The Okanavian didn’t like the silence he heard on the other side of the door. It was heavy. Oppressive. Wrong. Each second that his call went unanswered felt like white hot nails were being hammered through his heart. No matter how hard he tried to listen to the voice of rationality in his head the way he knew his beloved did, the instinct that something was very very wrong persisted.
He tried to be patient. He tried to keep the panic from making him overreact. He knew his twin o’rre was tired. Very, very tired. While he’d proven himself to be a more capable warrior than most Okanavi, he was not a lycan. He could not go as long without sleep as Barghast could. As long as I feast on fresh blood I can go a week without sleeping. He didn’t like to go that long without sleeping, but he could.
Crowe had gone a week on little sleep, pressing on with what scant moments he could get while on horseback. Barghast didn’t count those. He hadn’t slept that whole time they’d been holed up in the stables, determined on staying awake in order to keep them alive. It was the sorcerer who had insisted the Okanavian stay awake, the stubborn little wraith.
Something else was wrong. A smell seeped under the door, strong and meaty and utterly foreign to Crowe. The lycan didn’t like it one bit. Nor did he like those wounded sounds Crowe was making. He could tell the sorcerer was trying to muffle it, but the Okanavian heard them all the same. It took all his willpower not to tear the door away from the wall and burst inside. Something had happened in between his twin o’rre instructing him to wait behind the garbage stack and letting him in the room.
“Twin o’rre,” he said again. He couldn’t say how long had passed since he’d heard his wraith make a sound. He sat with his back pressed against the door. He could hear Crowe breathing on the other side, hear the flutter of his heart, which meant he was still alive. He didn’t smell blood. He didn’t smell anything to suggest Crowe was injured beyond the dormant sick-smell and the labored breaths from his broken nose. He turned it into a game. If I beg, if I whine enough…will he respond? My sweet, why do you make me beg like this? What has you so broken on the inside you can’t respond to me?
He waited for a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three. A lifetime. An eternity.
And then weakly, so weakly he had to lift an ear to hear it: “...I did something bad.”
Bad. He’d heard the practitioner say that word before. It made him want to growl. He didn’t know the full meaning of the word, but he knew it was in the same category as the words hide, danger, and torchcoat. Crowe always made the same stricken face, the same choppy gestures when he said this word.
Hiding? Is he hiding from me? Is he afraid of me?
The thought made Barghast rise to his feet. He could no longer keep the panic at bay. “Crowe,” he said in the language of the desert. “Let me in. I know you are hurting. I know you are frightened. I know you feel you must hide your hurt from me. You never need to hide from me. There is nothing you could do that would cause me to turn away from you or hurt you. If only you knew how long I waited for you. The seer told me when I was a young, young pup that I would one day meet a warrior who's eyes were both blue as the sky and as white as a blazing star. From the moment she told me this, I waited for you, dreaming of a life beyond the desert…”
He stopped when he heard movement on the other side of the door. His heart skipped a beat when the lock clicked.
The door swung open. Crowe looked at him from beneath the rim of his cowl. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his face marked with bruises. It hurt the lycan to see such delicate skin marred in such a way. When Crowe did not say anything or move towards the Okanavian, the Okanavian went to him. He eased himself through the door, careful not to scuff the paint - he’d already gauged holes in the door with his claws. The closer he drew to his beloved, the stronger the smell of another became.
The reek of another male.
A male who had marked his twin o’rre.
The thought heated his blood into a boiling frenzy. The thought of someone touching what belonged to him; the half of his soul he’d waited so long to meet. To hold. To protect. To love. Looking up at the stars, praying to Gaia to transport him away from a life in the desert. A life he’d never wanted. Only for someone to defile his beloved who had eyes that burned like stars.
I’ll kill them…I’ll rip their eyes from their skull…
A small sound pierced the bubble of rage that threatened to explode out of the Okanavian. Crowe still remained where he stood, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. Great, racking sobs that rooted the Okanavian to the spot. Only once before had he seen the sorcerer react this way, when Barghast had parted from him to hunt an elk.
The room they stood in was so small, Barghast's broad frame blocked the door. Crowe seemed even smaller, diminishing before the lycan's very eyes. When his twin o’rre began to sink towards the floor, so heavy was his shame, the barbarian's paralysis broke.
He held Crowe while his twin o’rre wept against his chest, letting the practitioner’s hot tears fall in his fur. The sorcerer trembled with such force it seemed he had fallen in the grip of a fit. “I am not angry with you, my beloved,” he told him, stroking his hair. I could stroke his hair all day. Everyday for the rest of my long, long life.
After what could have been several seconds or several minutes, Crowe straightened. He rubbed at his face with the back of his arm. Blood colored his cheeks like a rash - a sign he was embarrassed. Not for the first time Barghast wished he had the words to tell him not to be ashamed. We all must do things we don’t want to do in order to survive.
At last Crowe looked up, looked him in the eye. “In the name of Monad, look at us. We’re both a mess. We should get washed up. I’m not crawling in bed looking like this…I don’t care how tired I am…and neither are you.”
