[Dirt]

D I R T,

i don't wanna be ignored, oh god
when i'm a gun in a fistfight

actions - “speech” - thoughts

Teeth and bone clacked together, grinding and crunching and giving. Dirt had taken it upon himself to, well. Take apart a corpse, his teeth shearing away at skin and flesh, twisting and pulling and forcing joints to pop and separate, for the skin to cave in between bone and cartilage, to render flesh and tear ligaments. He did this almost obsessively, single-mindedly, as if he was incredibly determined to desecrate this one body, as if there was a purpose to his actions.

There was none, no rhyme or reason, just sheer brutality. A large millipede creeped up one of his front legs, the cockroaches skittering and dislodging some of the filth in his fur. He didn't snarl, barely made a noise beyond a stray pleasured grunt when the body caved beneath him, ribs crunching and collapsing and destroying the precious innards within. It was grotesque, it was cruel, it was disgusting. But to feel flesh squelching under his feet and coagulated blood slowly seeping, to taste decay and filth, to feel the jungle quiver around him, the insects crying out for a feast....

It was breathtaking.

He exuded joy, pride. A dizzy sort of lust, for blood, for bone, for flesh, for the desecration and destruction of something fragile and bare and open and his for the taking.

He felt the body ooze beneath him, greasy and wet and so, so sweet. He salivated copiously, letting it drip and hang from his lips as flies landed on his nose and in his open mouth, still as a corpse as himself, save for laboured panting and a heaving chest.

Dirt lowered his head, stepping off the body's chest, moving to tear the broken ribcage and free the mess within. He heard someone approach, refusing to acknowledge them until they drew closer, his mouth tasting of spit and blood and a delicious sort of victory over the memory of a corpse.

When they came close enough, he would turn, showing her his face, smeared in gore and decaying flesh, a wicked, manic smile spreading.

"Come t' pay respects, missy?"

ooc: @DustyForgotten

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[Miasma]

  Her earliest memory is heat, exhaustion radiating from her body, trapped between the dire wolf puppy fluff and beating sun. She doesn't remember faces, or the colours of their fur, but staring up at her mother's throat, blinded by the light above, as she said to take her son. Miasma had a different name at the time that she no longer remembers, but teary turquoise eyes searched for her mother's and she begged, cried, shrieked, Why don't you love me!?

  Then Crow killed them both, and took Miasma as his own. It's better than any of them deserved.

  You never forget smells, and the scent of death is intertwined with her earliest recollection. She finds Dirt digging at a body and frowns, not because it's uncouth or out of any misplaced sense of morality. She could have made something with those bones, and instead he's shredding it, like a wasteful fucking heathen.

  "Come t' pay respects, missy?"

  There's a dead worm dangling from between his premolars, dripping spit and ichor. "I came to get the bones." She's holding back a pout, and certainly sounds it. He's even more disgusting than her dad-- and that's saying something.

[Dirt]

D I R T,

i don't wanna be ignored, oh god
when i'm a gun in a fistfight

actions - “speech” - thoughts

"I came to get the bones."

Perhaps someone she knew? It mattered not, with his fur full of rotting flesh and slime, with the body desecrated. He looked up at her, with part of the crushed ribcage within his jaws, and tore it away with a sick snap, the corpse lifting and collapsing in a wet, greasy mess at the force of his violence. She wanted the bones? He was only making them easier to collect. Bite sized. Easier to crush and digest, you see.

Still, after that last jerk of his head, he let go, dropping the ribcage, watching the rotting organs spill free, all fetid juices and mush. Delicious.

"Bones, huh?" Dirt pushed the shattered ribcage towards her, the bones only held together by rotting skin and stringy flesh. "Have at it."

Maggots squirmed in his mouth, his saliva rolling out along his tongue, dangling there as he stared at the stranger, his gold eyes expectant. Take it. A gift, from a wolf to the lamb. From an ancient god to a wandering, clueless child. From the snake to Eve.

Dirt didn't wait for her to respond, turning his attention to the swollen belly, something having gone green and sour within, bloated and squirming delightfully. Welcoming.

