the white wolf appears to check out a broken stump. The stranger doesn't seem pleased with the wood, however, and as they pad away from the trunk, Angel decides to make her presence known. She could simply carry on. . .but that wouldn't be any fun, would it?

Sliding smoothly up beside the white wolf, Angel flicks their flank with the end of her tail. A rakish grin slashing her face, Angel asks with a tone of dry sarcasm,

"What's such a regal princess as you doing prowling these lowly woods?"

A very touch of an English accent colors her words.
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      Like a  lilith, the mistress continued to gently place her eyes over her surroundings, savoring every little image.
As she took in the visuals before her, at the same time, a photographic chronicle was composed within her mind. A perfect illustration of everything she saw, and at any time, she'd be able to recall the exact scene and the littlest of detail in it. It was not even something that she did on purpose - it laid within her nature to 'store' her memories like this, and that was something which she could not quite alter the truth of. Her eyes were wide, what one may describe as doe-like, bubbling with the same innocence as a young fawn - but right now, her pupils were constricting on the forms below, and she wasn't particularly attentive with the way she posed. So when she sniffed out a faint, furry smell under the cover of the dewy pirr, she immediately pulled back every thread of focus and turned her focus toward her flank, despite her body not seeming to move in the slightest. Because of her outstanding finder skills, she'd already detected the presence of the other canid before they'd slipped from the shadows of the trees, and she didn't so much as flinch in surprise when the stranger stood there, directly next to her. Miss Desdemona briefly offered her upper lip a lap, breezing away the cool tang in the air, warming her seemingly multi-toned skin. A lambent glisten formed within her oculars, lightly sparkling every time a bane of light would hit them. Every time this occurred, she nictated in response, so as to not have her eyes water from the sheer force of the light carving into her eyeballs. 
     
She smiled, brows pressed together in what could be referred to as an apologetic look - though that description wouldn't quite match up with the small but present grin that'd carved into her teeth. " Regal princess? " The female uttered before appearing to brush it off with a small giggle - which then bubbled into a slightly curved smirk.
Melantha licked her teeth from the inside, looking about the sky as if she were considering something. " I prefer 'Dez' when it's from your teeth, darling. " The she-wolf uttered, tilting her skull sideways the slightest bit, smiling. 'Dez' was not her name, it was more of a nickname for her surname - or whatever you wanted to call it. 
  She had never been content with letting strangers know her real name and such, so she often found she became a distributor of false information - whether this false information is regarding herself... or larger aspects. Melantha did not seem to mind the other's subtle touch, the flit of shorter, grey fur against her longer, snowy-white flank caused her eyes to flutter into a blink, following the stranger with her eyes, not giving much away other than her apparent smiley disposition. " I'm surprised to hear you don't find the woods enjoyable? " She strayed a small length forward, surpassing the other's stride and only holding onto the stranger's presence with the tip of her tail as she approached some flowers a distance away. Melantha's paw lifted, the back of her wrist gently brushing against the dew-riddled plants as if she were showcasing the dainty prettiness of the flora to the other.

She circled the small clearing partially to the left and ended up standing with her torso pointed against the stranger's side, pointing her eyes into the back of their skull with a small sideways turn of her cranium. " I feel as though they have a lot to offer, " Although it was meant to be one phrase with no continuation, the way she ended the sentence made it sound like something more was coming - something more never came, and she found she was lightly amused by the other's anticipation of words that wouldn't leave her teeth. A few rays of sun whisked through the trees, crowns dripping with small bits of the mizzle, lighting up certain paths in between the trees. Melantha examined each for a brief moment and, then, turned her attention back towards the silvery-gazed canine. Her own eyes were quite... something. Unnatural and selcouth, but somehow, she managed to yield them with just the right amount of friendliness, so her pinky gaze often settled fine enough with those she met. Often.
   But of course, there were those who disliked anything out of the ordinary - such wolves would be just about one of the only types of wolves Melantha couldn't bother to attempt to talk with. She herself was nothing ordinary, a stark white pillar against often darkened backgrounds.
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OOC: blue text represents the other character's words

---

Angel's limp is hardly noticeable beneath the flowers; she moves at a leisurely pace, as if she knows the world is beneath her - as if hustle too is below her. The black wolf is built elegantly, with lean muscles and glossy fur. Her muzzle is gracefully angular, her silver eyes glittering with lazy intelligence. She wears an unconcerned expression, and her thoughts are similarly unworried. She doesn't too much care for interaction, usually, but she's nothing better to do. 

"I prefer 'Dez' when it's from your teeth, darling."

"Whatever you say, princess," Angel allows an indulgent smile to replace her all-teeth grin. Shaking dewy dampness from her short fur, the black wolf follows the white one into a cluster of flowers. Lilac blooms are tinged with the fire of a golden sun, and Angel must admit they would certainly appeal to anyone who liked that sort of thing. She's never been one for flowers, however, and she dismisses the flora with a flick of her ink-tipped ear. Her appreciation for flowers wilted first with the Coventry and then died with Dahlia's death. Despite her dislike for the plants, however, and no matter how hard Angel tries to mask it, a light floral scent of dahlias touches her fur. Like a cruel joke of the gods in which she is the punchline.  

"I'm surprised to hear you don't find the woods enjoyable? [...] I feel as though they have a lot to offer,"

"Yeah? Like what, love?" Lucifer's smooth accent slips easy off her tongue; his accent was one of the things she'd loved best about him, surface-wise, and it hadn't taken her long to pick it up herself. A coquettish eyebrow raise follows her words. Normally the black wolf doesn't partake in such pleasantries as polite conversation, but she's feeling playful - free - today. Angel's head turns as the stranger circles her, silver eyes following the track of vibrant pink ones. The black wolf hardly takes notice of the other's physical presence other than to note the albinism briefly and move on. Such trivial things as appearance have never particularly concerned her, unless they had to do with her late mate.
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Melantha's bimble was cut short upon the arrival into another open albeit wooded arena, where bluebells and lupines fought over which flowers should dominate the earth.
Melantha herself didn't care much for the species of the flora she trod on. She was far from plant-interested, and though the visuals appealed to her, she'd spent her time in canis differently than studying herbs and flowers. She understood how certain types may appeal in the way that they had some form of medicinal purpose, but she didn't quite get the wolves who willingly spent their time learning about plants that were of little use to them anyway. She knew the basics, mostly within poisons, but otherwise, she hadn't been curious enough to study like the ecologists around here.
   When Melantha arrived in Canis, she found she'd suffered from complete memory loss - only instincts there to guide her. Maybe the wolves who were taught herbology or studied it here had awoken with their memories still in paw, so they hadn't needed to spend as much time as Melantha relearning mostly everything. She still hadn't remastered everything she once was skillful in, but she'd been a clever learner with what she had... maybe one day when she'd already drunk all the knowledge she needed, her thirst would bring her to sip from less important matters, too, like the other wolves around here. For now, though, she was much more interested in becoming proficient in her persona. A good charmer, so she'd be able to get what she wanted - even if, at the moment, even she wasn't so sure what exactly that was.

Although she was a wolf who understood and appreciated the pulchritude of her natural surroundings, she never prioritized it. It was more like a nice little side dish.
  The lush landscape, myriads of plants and colours, even drizzled in the generous morning dew, were not enough to make her feel something.
  The gentle pull of songbirds and the lullabies of Canis' avifauna, though certainly delightful to witness, were not enough to make her feel something.
  The taste of mammal blood on her tongue after a successful hunt and the rush of the chase were not enough to make her feel something.
  The beauty of the moonwake or aurora's gentle fingers upon lakes and trees nor moonbows, rainbows, or peaceful drizzles were enough to make her feel something.
Despite this, there was one thing. One little thing which always managed to spark... something within her. A feeling that she'd yet to name or identify, although it certainly was pleasant. She felt something, sometimes, but only when she made others despair... the sweet taste of the despair in those around her.
  It wasn't healthy, and she was aware. She was aware of morals, ethics, and common sense, but she wasn't a follower of their purpose or rules.

Something stirred within the pale woman's belly when this stranger spoke, something she still wasn't able to name or identify. When her flirtatious nature was reciprocated, she just couldn't help it. It was a fun little distraction on her quest for... feelings. The strange, distant concept of feelings. Well, she knew of them, and she knew what they did and were, but her quest was to be able to experience them. She had never felt sad, she had never felt angry, never felt truly happy. Some part of her was willing to squirm in sorrow or tremble with rage if it just meant she'd be able to feel what it was like and what it did to her.
  She'd seen it in others, but that was never quite enough. Though she placed great amusement in witnessing others' despair, fear, enjoyment, or anger, some part of her believed that finally experiencing one of those things herself was her ultimate goal. She didn't understand how easily these emotions or passions came to others or how natural they were. She didn't understand that she was just not meant to be good, but she also didn't want to be good. Just to learn for herself what those outbursts of emotion felt like from one's own perspective. Despite Melantha's wickedness, she had no sad backstory to blame, and no traumatic sorrow to blame her cruelty on. She hadn't been made this way - she'd been born into this lifestyle and would continue leading it for as long as she lived. And when the time came to perish, she wouldn't be sad at the thought of having to go. She'd accept death without hesitance or even a trace of rue.