Barghast cocked his head.
Smiling, Crowe reached for something, pointing to the large basin in the corner of the room. He called it a tub. He made two fists and brought them up to shoulder height. He repeated the gesture three times, repeating, “bath” with each repetition. As a final illustration, he grabbed a round object he called a “sponge”. He mimed scrubbing Barghast’s chest fur with the object. The lycan yipped with excitement, remembering how Crowe had used the same object to wash him clean in the stables.
“Monad has blessed us,” Crowe said. “This time we have a full bathroom with indoor plumbing.” He pointed at two handles made of steel. “That’s what turns on the water, which comes out of this…” He pointed to a pipe he called a faucet. He grinned and this time it was a real genuine grin, not a shaky grin that attempted to hide the truth of how he felt. He turned the nozzle on the right. Immediately steaming hot water fell into the basin. Steam rose into the air. Barghast leaned forward, panting with excitement. He’d never in all his life seen such a contraption. He yearned to ask the practitioner where the source of the water came from but he did not have the words. Not yet.
“We don’t water to be too hot.” The sorcerer turned the other nozzle. He looked at the Okanavian, a twinkle in his eye. A twinkle Barghast liked to think was only reserved for him. Crowe held up a bottle made of dark blue glass. He popped the cap, raising it to his nose. “Hmmm,” he said. He closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the side. “It smells good. Lavender and honey.”
Barghast leaned forward, his nose twitching with curiosity.
Crowe held the bottle out. “Be careful. With your strong sense of smell, it might be a little overpowering.”
The barbarian caught the warning in Crowe’s voice too late. He lurched back into the wall behind him with a snort…ACHOOOOO!”
Again, Crowe raised his hands to hide his face, only this time he wasn't crying. He laughed, his eyes twinkling with that merry light Barghast loved to see so much, that presented itself so rarely. Once the basin was full enough to the practitioner's satisfaction, he shut the water off. “This tub isn't big enough to fit the both of us. Since you're the biggest, you get to wash up first.”
He gestured for Barghast to climb into the water.
The lycan eyed the basin suspiciously. Steam rose from the water, curling in the air, turning the room foggy. In the desert he and the other members of his clan had bathed in a large river close to the camp. Sensing his reluctance, Crowe scratched his back and shoulders, speaking in a low soothing voice. “The water isn't too hot, I promise. You're filthy and you stink, Barghast. We both do…”
Eventually he won Barghast over. It was impossible to deny his twin o’rre, especially when he pampered the Okanavian so, those long skinny fingers combing through his fur, always scratching in just the right places. He hesitated just a moment longer, whining, tucking his tail between his legs so he could enjoy the belly scratches a moment longer.
His twin o’rre was no fool. He knew exactly what the Okanavian was doing. He swatted him playfully on the rump. “That’s enough belly rubs for you…Don’t try to lick me! Your mouth is an abattoir…I imagine I don’t smell much better, but I didn’t eat a man for dinner.”
Crowe was right about the basin being too tiny. Removing his tunic, Barghast had to fold his legs to lower himself in the water. Crowe was also right about the water not being too hot. The heat was a balm to muscles that had been tensed after a week of non stop travel and peril. He tracked Crowe’s movements across the bathroom. The practitioner stood with his back turned. Slowly he peeled off his robes until he was completely naked. In the light Barghast could see just how much weight he’d lost. The bones of his shoulder blades stood out sharply against pale flesh marred by black bruises and scrapes. The sight of his injuries pulled at Barghast’s instinct to protect his twin o’rre. He started to rise, sudsy water spilling over the sides of the tub.
The sorcerer whirled around. He glared at the Okanavian with a stern frown. Barghast froze. He laid his ears back against his head. “Don’t look at me that way!” Crowe admonished in a tone that said he was displeased. “Get back in the water, you’re getting it all over the floor.”
The lycan watched him dubiously from the corner of his eye, his tail wagging beneath the water. In one second Crowe had sounded stern, disappointed, but now his eyes were sparkling again and he looked like he was trying to hold back his laughter. It both fascinated and confused Barghast how he could bounce so quickly from emotion to emotion, his face shifting like a series of masks. His eyes were windows into his soul, always showing what he felt. Oftentimes they were guarded.
Crowe knelt beside the “tub”, wringing water and bubbles out of the sponge. He was back to talking in his sweet way, starting at the top of Barghast’s head, shielding his eyes with his hand so as not to get water in them. The lycan was more than happy to lean back in the tub - as much as the basin would allow - and let his beloved tend to him. No lycan could be more blessed than I am, to be granted a twin o’rre like the one I have. He protects me and pampers me. What did I do to earn such a blessing?
Crowe worked meticulously until every inch of Barghast’s body had been scrubbed free. While the tub drained he had Barghast stand again so he could dry him off with a drape he called a “towel.” By the time he stepped out of the tub, Barghast’s dark gray fur gleamed with renewal. He grinned at himself in the mirror, feeling lustrous. Crowe’s reflection laughed beside him, nodding in approval. “Looking sharp, indeed.”