He was a monster you see, the very worst of them all.

ooc: fdgdfhghdf im so sorry for talking so long!!!!

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[Miasma]

Thanks! I hate it!

  Her nose wrinkles enough a canine peeks from her lips, but if Dirt thinks rot will scare her, he's never been to Oukoku-Kai. Eyes narrowed like turquoise arrowheads, she grabs the sinew by her teeth and drags a pace backwards, stealing the corpse to herself. A gift, sure, but she's never trusted one before. Monsters aren't known for their generosity, and she is well acquainted with evil. Miasma sits in the mud, sharply watching for Dirt to dig in.

  "Where I'm from, that was a form of torture," the dire girl announces, brushing a beetle from her share of the bones. Her father made Ezekiel eat rot-- was that before or after they took his tongue? She saw bodies burned by the tar, and combed it through her heavy fur. "Death Valley, if you were wondering. Yes, the name is accurate."

  Miasma knows monsters well enough; she was adopted by the worst of them. "What hole did you crawl out of, exactly?"

[Dirt]

D I R T,

and he laps up the vice like a wolf in the night
he's the left hand of god on the stage

actions - “speech” - thoughts

Death Valley. How quaint, the beast thinks, feeling the entrails spill over his feet. If tenderly sharing a corpse was torture there, what did it mean HERE.

Dirt turns his head to face the girl. Golden eyes bear down upon her. His words are silky, too soft, too gentle, for a place like this, for a creature intent on desecrating corpses in front of young girls. His gaze was not unkind. Wild, but curious.

"If that is called Death Valley, then what is Alteron...?"

The land was diseased and putrefying. Its foundations eaten away by maggots, its heart shrivelled and dried, its kingdom, ever tumbling. The only sensible life that remained thrived on eating the flesh of those who were still DYING.

He did not think rot would scare her, if Alteron had become her home. All too long ago, did the wolves of this pack become used to it, did that decay become part of them and their blood and their pride.

What he did think, was that her heart was young, and soft, and that it would give like a rosebud between his teeth. He had no desire to prove this.

Instead, he answers her question.

"I was born here. Made here."

He'd made his home in the great corpse of some massive, dead hellion, ensnared within the heart of the jungle. His parents had died long ago, and he'd collected their bones long after the beetles had finished. He' d learned from then, of his own fascination with death and decay. Kept that interest growing with every new rotting toy.

"Y' say Death Valley makes corpses a sort of torture?" He pauses, lapping up his own copious spittle. Snuffling at a maggot on his nose. "Alteron made ME."

Golden eyes lock once more onto the bloated green sack before him, lifting his paw to feel it. Something-SOMETHINGS squirm inside-- out of pain or delight? He cannot wait to find out.-- He watches eagerly, feeling the life beneath his feet,  forcing the creatures within to learn fear, fear of forces beyond their control, fear of the great lonely universe that cares nothing for the deaths of its inhabitants. The fear of life itself, in all its dangers. He can feel his excitement rising, as he begins to apply weight, as he presses his paw down onto the squirming mass. He can almost hear the screams, of the corpse, or the worms, he cannot tell. He doesn't care.

His ears ring, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth, panting grotesquely, saliva dangling. Dripping. He can feel something give under him, the weight of both his indulgence and his claws finally splitting the bloated stomach. A sickly scent fills the air, cloying and sweet. His paw crushes into the maggots, the soupy contents within, only to be covered with the squirming little beasts. Satisfaction fills him, the fur on his hackles bristling with it.

He lets the worms taste him, the flies land on him. Experiences it all, the decay and extant life erupting from a corpse. Breathes in the fetid air. Feels the centipedes many little feet against his skin. The cockroaches nestling in his fur. The maggots in his mouth, the worms dangling from his lips. Squirming. ALIVE.

At last, he feels a sort of peace.

ooc: THANK YOU FOR STILL WANTING TO CONTINUE THIS AFTER I DROPPED OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH. iM SORRY ;-;

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