Melantha stretched her torso out, flexing the muscle along her femininely carved figure for a few moments. Her paws were hidden beneath the flowers, but her claws raked against the earth. " Wouldn't you like to know? " She responded, aiming a small, playful wink in the other's direction. Though her demeanor was appealingly confident, some part of it was also played out in a coy, sheepish manner. It was difficult to explain without witnessing for yourself, but it was alluring.
  " There's something I'd like to know too, doll. Your name... " It was unlikely she'd be using it all too much even if they crossed paths again. She had a tendency to disregard names and to use a wide selection of nicknames and terms instead.
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Quite contrary to the internal conflict of the stranger, Angel is tired of feeling. She's grown tired of love, and the grief that its inevitable faltering brings. She's grown tired of passion, and the wrath which it inspires. And she's grown tired of pride, and all the tragedy which follows it. So Angel has kept her feelings close to her heart, and only in her dreams of golden fur and laughter are they allowed to play. Only surrounded by the scent of seaweed and salt does Angel ever feel at home. 

Here, caged by a myriad of autumn trees, blinded by the near-overwhelming scent of flowers, she only feels hollow. Like something is missing - like someone is missing. Two someones, to be entirely specific. The holes they've left behind gape and tug and stretch and make Angel feel so full of emptiness that she aches.

But she plays her costume well; she always has. From the relaxed lilt of her lips grows a wicked smile, Angel's silver eyes raking over the lithe body of the stranger she's decided to christen Princess. The black wolf's posture suggests utter confidence in herself, her accented voice strong and easy. Her upperclass English tones drop to a playful purr.

"You could call me Angel, princess," Angelus tells the white wolf, leaving her sentence unfinished, her wicked grin quirking into a casual smirk. The black wolf loathes her full name, for reasons buried far behind in her past, "but really, I'm no angel."
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Whereas the stranger had grown tired of the bitter taste the now distanced concept of feeling laced her tongue with, Melantha had never felt it.
  There were sizeable differences between the two souls, for where one had once felt something - scintillas of anger, perhaps sadness, (who was to know?), the other had never felt anything audible. Sure, she may seem to be of the happy sort, but within her heart laid a stygian crypt and little more than that. She also did not yearn for the experience of sentimentality for the sweet warmth others described it to bring. She had no honey-layered dreams or hopes filled with tender flames of desire and want, no ambitions, and no goals to achieve within the span of her life. She knew that it was abnormal, but did little to reverse this apathetic nature. When Melantha won, she did not feel triumph or glee, and when she lost, she was not upset or spiteful.

Melantha pulls the strings that make up her own lax face well, a master puppeteer if you will - and there is a single, important thing, the one reason why she shan't ever tuck away her porcelain mask. That is because: beneath the mask, there is nothing - mere stillness, unbothered by anything. The only things that motivate her are knowledge and blood. This doesn't mean that she doesn't want to at least have a taste of the dream life her peers often describe. A soul who she can call her own and intertwine with her own in a bond of passionate loving... but unfortunately, her ideas of this life differ from the norm, and she is not fit for it as it is now.
   Well, it's not entirely impossible for her to start feeling something... it isn't too late - the moon is still young, after all, and she won't let herself falter before the time is due. She smelled sweet of dew-tainted floralcy as she trod lightly through patches of grass and flora, feeling the moist plant materials tickle the bottoms of her toes.

  The mellifluous tinges of her voice flow consistently when they break free of her teeth, nothing much altering in tone, accent, or pitch between words. Melantha's tongue is drenched in a cocktail of silver and silk, a pleasant, easily flowing song, while not being too excessively sweet or high-pitched as you may expect an ebullient child's to be. It was alluring and appealing to the ears of others, most often. She'd lift a brow, her smile tugging upwards just faintly. Angel. Aha. What a befitting name - she'd heard it perhaps a few times before, but had not encountered many wolves with the name themselves. Everyone was unique, after all.
" I didn't take you for a saint. " The wolfess cooed, her voice playful in a teasing manner. " But if you were, I'd let you redeem me... " She still played out her smirk, now with a newfound tinge of nefarious mischief teasing into her lips as she, once more, performed a crescent-esque half circle around opposing lupus, making sure that their flanks would momentarily, subtly brush. Their scents mingled for but a few seconds before she slid into a stand behind Angel again, waiting short milliseconds for her to turn around to face her again. She elevated a greyed mitt and put it to her chest, tenderly caressing a line against her throat and bust furring. " Albeit I don't think even an utter angel such as yourself would be able to take on such a challenge. " Melantha uttered, smiling sheepishly though knowingly, tasting the air with her tongue for but a second. It was damp, and tiny drops of water still roamed the area. When she'd said the word 'angel', she'd spoken it out with a slight hint of sarcasm.
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Angel had felt true sadness, once, and when it hit her, it had been like a flood breaking down a glass dam inside her head - one she hadn't even known existed, before. It'd been overwhelming and all-encompassing, burning with as fiery a passion as love, throbbing with every beat of her heart. The sadness had welled up upon seeing Lucifer's bloodied golden form laying prone under the beating sun, and then it had spilled from her eyes, and she hadn't understood. And then Lucifer had whispered his last words of love to her, and then the sadness turned to vicious, vengeful anger. 

The anger had lasted Angel a while, but now it's run dry, and the aching feeling of nothing has returned. . .the nothing she knew as a child, the same nothing she had felt when her brother drowned. All at once Angel revels in it, for it doesn't cause her any real pain, and she reviles it, for all the love it's deprived her of. But the nothing has defined most of her existence, and so she will live with it. It's the only lasting friend she's ever had, after all. 

Angel lowers her lashes, allowing the other female to move her body and limbs. It's funny, she thinks, the non-contrast between her first encounter with Lucifer and this moment with Princess. They're strangely similar in the most different of ways, and Angel, for the moment, allows herself to pretend. Dez's voice is melodic but accentless, smooth but not overly girlish, and that is something the black wolf enjoys. She's only ever dabbled in girls once, with Fallow, and that relationship lasted as long as her brother's life. Which is to say, not long. 

Dez's words and actions bring out Angel's more playful side, and she leans slightly, flirtatiously, into the white wolf's touch. Pressing just a bit closer, her black fur brushing Dez's white locks, creating a mix of contrasting colors between them.

"That so, love? Well, I'll have you know. . ." teasingly, Angelus touches her lips to the shell of Dez's ear, her whisper brushing the other's downy fur, ". . .this particular angel is always up for a challenge."
 
Ending her words with a playful snap of her teeth that just barely brushes against the edge of Dez's ear-tip, Angel pulls back into the white wolf's full vision, a small, coy smile gracing her features.
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    The light, powdery drizzle seemed to slow and cease completely during a short period of five seconds or so.
The air had tripped over itself, and the damp contents of the atmosphere quickly molded into a warmth — not a benignant warmth, but not a strong one either. 
A small hint of heat welled from the patch where the two wolfesses stood, and it spread quickly — gripping around them and shackling them to their seats or stands as if they were small, glowing iron chains, gently pulling on both Melantha's and Angelus' wrists and ankles. It made the air feel just a bit heavier, and it made the pull of gravity seem the slightest bit heavier too. As if moving became just a tad bit more difficult.
  But not so much for Melantha herself. She was used to this sort of feeling if it could be called a feeling at all. It was more of a sensation, a small wave of heat that rippled throughout her muscles, elevating the, perhaps, greedy part of her — the one that didn't really care about the way time passed or the time she was wasting away when she was socializing. It just wanted to be fed the sweet, sweet enjoyment of those closely physical, tender moments she may share with others. She enjoyed it when she was able to engage in physical contact, for one reason or another. Brushing flanks, nipping, it really didn't matter.
  She had a tendency to crave even the slightest physical touch, and no matter what it was, it would typically entice her. 
She was a fan of those things, little as these moments usually were considering her other tendency — the one to disappear without a trace without telling a soul.

