[Miasma]

  Her fur is fluffed, and for once, it isn't the humidity. Miasma seethes, staring at the temple-- where Crow was taking her, where the Dragon lived, raised her offspring, birthed her brood, fucking Antaeus and Persephone and Cocytus--

Stupid children, raised beneath a queen. Expected to succeed, but no opportunity to fail. No fight, no lessons in desperation. They're just like Falco-- Telana, too. A monarchy made of spoiled, stupid narcissists

  The white of her lower jaw has been stained a sullied burgundy, splatters flaking from her thick neck. Killing doesn't calm her, but she keeps hoping it might-- eating does. The dire's started gaining some weight; she looks nothing like her dad now. As if she ever did. Their crippled queen said they were catering in the upcoming party, so Miasma oscillates between stuffing herself sick and trying to sculpt something from the remains. The Artificers died with their old regime, and sometimes she wonders if she had been intended to follow them.

Were you born too late? Were you born to the wrong brood? Were you supposed to be born at all?

  Feet braced wide in the dirt, she jerks at the skin of a fat badger, determined to save something before she turns over the carcass for someone else to feed from. Alteron is inhabited by disgusting scavengers, and if they find something freshly deceased, they'll leave the herds be. Who knows how many will be in Inaria? How many mewling children, parched for their first taste of blood-- it had better be fresh.

  The flesh she was shearing rips instead, and in frustration, Miasma grits her teeth, deep in the meat, and thrashes. It ruins the pelt, of course, but what did she need with grey, anyway? When she drops it, scraping fibres of fur from her tongue against teeth, the neck sets at a strange angle, throat exposed to the bone. "Fine," she seethes. "If you won't give me your skin, I'll just take the whole head."

If only it were that easy with your siblings.

[Cocytus]

Cocytus liked to think he was good at reading people.

Since childhood, he'd nurtured that deep-seated curiosity, that unsated hunger and driving need to know. He'd allowed it to take root and grow, honing it as a Herald before ultimately utilizing it as the Sun. He liked unravelling every tell and secret, no matter how little. He liked knowing things. He liked knowing people.

Some, he found, were practically like open books, easy to unravel and study. The rest, on the other hand, required a little more than a brief cursory glance. Sometimes you had to be prepared to do a little digging.

Those ones were always his favourites.

He lie hidden in a shaded alcove, a rocky structure marred with snaking vines and sharp fissures in the weathered stones. He stayed concealed there for an unknown period of time, staring down at the young wolf beneath him in silence, watching the way she handled her prey. She looked familiar, in a vague sort of way that likely meant he'd seen her somewhere before. But other than that, she was just a stranger to him.

And that simply wouldn't do.

Standing, he paused to stretch for a moment, before moving to navigate his way down from his sheltered perch, making no attempt to mute his descent as the foliage around him rustled beneath his weight. He'd never been a particularly quiet individual, though it wouldn't have mattered in that moment. Stealth wasn't his intention today.

When he drew close enough he whistled, long and low, lightly wagging his tail. "Well, well, well! Lookie what we have here." Up close, the scent of blood was almost overwhelming, permeating the air with the sharp tang of copper. Cocytus watched the tepid red fluid fall from where the badger's throat had violently been torn, observing it without any trace of hunger.

"Nice catch, darlin'."

His amber gaze shifted to meet her own, lips stretching to accommodate a wide, toothy smile.

"Did it put up a good fight?"

He appraised her with burning eyes, and there, there that unsated curiosity stirred.

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[Miasma]

  She ignores the approaching footfalls; the gait isn't either of the few she recognizes, so it's no one she wants to see. Miasma tugs at the spine and sinew, closing her eyes to imagine it's Kaiju.

  Ears already back, her hackles rise when the Sun calls out. That accent descends from the Dragon, and there's not a one of them she doesn't want dead. "Nice catch, darlin'," Cocytus compliments, and Miasma crushes a rib underfoot. She drops the mangled length of nerves, strung bones cracking together as they carelessly hit the ground. Her mouth hangs open a moment, trying to decipher his scent, catch her breath, or just decide what to say.

  "... I bet you tell that to everyone." Response sufficient, she braces one paw on the collarbone and takes hold of the spine once more, stringy nerves fraying around teeth as the head finally severs. The Sun speaks again, and she rolls the badger's head from the body, as if it might reconnect if left alone, and turns to finally cede the eye contact he seeks.

  The dire girl licks blood from her nose and deigns, "Only after it was dead."