She remembered little from her time before Canis. Only recently had the tiniest traces of memories started to come back to her, and they were minimal... but she, she didn't think that she used to share any form of touch with anyone in her previous life. Perhaps that was why she craved it so much now. It was one of the only things that could distract her even if she had something she wanted to do. She wasn't opposed to being a little flirtatious or displaying a little extra sensuality if it meant she'd be able to mingle breaths with one of the resident dames around here, and she was also completely shameless about this. There was no harm done, after all.
  At least, not unless said wolves would feel sad once she left — which she typically did, once she got bored of her current playthings... her little lovers.
Melantha's eyelashes balanced just over her oculars, lowered a tiny length down her face. The slightly darker greys in her eyelids showed, creating a comely addition to the soft but refined features of her countenance. She'd peer down upon the dark-furred foreigner, observing. Compared to Angel, Melantha was a bit taller, and noticeably larger when it came to the mass of her fur. She was also built a bit more athletically than the corvid-dark counterpart, albeit a delightful shaping still parted her figure from the (usually) slightly more 'barbaric' or 'stocky' build of males of their species. 

Unlike her corvid-dark counterpart, Melantha was also an experienced wolfess when it came to relationships, especially those with fellow women. Whether the definition of those relationships was flirts or more established things, one thing was for sure — She had been through a lot of them, and they typically did not end happily for the other part. Melantha had no trouble interacting with several women at once, especially when it came to playing around verbally. In fact, she found that monogamy, although she'd tried, had never really worked out for her. Not to say she wouldn't settle with a single partner — she'd simply yet to find anyone who could keep up with her. And for a reason. The other she-wolf's gestures triggered a bit of a boil to settle within her gut — a light feeling of the same aforementioned covetousness. In this case, what she desired was, quite simply, just a little bit more of that warm, wolven touch. 
   She was certainly no stranger to gestures such as the ones played out by Angel, and she enjoyed them, but it did create a bit of a problem. While she was no greedy beast who lost all wit when faced with something she wanted, she was a possessive woman and always had been. " Really?... well, " She prompted, cutting herself off so that she could take a few steps forward, in turn gently pressing the other closer to a large pack of thorny blackberry bushes that stood behind them. A single front foot had been placed between the other's front mitts, so that she may too lean her upper body forward to whisper into their ear. The small scar that crossed her lip loomed mere millimeters from their auricle. " It sounds like that particular angel hasn't met this particular deviant. " She snuck a brief 'kiss' to Angel's temple before retrieving her upper body, though her paws remained where they stood. She took another step forward, moving Angel a step backward as well in the process. Now, the thorned vines of the brambles behind her pricked at the grey one's ankle and haunches ever so lightly. 

Melantha's facial expression had remained unchanged for the most part. Her smile, or perhaps her light smirk, was innocent and pleasant, her eyes sparkling like any wolf's under the slight rays of light that reflected upon them. Unexpectedly, she moved one step forward again. Some of the gorse vines simply found their way around the dark-coloured wolf, while some pricked another slight length into her fur still. Because of the slight difference in the height of the two canines, Melantha found she could easily aim a goading nip at the other, located on the side of the neck at the portion of fur just below their cheek. She had to deliver payback after all. And, well, she was also testing the grey wolf in a way. Melantha's light nip was calculated and did not hurt or tug on the fur. It was alike to those that puppies would play-fight with, though slightly different. She was no puppy after all.
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Morning drizzle fades out, and a warmth descends, but Angel hardly notices, enraptured as she is by this moment. It's a habit developed over long years of wariness that she's sure to keep all her concentration on whichever other wolves she meets. During her life, she's played the part of villain, and the part of trickster, and the part of falsified hero. All she's learned is that wolves are not to be trusted. . .but that doesn't mean she can't have some fun with them.

The snow-white wolf's actions ignite some spark within Angel - some little thrill of pleasure. This game reminds her of all she once did with Lucifer, who was quite as creative as herself. The black wolf, with a knowing, cocky grin, is all too happy to reciprocate Dez's actions.

Thorns prick pleasantly into the black wolf's fur as the Princess pushes her back, Angel allowing the motion because, while she does prefer to be in control most of the time, she enjoys a bit of power-play on occasion. The black wolf waits till she's backed against the thorns, the other wolf's voice floating into her ears, to decide on her retaliation.

 "Really? . . .Well, [...] it sounds like that particular angel hasn't met this particular deviant."

And it sounds to Angelus that this particular deviant hasn't met this particular angel. Uncowed by the white wolf's advances, Angel narrows her silver eyes to sly slits. The raven wolf briefly raises one forepaw to lightly tap the white wolf's nose, then takes two small steps forward, crowding into Dez's space. Angel raises her head, brushing the side of her cheek against the side of Dez's face (much like a cat caressing an outstretched hand, or perhaps the edge of a box). She continues the motion all the way down the white wolf's neck, taking a couple steps out of the thorns as she moves gracefully to Dez's side. She finishes with a soft love-bite to the very ridge of Dez's spine under her fluff, tapping the bone ever so gently. These same teeth she's playing with now have snapped bone, have killed, Angel thinks absently. These same teeth once killed her sister.

The black wolf now stands pressed against the right side of Dez, her midsection by Dez's shoulder, her neck draped leisurely over Dez's fluffy back. The black wolf's tail curls itself over Dez's chest (as though it were a barrier, pressing so gently over the Princess' breastbone).

"This angel played checkers with the devil himself, love," Angel breathes softly, the wind of her words brushing over the top of Dez's back, "you'd be hard pressed to find another. . .sinner. . ." at this last word, Angel lilts her voice up, her tone the equivalent of a vocal smirk, ". . .such as I."
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     A moment of slight temperature increase ensues once more, only adding to the tense — but not nervous or uneasy — atmosphere that ties the two presences.
The morning sun reaches through the canopies and delivers a tender lick to Melantha's spine, albeit she barely notices. She is not occupied with the weather right now — no, her attention is focused on something else entirely. Within her eyes, something mischievous churns, although nothing to suggest that the moment and the actions shared mean anything more than what they seem to. After all, it seems neither is the type to pursue relations as such. One because of issues with settling, the other because of poor past experiences, presumably. She doesn't seem to worry about whether or not the thorns behind the slightly smaller dame are hurting her or not, for she raises not a brow to question, and doesn't spill a sigh of hesitation. Merely pushes forward in baby steps. One, then two, watching the grip of thorned branches constrict slightly on the other's skin, but mostly fur. Melantha doesn't trust the stranger, and she doesn't assume that she trusts her either, but she is well-equipped to enjoy the life of a sly trickster. 
  She may not stick around long enough to develop what others usually do — mutual signs of respect, trust, and friendship (all of those silly little concepts) — but she has enough time on her paws to enjoy what she can get out of those who she encounters on her way. She is well-versed both when it comes to playing the role of the escort — she who is capable of and willing to extend an extra paw of sensuality and charm in order to please others (or to get what she wants from them) — as well as the role of the trickster — she who can be charming, but takes what she wishes and abandons her peers in the process. 

In this case? Who's to say what role she is playing? She plays her mask and her character well in any scenario, thus, it is quite impossible to tell whether she is being genuine or whether she's simply messing around so she may have a little fun. That being said, the latter scenario is the more common counterpart compared to the first-mentioned possibility. The mannerisms of this sly individual remind her of a few dames of her past, similar in behavior. She'd met all sorts of wolves, after all, even during her limited time in Canis. She is no stranger to dispositions like these, and doesn't appear fazed by Angel's gestures — though, of course, she still plays along, in the most elegant of ways. Not some callous wolf who could turn down an offer to have a little fun. Though Melantha's priorities had been arranged in copacetic order within her brain log and having fun was not exactly one of the most important things in life, she looked at it as a little... side bonus.
   When she had time and few other purposes, why not play around a little with the local wolves? The woman saw nothing wrong in it however saddened it might leave the other women in question if she did end up leaving them behind for other playthings or lands.

The pale, snowy-tinted woman released a small growl from her teeth, though the way it rolled from her throat reminded somewhat of a purr if canines could produce a such sound. She smiled as she did this, too, so it wasn't too intimidating... and it wasn't meant to be scary, either. Merely a little assertive. Melantha did not mind being the little one, but right now, she was feeling like being just a little more possessive than usual. She barely flinches in surprise or similar feeling when the dark grey fae approaches her just as she'd approached her before. There were no thorns for Melantha to be backed up into, though, and she allowed for free movement to slide back a few steps, barely reacting at the start of Angel's almost feline-esque cheek rub, although, as it grows (or, well, sinks) to the side of her nape, she does release a small, almost sinister giggle. Light in nature and something you might use as 'a polite expression of amusement', it ephemerally flees from her lips before seemingly disappearing as quickly as it'd come. It wasn't because it tickled, no, nothing like that — in fact, Melantha may be the least ticklish wolf you'd ever meet. So why did she chuckle? Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? There is no particular reason anywho, and if you asked, all you'd receive was a lie.
   Through the thick, dense texture of the fur that grew along her cervical regions, she still managed to feel the subtle nip of pearly whites tucking at her spine.
She didn't say anything this time, and no more amused, quiet giggles dribbled from her teeth. She smiled, but she'd been smiling the entire time. Still, somehow, it seemed like she was enjoying the little moment in whatever way.

   Another time as the much darker wolfess seems to tuck her frame over and against her own, she simply stands still, and perhaps even embraces the sensation a bit. She tilts her head to the left, albeit lightly, when Angel speaks, her face suggesting that she is either once more or still entertained. Melantha considers her words for a few seconds, playing them over. With the grey wolf's neck and chin resting atop her back for support, she quite effortlessly slides out from the touch and turns her torso to the side in a split-second motion, landing the other on her back in the soft, blue undergrowth of flora. She elevated her paw and pressed it to their chest at first, drawing a straight-esque line in the direction of their chin, though she stopped her mitt in the pit of Angel's throat for just a few seconds longer, lightly putting on pressure, before relieving and almost lifting her chin with the tip of her paw. 
  As if assessing a sculpture, she lightly guided her head first to the left, then to right, all with the paw under her chin. Seemingly satisfied, she keeps her paw there for a few seconds longer yet. " This deviant devours the daughters of death. " She ominously cooed, her voice oddly serious compared to before. Still, it held the same key notes of sugar and silver. Something within her stance suggested that she was being serious, although her remarks may come off as too puzzling to comprehend. 
  "You know... I haven't had breakfast yet. And you're quite, " Melantha lowered her head to Angels and placed a nip at the same spot as before: the side of the throat, just below the cheek. " Flavorous. " She bit them again, albeit on the other side of their jugular this time, and more serious than before.

  Her tone had turned audibly cooler as if she really meant what she was saying. Of course, she was simply teasing: this was all a game to her, albeit an entertaining one. Right now, she'd assumed the position of the dame in charge, but that could change at any moment. Oddly enough, her face was still as friendly and soft as it'd been just before they'd met. She was able to pull it off naturally as well... it seemed genuine. She felt as if Angel was not a stranger of death, so she didn't mind slipping a few more... sinister wordings at her.
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Just as suddenly as the temperature increases, the drizzle returns, casting the land in a silvery-gray haze of foggy rain. Purple flowers sway lightly in a sudden breeze, their stems knocking against the flanks of the two wolves. Their black and white mix of colors and feminine figures against a sea of violet is a striking sight. . .two young goddesses, coiled like passive cobras amongst the autumn-tinged scent of wildflowers.

Angel lets her muscles go lax and languid as the white wolf pins her down. The moment gives her a flashback: a different lover, a different time. While Angel may not have been in terribly many relationships, that is not to say she isn't experienced. She stays with wolves as long as she isn't bored of them - as long as they maintain her interest. Fallow had been weak-willed and ultimately flawed. Her next lover, a courtesan she had manipulated for a political throne, had been the textbook definition of "knight in shining armor". She had slain him, of course, as any tricky dragon would. Then a rotating cast of wolves she had despaired to be amused by, and finally Lucifer. The golden devil who had stolen away her love, who had kept her on her toes, who she had adored with every fibre of her being. Their mutual love had been the thing of legends, and now that he's dead, Angel is thoroughly convinced that she will never find someone quite so effulgent as he. 

The white wolf presses a paw to Angel's throat, moves the black wolf's body as if Angel is not more than a common object. Angelus has no objection, giving a dainty flick of her ear, allowing the white wolf to do as she pleases. . .for now. The cobra in Angel coils tight, fangs hidden beneath gilded scales.

"This deviant devours the daughters of death."

Angel gives a soft laugh, portraying charmed amusement, as though the other had made a remark upon the weather. Ominous, prose-like statements are nothing new to her, and she understands fully the meaning. Once, during her war (and really, it was her war, all her soldiers merely fodder for her amusement) she had come across a wolf who enjoyed waxing philosophical. The wolf had intrigued Angel, and they had become the most contrasting of allies. One the queen of a doomed pack, one a travelling scribe. 

"You know, I haven't had breakfast yet. And you're quite. . .flavorous."

The white wolf nips at Angel's neck, and the black wolf closes her eyes slowly, deliberately. Enjoying the feel of ivory canines on her skin. Meanwhile her hind paw snakes beneath Dez's belly. Suddenly, viper-fast, she strikes, kicking light and fast to knock out the white wolf's knees. Angel uses the moment of unbalance to roll them over, switching their positions so she now stands over the fluffy white wolf, her forelegs braced around the other's neck. All in play, of course, and all her movements carefully calculated, controlled with a masterful grace. 

"The daughters of death once bowed," Angel's tone is sultry, her English accent smooth as honey over bread. She leans her muzzle down to softly nip the Princess' nose, and then withdraws, a playful glint to her sharp silver eyes, "before my name."

Drawing one paw across Dez's throat, her short canine claws tracing the skin ever so lightly, 

"If I'm the main course, you must be the spice, Princess," the raven wolf adds, finishing the track of her paw and leaning down once more to brush the end of her muzzle against Dez's ear in a teasing mockery of a kiss.
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It was as if the two wolfesses, each equally as guilty of it as the other, had forgotten of the picturesque woods they lay within, and their ears no longer responded to the siren song of the flora.
It was a truth that they had been distracted. The two of them, individually, had each been inspecting their surroundings in observing gawks no less than twenty minutes ago, but they were now enthralled by the warmth of the other's breath making contact with their fluff. Where dew riddled across locks of petal and grass, they bothered not to be careful as they played. Both were wetted up the ankles and wrists, and Angelus herself must've tasted the earth through her spine. Melantha could imagine that detached petals plastered to the corvid-dark dame's back in the wet patches the dew had created. Some petals could easily have a sorrowful parting from their stalks if merely agitated by the lightest touch, after all. Or whatever Melantha perceived as 'light' in times of play, anyway. Her intentionally coy simper still flashed its slight whites in the most innocent of ways, albeit a slightly wolfish twinkle had been planted within her optics. The positions of the two canines made Melantha think of other lovers where similar pieces had been played out in the past. One wolf, in particular, came to mind. She was gilded with drops of sweet honey fur and had a face completed by a pair of amberly eyes, so not quite the same as Angel here... she carried the most delightful accent and tongue, and she was no brute. Melantha knew of many barbaric, callous types. But that wolf... she'd known how to play along, in the most elegant of ways, and she'd practically let the pale wolf do whatever she pleased.
   Ah, yes... she'd been a fun one. She'd been one of Melantha's favorite toys, but who wasn't? They were all her favorite little playthings... until they broke. And in the golden she-wolf's case, it was her heart that broke when she learned her divine flirt wished nothing more than their occasional 'playtime' (as they called their meetings) to satisfy the boredom that often crossed her. She'd enjoyed knowing the flax-and-gold wolfess, and the taste of her fur and skin beneath the tease of light teeth... But when she found her dead, the feeling of her flesh was just oh so much greater. Somehow, it was better than those hoofed beasts and long-eared rodents. Sickly sweet and wrong on her tongue, but still, she just couldn't help it. Besides, she had to eat, right?

   Melantha barely heard the other wolf's accented utters as she lightly traced the edge of her own lip in remembrance. The saccharine smell of decaying, wolf-esque morsel, and then the taste of it lightly crossing her tongue. When she first tried it, she didn't know why. She didn't know why she felt the urge to, but once she gave in - this was during just another winter famine and she was quite hungry - she was rewarded greatly for her actions, sinister as they may be. She understood the crows, for once.
While the woman's thoughts tied up into a knot of the taste, she'd forgotten to pay attention to what lay beneath her. That changed when Angel made a move she'd partially predicted, though still greeted with a breath of surprise. Melantha was taller and heavier than her dark-painted counterpart, but she let it happen. She didn't mind it as her fur brushed against the flowers below, or when she spoke in that deliberate, tempting fashion. Her own words, too, were touched by a light accent, though it was of unknown origin. At this point, she didn't really remember. She did know a plethora of different tongues, the rewards for her interest in learning how to communicate with as many as possible strangers. She wondered if Angel, too, knew any foreign languages.

She doesn't slip many reactions to Angel's words at first, if but a mere cock of her brow as if daring her to elaborate. She didn't request any explanation, though, because quite frankly, she neither needed nor cared for one. Her auricle would come to a light twitch upon the sensation, a thin wave of warmth ebbing through the streams of blood in her ears. She smiled as if scheming something, yet gave nothing away. " Main course? Oh, doll, " Melantha paused, testing the touch of the other's paw for a second.
  " Je voulais dire dessert. " — " I meant dessert. " At those words, which dribbled in some form of foreign tongue, the woman turned her muzzle toward Angel's paw and then flattened one side of her skull to the side. Her jaws gripped around the dark wrist with little warning, the edge of her teeth pressing against the skin beneath the grey layer of fur. She wasn't using too much force, although, to some, it may be just a tad bit too much. The tip of Melantha's tongue brushed against the underside of their leg, just until she pulled back her teeth and licked her whiskers as if to taste them. " Maybe I was mistaken. You are a bit spicy... " 
   Her pinnae reeled back a slight bit, and her tail was tucked close to her body. She lifted her front legs through the small gap between Angel's so she could hold her own greyed paws close to her head, as if holding them up submissively. " I'm too sweet to be the seasoning. " 
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OOC: the French in this post is hoverable! just click! it has a case of the purples is all. also other wolves mentioned are not my characters!

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Angel's rain-kissed fur is indeed littered with flower petals and bits of bright green leaf, each a stark contrast to her short dark fur. But she doesn't notice. . .neither cares about their environment enough to notice, it seems. The sky grows darker, and then lighter, and the rain fades out and then comes back. The sky can't quite seem to decide whether it wants to rain or not. 

The other wolf reminds Angel, in passing, of another white cannibal she'd once known - two, in fact, and she'd known them only long enough to revile the taste of wolf. It had never appealed to her, not before she'd tried it and not after. Too dry and tough. Too fleshy, too sweet.  However, she found the sapphic cannibal pair to be interesting enough, and while she didn't share their taste, she was keen enough to play with them, even if only for a month or so. 

No, wolf meat was not something that interested Angel. The taste of blood, though, had never ceased to attract her: scarlet and smooth as wine, sweet and salty all at once on her tongue. It had been an allure of the kill, a taste incomparable to the simple red bleed of prey. And especially had she enjoyed the taste of Lucifer's blood - somehow the sweet crimson champagne of a lover tasted so much better than the torrid swill of an enemy. That flavor had soured on her tongue when she'd found his body, though, laying furless and empty-eyed, prone on a stretch of black road. His golden-and-mud fur, which Lidon and Bloodmoon had draped over her like a cloak, had covered her in his scarlet. And blood would never taste the same. Not necessarily in a bad way, but. . .darker, somehow. 

Angel's silver eyes are intense and playful all at the same time, her expression unreadable. It's quite impossible to tell whether she's taking this interaction seriously or not, exterior-wise, and the tell of her muscles is neither tense nor languid, revealing no tension. The black wolf pays attention to the white wolf's facial poise, though she doesn't trust the revelations of Dez's expressions. 

"Main course? Oh, doll [...] Je voulais dire dessert."

The white wolf grasps Angel's paw in her jaws, and Angel's head tilts to the side ever so slightly, as if she's about to ask a question. She's thrown back in time once again - to a faraway beach under a distant sky, sun-warmed white sand beneath her coat and a heap of golden fur to her side. Lucifer had done the same thing, once, to that very same paw, and the memory makes her silver eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. She doesn't say anything about it, though, merely twitches her ear-tips and focuses on the French words of the stranger.  

"Maybe I was mistaken. You are a bit spicy [...] I'm too sweet to be the seasoning."

In another land, she had met a loner, and for a short afternoon, they could have been called friends. The loner was named Cordelia, and Cordelia had taught her a few words in this language. . .enough that she could hold a decent conversation, though she prefers the common tongue, merely because she likes her English accent better than her French one.

 "Dis m'en plus, Princesse,"  — "Do tell me more, Princess," the black wolf's French accent is as smooth and impeccable as her English one, and she switches between the two with a practiced ease, even if she's only had cause to speak French a few times. She has always been good at picking up languages. Angel leaves her previous words unexplained. Let the white wolf wonder.

When said white wolf raises her forepaws, Angel lifts her own forepaws briefly to cover Dez's, pinning the white wolf's pads with her own. She leans her head down, then, to press the end of her muzzle against the throbbing artery pumping along the Princess' neck, giving it a short, sharp nip. Mirroring the other's firmness - skating right on the edge of playful. Angelus does enjoy living on the edge.
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The killer mistress's eyes flicker lambently under the light shroud of the forenoon sun, focused on nothing but the corvid before them.
Beneath the light shroud of her eyelashes, the snow-white wolfess allowed her pupils to slink around Angel's frame, delicately mapping out each section of short, iron-grey furring and scarred skin. She first now took notice of the apparent shortage of flesh over one of the grey dame's hind legs, as if shaved off by sharp ivory teeth. How unfortunate, hm? She pondered the backstory for a few moments. Angel seemed to be riddled with a variety of mended wounds across her body, while Melantha herself, who had been subject to more encounters than a dozen wolves could count to, had not a single scar across her body that was visible. At least, not other than the small mark that crossed her lip - but even that was no doing of a wolf. Morpho lepidopterans & Adonis Blues swiveled around the clearing, nestling within charming sockets of flora and the sylvan shadows cast overhead. They were dainty and ephemeral, signifying the woodland's light, whimsical nature. It was much different from the smells of sinister desire and malicious recallings emitted from the two wolves as they exchanged nips and scents as well as messages coded within charming words, that truthfully held values some wouldn't be able to handle. Melantha's pupils swelled in thought at the other's presence, though nothing unusual. As soon as she'd gotten what she wanted, whatever that may be, she was likely to leave this wolf without second thought. She enjoyed the moments of playing that they traded, but nothing more. She wasn't known to see others for who they were, but more so for what their figures and words held. That was, at least, on first impressions, and not to say she was incapable of enjoying the personas of her wolven peers. Merely that she cared not to learn of them.

  A thought struck the white woman's mind, and whatever it was, it seemed that it enticed her. All of that thought of previous encounters with the taste of same-species individuals stirred something over her tongue, making that something dance in small motions. She licked the insides of her cheeks at the thought, and, perhaps hungrily, eyed the wolf situated atop her own frame. The dark stranger was both shorter and lighter than Melantha herself, not to mention that the mass of the white one's fur greatly outdid the other's, making her appear even larger in comparison than she already was. She was aware that, had she wanted to, she most probably would be able to sweep Angel from her mitts and press her into the earth again. In fact, she was sure that, even if she wished to, she could overwhelm her more than just in terms of this little ordeal they'd going on right now. Melantha's belly growled lowly, almost unnoticeably (if you weren't her and could feel it, of course), but it did. She licked her canines in a single tender swipe of her tongue. The taste of wolfish blood trickled across the innards of her mouth, albeit only in her imagination, for there was nothing but the natural saliva of any creature within her jaws, yet. Elegantly pulled peace riddles her face and nothing more, if not the wolfish simper within each light pink ocular. Her tail had unwinded from her body again, slowly swinging left and right, to and fro, as if she were happy. She wasn't exactly 'happy', though, but more appropriately worded, entertained, and pleased by the situation. She was somewhat delighted to learn that this grey-hued specimen could speak French - or at least, some of it - as well, for this lent the opportunity for communication of... other sorts. She'd always reveled in foreign tongues, be it French, Russian, or something third, believing all to be more unique ways to interact. Besides, depending on what you were attempting to convey or deliver within your words, you may find that a different language aids better in that subject. Melantha's own tongue was coated in a silvery accent, although to describe it properly or assign it a specific language would be the equivalent of a sentence of death. It was simply impossible. The only describable thing of it was its elegant manner and sweet tinge, though some of those traits also contributed to the natural pitch and way of her voice, so that didn't give much away. 

  The dame tasted her lip for a second, considering the other. " Non, je vais te montrer " — " No, I'll show you. " She spoke, slightly mysteriously, though all would soon be revealed. You see, Melantha was a serious wolf, and right now, her stomach ached... for the gentle taste of iron. If Angelus recoiled or grew hostile because she harmed her, then so be it. It wasn't as if she really cared, anyway... this was her motive, to feed herself, with the delicacy that she desired, small as it may be. Although, before she could do anything, Angel did -- aiming a bite for her pristine white jugular, fangs encasing the blood pumpers within. She released a small chuff from her nostrils, letting the motion happen until it left her neck. Albeit she felt that it was stronger in nature than the previous nips, her insensitivity to such things - pain - caused her to remain somewhat unfazed, if not hungrier. Literally. She lifted her head, balancing Angel's paws over her own - if the grey wolf moved now, she would fall - and encased the tufts on the side of her neck. She tugged, lightly, to pull their head lower down, and then, a real bite settled for the edge of their collarbone. Strong - not quite a large harmer, but strong enough to draw a thin trickle of blood, and to puncture the skin.
   The wicked woman chuckled lightly, reveling in the taste for short moments. She didn't let go, merely held on, still tapping.
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The black wolf's many scars are a testament to her power--or at least, that's how Angel thinks of them. In her short life she's led a war, worked as a private assassin, fought countless battles and won a good percentage. Many of the scars come from wounds repeatedly opened. . .during the war of Terra, a target had practically been painted onto her back. When she remembers the war, she remembers living in a state of constant awareness. Always wary of attack, especially before Lucifer's death. Afterwards, she had been less concerned about herself and more concerned for Rio, her adopted protege. 

While many of her scars were unable to be prevented, her missing limb was deliberate. The paw had been mauled beyond healing by her own siblings, and while it was attached to her body, it had been a cause of unbearable pain. Lucifer had taken one look at it and demanded a healer ally of theirs remove the limb, to save Angel the pain. 

Around the two females, rustling flowers beat out a forest melody--trees, crashing cymbals; drizzling rain, a metronome; singing birds, windpipes; the pulse of nature itself a bass line. Shadows dance to the tune, their expertly choreographed routine so sporadic it seems to be random. But the spotlight does not focus on the shadows, nor the band; no, the spotlight is on the two exceptionally dangerous creatures who waltz to their very own tune. 

Beneath Angel, the white wolf shifts, and Angel's balance suddenly relies on the forepaws beneath her own. It's thrilling, this kind of trust-but-not-trust, this sensual, anonymous dance. It makes her feel. . .something other than grief, or anger, and for that Angel is content. But beyond the moment, she is not attached to what will happen, nor is she particularly attached to this wolf. Not yet; love lies dormant within her, as does any sense of looking forward to the future.

Angel's quite well aware that the wolf beneath her could easily flip their positions, could easily pin Angel to the ground. Could even make a good scrape, but the black wolf relies not on strength to win her battles. If she weren't so wily as to adjust to the confines of her physical limitations, she would be long dead. 

"Non, je vais te montrer."

Translations and context clues run quickly through the black wolf's mind, and she's able to garner the meaning of the words in due time. Cocking her eyebrow in interest, she allows the white wolf to manipulate her head. She has some idea what will come next. 

Sure enough, a vampire-bat bite is placed to Angel's collarbone, the white wolf pulling blood from the trickling vein as if she's a bat herself. The pain is no shock, no surprise, and the black wolf finds herself relishing it--a little exploding sun of physical thrill. It seems the very forest itself applauds.

"Jeu dangeroux, Princesse, — "Dangerous game, Princess,"" Angel purrs, her British accent lending a unique twist to the French words, the soft fur of her muzzle brushing the shell of Dez's ear. 

The black wolf traces her sharp canines along the top of Dez's head, between the white wolf's ears. She presses firm enough to bruise in some places, brushes a caress against others. And at the pinnacle of Dez's skull, the very center between those snowy ears, Angel bites sharp and swift, similar as Dez did to her. She laps once at the wound, but the location means it doesn't bleed much. Still, the black wolf draws her head slightly back, watching a trickle of scarlet seep into paper-blank fur.

She keeps her collarbone deliberately within Dez's reach.
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If this angel was searching for someone to refill the goblets of love within her heart, she'd find this deviant was one to do the exact opposite.
Although, Melantha had a feeling that the other was just as superficial when it came to this as herself. She had no interest in anything permanent or long-term, and, in fact, this may even be the first and last meeting exchanged by the two souls. One bound by wanderlust was unlikely to stay among the sun-dappled trees of the aptly named Lapis Nestle for too long, as her thirst drew her ever closer to the boundaries of foreign wolves and packs, always out to discover something new. Especially new playthings, as each specimen grew more and more desirable and suitable for her needs or wants, as if the higher powers, whoever they may be, were growing more and more proficient in the trade of creating and molding such wolves especially for her to come and ... talk to. Melantha views the scars that litter Angelus' bodice as riddles holding the mystery of origin but also the proof of the battles one has fought, albeit she herself, who has fought many battles (even if most were... wicked ambushes.), shows little scarring, and no testament to the history of violence that lays within the chronicle of her past, the past that even she has forgotten. Still, she hasn't been lazy, and that streak of hers has been building up over the few weeks she's been in Canis again, hopeful to one day reach the numbers of the past. Although, that may be a bit impossible, considering her many feasts in the past were sponsored by the followers of The Faith of Desdemona -- the cult in which she was brought up, and came to rule within short days of being alive. Still, she only truly got to taste the impact of power once she grew into a cultured, intelligent dame who was able to put thought into each nefarious action.
  And what was at the root of her inexplicably wicked actions? That many around them today may consider crimes in need of fatal punishment if they were to hear of them. Well, nothing. There was no cause, and no particular reason for her way of acting, and unlike many other villainous, antagonistic personas or characters, she had not a single sad backstory trace to condone her actions, not a single one.

The dim choir of surrounding psithurism & the coo of flowers as they came to a nestle among their own crowns, failed to register properly within the pale woman's ears. The shells of each ovine auricle turned delicately to face upward of the darkened wraith situated over her own body and did not pay much mind to the chorus, regarding it as background noise, although she didn't excuse it as unpleasant. It was merely there, not something to be commented on, not something to be paid attention to when she had something far more appealing right in front of her. Or perhaps, rather, right above her, though that could change in the span of a second if she wished it to. Although Melantha wasn't the type of wolf to utilize a pure base of brute strength, however much she had of it, she certainly did know how to play this into her twisted mechanisms in the most graceful but dangerous of ways, locking her victims into a tense, constricting coil, like a python. Certainly, the dame's lamb-esque appearance did emanate innocence & kindness, and if not that, then calm poise, unbothered by the most perilous of individuals and the most dangerous situations you could possibly imagine.
  Although the eye of an intelligent body-reader, one perhaps used to the art of guile and cunning themselves, may catch onto her deceitful honey, a such creature would still not be able to calculate the truly sinister nature that she held within, all waiting to spill from her maw like the collected poison of a viper's delicate ivory. When Melantha's eye gazed up, directly into Angel's, the glister within them churned with something sinister, albeit she did an exquisite job at playing along the script of harmless fun she'd written out for herself, even if her actions suggested anything but harmlessness. 

  She'd continue to relish within short moments of 'drinking' the beads of crimson that trickled from the puncture wounds lanced into the tainted canine's skin, her fangs adjusting their grip to sever a few more bits of the dermis to allow for more free space so that she may continue enjoying as she wished. She paid no mind to Angelus's words, although they did intrigue her a slight bit. As her canines graced what she felt to be the top of her skull, she released her, partially because she was satisfied with her sips, partially because the small wounds did not leave much for her to sip from in the first place. They quickly dried over, leaving nothing for the leech to feed off of, so she pulled back, and easily slid from below Angelus, almost toppling them over as she removed her supporting paws from their position beneath the other's and slithered a length away, trailing to her left. As she left the dark one's flank, her scent reached for hers like a magnet in one last attempt to tangle, although she finally pulled the two 'perfumes' apart with an abrupt stride, that trailed away, then around, and back, positioned by her side. " Les jeux doivent se terminer par une défaite. " — " Games must end in defeat. " She hovered close, whispering into their ear. Her breath whispered a warm zephyr towards their auricle, tempting, but no small nip was given, despite the anticipation that her breath built up of one. She continued: " La défaite peut être de chaque côté, Doll, " — " Defeat can be on either side, Doll, " Her voice trailed off at the end, leaving an expectation for more utters to fall from her maw. Before they did, Melantha appeared in front of Angelus again, who had gotten up at this point and pressed her back into the familiar brambles of the before with a set of steps taken directly into them. She stepped further this time until the other was almost engulfed by the hungry thorns and the dry, thick branches. " Mais je ne perds jamais. " — " But I never lose. " She pressed a slight bit further, snapping for a brittle bit of air - the air in the last few inches that remained between their two maws. Then, all of a sudden, she recoiled like a viper and trotted a small length away... as if leaving. It was impossible to tell whether or not this was another trick to see how Angel would react, or if she really was intending to leave her in the dust like that after such a moment.
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ooc: angel knows exactly as much French as I do LOL excuse any poor grammar

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As the minutes pass, the brief darkening of the sky begins to lighten, and a golden brilliance spills through the trees. Every dewdrop seems to be aflame, every trace of water on every leaf glows with an effervescent light. Trees mar the course of the blazing light as it shines into the clearing, creating waves of dancing dapples across the ground. It would be a spectacular show if anyone cared to pay attention. Indeed nature seems to be twirling her earthen skirts, showing off--hoping to catch a carefree eye, or hoping to steal the spotlight for herself, perhaps.

Angel's eyes are sharp enough to catch the show, but she pays no mind to it. The environment is unimportant. A snake herself, her complete focus remains on the white wolf--never trusting. If the black wolf were a snake, she would be the tree-viper sort; her scales would be polished and emerald green, her fangs curved and nightshade-poisonous. She would hide effortlessly camouflaged among viridescent leaves and colorful flowers, waiting for someone to go for the rose. Angel has never been one to slowly torture, unless it's a special circumstance.

The black wolf has always taken pride in her identity--that is to say, she's always known exactly who she is. No shifting of her personality has plagued her, no confusion in morality has concerned her. The blood on her teeth is generally consequence of circumstance. Her victims met the wrong wolf at the wrong time, or perhaps the other way around. Certainly no remorse haunts her, no whispers of regret trail on her coattails. 

Quite abruptly the white wolf changes their positions, and Angel finds herself backed neatly against the thorns. Their hooked ends tangle as burrs against her black fur, and she revels in the feeling--any tiny pinprick of pain greatly pleases her. It sends a thrill rattling up her spine, a low fire tracing along her flanks, and so she allows herself to be malleable to the white wolf's advances. However, she does not miss the sinister glitter to Dez's odd pink eyes. Contrary to making Angel more wary, this little bit of potential danger only makes her vaguely curious. What secrets could be contained within fluffy white fur?

The white wolf traces close against Angel's flank, and the corvidesque female closes her eyes briefly and temptingly in response. Strangely, despite the heat of the moments elapsed, the black wolf feels only passing time. There is not a particular spark within her bones, nor is there some blazing fire in her heart. But wickedly good is she at playing her piece.

The Princess' words twine around Angel's ears. Not honeying as her former paramour's, but relatively interesting all the same. Interesting enough to intrigue Angel. It's been a moment since she's been intrigued--a pleasant state of being, she thinks. One that allows for disinterested, anonymous wondering.

"Mais je ne perds jamais," 

French is not a language Angel knew particularly fluently before this moment, but she knows enough to make inferences based off both her known words and the prior context, and it takes not more than half a moment for her to translate. French is a language she enjoys--smooth and pretty and new. Pretty new things attract Angel as they do magpies. Her second language, Russian, had never attracted her in such a manner. Her sister had always had an ear for it, but Angel hadn't enjoyed the rough accent, nor had the long, clunky words slipped easy off her tongue.

The white wolf moves away as she speaks, and while Angel would be indifferent if the other were to leave, so too does she enjoy their presence. It's a break in the endless monotony of existence.

"Le jeu du vie continue pour toujours, Princesse," — The game of life goes on forever, Princess Angel says from her place behind Dez. She makes no attempt to follow the other.  "Mais se ca devait finir, je serais le victor. Non Princesse pourrait depasser un ange."  — But if it were to end, I would be the victor. No Princess could surpass an angel Again that odd mixture of upperclass English and buttery French. With the slightest of smirks, Angel turns her head.

Giving Dez a clear choice: leave, or stay and play the game for however long it is wise for a viper and a constrictor to clash fangs.
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The pale dona is not blind to what lingers outside, for she is a smart one, and she knows to not ignore, but to act as if.
Venom tangles around her fangs, traveling from the roof of her mouth and onto her teeth, beckoning for her to transfer the bane onto the other wolf. She contemplates it, though she knows better than to start an apocalypse. Melantha licks her lips as she pauses briefly, her figure situated amongst the violet-and-blue tainted brush, glorified by the dew of the morning still, though as a sudden shadow forms overhead, she can only watch the glistering droplets fade away into the shade of trees when they stand up against the sun. Cirrus and clouds hum lowly, making their mark across the sky so that they may revel for all to see. Even so, they have little to no effect on the mistress's perception of what lies around her. She is turned from Angel, the rosy-grey streaks on her spine showing themselves to the scarred huntress.
 She'd smile to herself even when there was nobody in front of her to see the curve on her maw, contrary to the belief of those who thought when everyone's back was turned, she revealed her truly apathetic nature and dropped that coy little smirk of hers to replace it with cool nothingness. But no, even when she was alone, she was always smiling - even if just a little bit. The woman was entirely unaffected by the minor exchange of teasing exchanged among the two carnivores, showing little trace of unusual feeling anymore. Despite the death that lingered within her words, she wasn't very threatening - not right now. Ovine, plush furring breezed lightly to the left as the dance of a zephyr blew past, stirred into motion by its mother - mother nature, or whatever you believed in.
Melantha herself wasn't much of a believer, and not because of the way she was raised, but because she found the concepts of religion foolish.
Well, not exactly foolish, but the thought of there being one god who ruled it all sounded incorrect to her. She believed there must be something more, and she wasn't sure what it is, but she wasn't curious enough to find out. No, other things were of more interest to her than that.

Death, for example, greatly interested the lady. She used to be someone who performed less than official autopsies of those who had passed, and quite frankly, wouldn't mind doing it again if she got the chance. She wouldn't be above digging up the corse of someone else's loved one to quench her own thirst for knowledge about the procedure of death. Whenever she strayed through the woods, she would be delighted by the finds of things such as little bones or feathers left behind from the slaying of something, even collecting these items small scale. Her interest wasn't freakish, though, for she was no freak. Just a curious person - that was all.
  Her paws slithered another little length through the grass before once more coming to an untimely pause, though her stride was still reminiscent of a dangerous serpent. She'd be the albinistic morph of a python if she were to transform into a snake, though there was no need. The light sway in her hips and elegance of her gait was already serpentiform enough - she needn't any further elaboration on that part. She was a constrictor - hiding amongst the murky, dark waters of swamps so void-like they could swallow you whole. Her scales were pale and unnatural, but she didn't need to hide for all too long. She would grasp her victim and embrace them into a tight hug, her body coiling around theirs and tightening for every shaky pant from their teeth, attempts to replenish their lungs that would be left unsuccessful each and every time. Her skin would lightly caress theirs, until the last breath they had fled from them. Then, there would be a feast, and she wouldn't go to bed hungry that night. She would be no merciful viperess and take their lifeblood from them with a single dosage of lethal venom, no - she would strangle her victims one by one and relish in the sounds of half-choked gasps growing shallow and shallower until they finally ceased to be.

Lambent rays of sunlight scintillated over her being, illuminating the soft, thin traces of curve along her spine and the ends and beginnings of the fluffy, chiffony tufts along her flanks. They also gave light to the tips of her ears, showing how they flit lightly in response to the words of the dame behind her. She wasn't afraid of turning her back on any viper, for she was immune to their toxin a hundred times over. Perhaps she should try something new, yes? She hadn't grown bored of their game, and she knew that Angel hadn't either, but she didn't want to be overkill. She knew what she could do, and assumed Angel knew of her own abilities, too, but neither knew of the others. Even so, Melantha was very certain that, even if this greyed wolfess was a sinner, she was ten times the sinner she was. Recently, memories of her past have been coming back to her in dreams - little visions, though she is certain that the one who she sees through is herself. Bloodied walls and tainted gardens, with rough stones placed manyfold over covered pits. Red-tainted white paws and a room of death, and the followers plagued by despair, to whom she must spill her advice. Then, truly help them. It was all a blur; all confusing to describe or explain, but she knew she was no saint now, and that she hadn't been a saint before coming here either. 
   " I don't think you know what you're dealing with. " She cooed, cutting off their charmingly french exchange with something more typical once more. Her smile still trickled over her face as she turned around, eying Angel with a look of honesty, though she is rarely as descriptive as she maybe should be. " You claim I'm a princess. " Melantha spoke, returning to the closer proximity of the other wolf. " Perhaps 'cultist' is a better term. " From the way her words played, it was obvious that she was not finished. " Or maybe the goddess of the cultists. " Still not finished, she was now in front of the other once more, and her breath curled in the air in wisps, close to Angel's. She chuckled, lightly, and though it was forced on, it sounded extremely genuine, as if she was really amused. " I was supposed to 'save' them, but, you know, " She met her eye. " I dread being the hero. " Melantha stepped forward again but swerved their formation in a different direction so that a tree was what stood behind Angel instead of hungry packs of briars and their thorns. The wood was moist from the rain, slippery moss growing vertically along its trunk. " My name's Desdemona. The goddess of... everything. " She then revealed, giving sense to her former introduction of 'Dez', though even Desdemona was not her actual name. It was her surname at best - something she retrieved from her memory-giving dreams, but she liked it. It reminded her of something, too. The last of her words was a whisper - a hot breath, and when she spoke it, something in her eyes changed, though you wouldn't be able to place your paw on what exactly. She did nothing else, yet, but a dangerous sense of truth lingered beneath her voice. She wasn't lying.
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Angel flicks her silver eyes briefly over Dez's body, observing the subtle changes in the other's fur and noticing the unchanging expression. Neither does Angel's own expression falter--her lips remain faintly turned up at the corners, her face one of perpetual, impassive amusement. The corvid wolf has some twist of a sinister air about her, some indication of offness, perhaps exacerbated by her dramatic scarring. The stance of her shoulders and leisurely placement of her paws is oddly feline in nature. . .if the black wolf were to choose another animal to embody, she would pick some sort of big cat. Graceful and wily and cunning, cats appeal to Angel, and this appeal shows in her demeanour. When she walks her steps are light and airy, and her tail is expressive but never  quitedoglike. And her silver eyes have some crafty depth to them--a guileful look indicative of someone who knows just how to play the game. And this wicked, worldly game of chess is one Angel has played all her life. 

Right now, however, she focuses not on the greater board but on this single move. This dance with another bishop, for certainly every ordinary wolf dancing on this earthly stage is merely a pawn, and every dangerous one must be a bishop, and every noble one a knight, and every god a king or queen. The black wolf is as religious as she is clean of soul. . .that is to say, she is entirely an atheist. All her early years, spent with the Coventry, she was led to believe that there was some brilliant shining light at the end of the tunnel--some enticing lure for any regular trout to grasp. But a river fish Angel is not, and where all her former packmates had found solace in the idea of an ultimate power, Angel had found only suspicion. Why should life be a tunnel when it could be vibrant meadows, and why should death be a light when it could be a sport?

While the mythics had once drawn her, intrigued, into a search for answers which couldn't exist, Angel no longer feels any desire to discover the grand solution. She seeks only a bit of wicked fun now and again, lives only for the thrill of the chase. It is not the end--not the final breath--which draws her in. It is the hunt, the buildup, the anticipation. She enjoys the prickling of adrenaline in her veins, that dangerous feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff while a summer breeze threatens to push just the wrong amount. And when finally the chase is over and Angel stands successful, blood on her maw and a body at her paws, she starts over again. And again, and again, and countless wolves have fallen to this vicious cycle. 

She never kills, however, without reason, even if that reason is considerably meager. Perhaps her victim had offended her in some manner, or perhaps her victim had long ago messed with Angel's chosen family, or perhaps she simply dislikes the demeanor of the mark. Once she selects them, and then carefully grooms her way into their life, she uses a deceiving sort of fellowship to deduce exactly what sort of death would pain her victim the most. Sometimes it's a simple death for a wolf who would deserve a warrior's farewell, sometimes it's a careful sort of artistry. Not quite torture--no, that's far too blunt a word to describe the flowing creativity which guides Angel's "work". Not quite art--art is serene and graceful, and while dirt can be painted with blood, no amount of grace could repair the ruptured serenity caused by the kill.

There is not quite a word to describe the sport of hunting your own kind. 

Where the sunlight dances over Melantha's light fur, it coagulates over Angel's, highlighting the darkness of her deep gray fur and turning her paler parts silver. The golden light plays only briefly only the two wolves, kissing both with a brief, teasing touch of warmth before being whisked away again by an onset of heavier clouds. Quite unlike most wolves who wake up here, Angel has forgotten no trace of her past. It's all organized quite neatly into the hallways of her mind, compressed and contained and locked away. Not locked away for her own safety, no--locked away simply because the black wolf chooses not to linger on events long lost to the ever-turning hands of the clock. But when she chooses to reminisce, the images behind her eyelids consist of two types of scene: one that could pass for kindness, and one which is colored over red with a shiny satin sheen of blood. Once Angel had a family, and she had reveled in the casual, loving camaraderie which simple life provided--she had been enraptured by the touch of love, and she had been delighted by the taste of happiness. Not a single good thing lasts forever, however, and so neither had this one. And so this brief period of warmth had been sandwiched between the shadow of the near-cultlike Coventry and the betrayal of someone who once she had considered a friend.

". . .but, you know, I dread being the hero. My name's Desdemona. The goddess of. . .everything."

Angel's ears flick to follow their words, her head cocking charmingly to the side as though she's appreciating the words, as though they're speaking about the weather and not exchanging sinister pseudo-flirty bits of subtext. The black wolf can hear all the truth in Dez's tone, can sense a darkness lurking beneath that fluffy white exterior. She has an eye for danger--has a feel for creatures who resemble herself, and this is certainly one of those. 

"I think," Angel begins, returning to her deceptively sweet English accent, "neither of us quite knows just who we're dealing with. But that's part of the fun, isn't it, wicked Princess?" 

Her words match Dez's in their flirtatious nature, but so too does something else lurk beneath. This white wolf clearly thinks quite similarly to Angel, though perhaps nobody could entirely understand the twisted prose that is Angel's mind. Certainly one could dissect her motives and her dreams, could analyze her life as though it were some mouldering old literature, but not even the greatest of literary pathologists would discern the true meaning behind each word. After all, what is life without some mystery? What is the hunt without the drive?

"Not every princess is a hero, and certainly not every angel is a creature of grace. Perhaps you are the one who hands the poisoned apple to a helpless witch, and perhaps," 

Leaving her words on an unfinished note, she slips to the side, between Dez and the thick tree. White Dez is still facing the tree, she comes around behind the white wolf, reversing their positions. Now she stands swathed in the colorful flowers, and Dez stands with her snowy fur vivid against mahogany bark.

"perhaps this angel is really no angel at all, but a demon in disguise." Angel gives her long tail a slow, sensual wave, ending by curling it over her flank to the side. Still her expression is one of passing amusement--still her lips remain pulled into a vague smirk. She's considered Desdemona's full name, and she's decided that she much prefers Princess to be the white wolf's title. 
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   It seems, at once, as if the weather can't quite decide what form to take; shall she be sunny and bright, or return to the gloomy hazes of the rain?
When the two came upon one another and exchanged the first glance, the Nestle was newly-wet, though weaned off the rain of towering clouds. It had shined, then rained and again, it seemed there was a break in the drizzle. Roosted birds sang and then diminished to whispers of leafy shadows, dripping down from the trees behind the back of both wolfesses. As the murky air of flirtatiously dangerous tension between the two slowly prospered in their equally heated breaths, something dark lay upon the woods and folded over them cautiously. Serpentiform, dark winds rolled over the tops of the trees, and the enchanting forest sanctuary turned into a shaded grove. More rain began to fold over the canopies, dewing leaves with sky-sweat and gently prodding at Melantha's ears and the top of her skull. Her smile bred a bewitchingly saccharine malice despite it all, ovine and nice. Melantha's beliefs were a mystery to explain, perhaps akin to the location of Cleopatra's tomb, for she was never quite one to believe in the light of death, nor dwell on the faiths of hell and heaven, nor purgatory. Maybe this was because she was raised to, for herself, be the faith of her subordinates and the fact that she was so for so many years, despite not fully remember all of these times. The goddess of her cultish followers who wholeheartedly believed she was to blame for what prospered in the lands around their hope, until she disappeared, maybe even died; who knew? No immortal being in this world, surely, and who was to tell if she ever had been? Only their words to take for it, although you'd never convince them otherwise, of course.


   The viper briefly looked towards the sky as more downpours settled in, gliding across her spine ever-so-delicately. Greyed masses in the atmosphere and a somberly drab muffle to each vision, each audition, it marked the air murky like a swamp if only the swamp's dirt was airborne. Mostly transparent, she saw through it easily, even if you'd think a swamp would be a single mass of dark browns and blacks, impossible to fathom. The mire of the atmosphere was thinner and lighter, like smoke, but without that bitter, throat-scratching tang. She looked towards Angelus, considering their shared moments in little regards, though silvery teaspoons of entertainment. She wouldn't leave, much less stay, it truly depended solely on her mood, and even that was unstable. Not to say she had fits or outbursts; it was merely impossible to predict her intrinsic feelings, at any given time. She may portray innocently happy, and you may think you sense the calculating woman that lies beneath, but even this is a facade, for she knows some are smart, and some are not. Effectively, she evades even the wise gaze. " I sensed so, " She plainly trilled, her eyes unfazed but naturally wide in response to Angel's claims of herself. She smirked and subtly cocked a single brow, whiskers twitching before she thought it over. Well... she did have someone waiting for her back at home, didn't she? A lovely lady, perhaps like this one, but of the truly 'angel' type, and she was most likely just squirming for her to get back, yes? Well, maybe that was a vague description, and she was squirming for fear that she'd get back. Same principle, no? " Hm-hm, I would love to stay, little wolf, but I think, " She paused, but only for a second, and with no obvious reason as to why. " I need to get going. " She smiled and nodded lightly, eyes giving into a soft blink.
  " When you're a predator, food doesn't wait. " Melantha nimbly slipped into the shadows, her path turning and confusing. It would be impossible to follow her regardless, even with her blatantly terrible 'camouflage'. Not another word was said... she had had a few moments of fun, but really, she couldn't let herself get too carried away. Maybe they'd meet again, maybe not. Whatever of the two, she didn't really seem to mind.
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