The practitioner refilled the tub with fresh, soapy water. When he climbed in, Barghast reached out to take the sponge for him again.
“No,” the practitioner said in that firm voice of his. “Another time. I can barely keep my eyes open.” He ushered the Okanavian out of the room before locking the door behind him.
Feeling dejected, the barbarian sat on the edge of the bed. His weight sunk heavily into the mattress. Eyes widening, he laid back on the bed. He let out a groan of pleasure. Had he ever laid on anything so soft? He rolled on his stomach, legs criss crossed over one another, legs bouncing in the air. He searched for signs of movement under the crack of the door. A thin strip of flickering light seeped through. He wagged his tail in anticipation, willing his twin o’rre to come out of the bathroom as if wanting it enough could make it happen.
The second the door opened, spilling light into the room, Barghast sprang up from the bed. Crowe emerged from the room, shoulder length hair swept back from his brow, a towel wrapped around his slender hips. The barbarian seized him with both paws, lifting the practitioner off his feet. He sat back on the bed, cradling his beloved against his chest. Before his twin o'rre could protest, his head darted forward; this time Crowe could not keep his affections at bay.
He licked every inch of Crowe he could. He licked his face. He licked the hollow of his throat, leaving a trail of saliva leading down his chest to his navel. He stopped just short of his penis, so adorably small compared to his own - he would play with that later when his twin o'rre was awake enough to enjoy it.
Barghast climbed back up to Crowe's lips, those silky lips that he always loved overtaking with his own. He kissed his twin o'rre greedily, lapping at the inside of his mouth, enjoying the way he tasted. It took all his self control not to take his wraith right then and there. He knew his beloved needed rest. He’d pushed himself further than Barghast thought him capable of. He needed rest. We both do.
He fell back on the mattress so that Crowe straddled his belly before settling him into the free slot. He rolled over so that they laid face to face, eye to eye, their noses almost touching.
“Good night, Barghast,” the sorcerer said hoarsely.
“I keep you safe,” the barbarian rumbled.
It seemed he’d no sooner closed his eyes when the door shook under the force of hard knuckles. “Oi!” shouted a deep voice from outside the room. “Got a bit of grub for ya!”
Barghast sat up, snarling.
Crowe waved at him, hissing for him to be quiet. He went to the door with a blanket wrapped around his waist. The door creaked open. Barghast snarled. He bit his tongue, sinking his teeth into the muscle hard enough to draw blood. He could smell the other, the man who had marked his twin o’rre.
The smell hit him like a slap to the face, igniting his bloodlust. He rose to his feet, unfurling his claws. Ready to tear into flesh and feast on the beating heart of the creature who had disgraced what only belonged to him.
The Okanavian didn’t like the silence he heard on the other side of the door. It was heavy. Oppressive. Wrong. Each second that his call went unanswered felt like white hot nails were being hammered through his heart. No matter how hard he tried to listen to the voice of rationality in his head the way he knew his beloved did, the instinct that something was very very wrong persisted.
He tried to be patient. He tried to keep the panic from making him overreact. He knew his twin o’rre was tired. Very, very tired. While he’d proven himself to be a more capable warrior than most Okanavi, he was not a lycan. He could not go as long without sleep as Barghast could. As long as I feast on fresh blood I can go a week without sleeping. He didn’t like to go that long without sleeping, but he could.
Crowe had gone a week on little sleep, pressing on with what scant moments he could get while on horseback. Barghast didn’t count those. He hadn’t slept that whole time they’d been holed up in the stables, determined on staying awake in order to keep them alive. It was the sorcerer who had insisted the Okanavian stay awake, the stubborn little wraith.
Something else was wrong. A smell seeped under the door, strong and meaty and utterly foreign to Crowe. The lycan didn’t like it one bit. Nor did he like those wounded sounds Crowe was making. He could tell the sorcerer was trying to muffle it, but the Okanavian heard them all the same. It took all his willpower not to tear the door away from the wall and burst inside. Something had happened in between his twin o’rre instructing him to wait behind the garbage stack and letting him in the room.
“Twin o’rre,” he said again. He couldn’t say how long had passed since he’d heard his wraith make a sound. He sat with his back pressed against the door. He could hear Crowe breathing on the other side, hear the flutter of his heart, which meant he was still alive. He didn’t smell blood. He didn’t smell anything to suggest Crowe was injured beyond the dormant sick-smell and the labored breaths from his broken nose. He turned it into a game. If I beg, if I whine enough…will he respond? My sweet, why do you make me beg like this? What has you so broken on the inside you can’t respond to me?
He waited for a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three. A lifetime. An eternity.
And then weakly, so weakly he had to lift an ear to hear it: “...I did something bad.”
Bad. He’d heard the practitioner say that word before. It made him want to growl. He didn’t know the full meaning of the word, but he knew it was in the same category as the words hide, danger, and torchcoat. Crowe always made the same stricken face, the same choppy gestures when he said this word.
Hiding? Is he hiding from me? Is he afraid of me?
The thought made Barghast rise to his feet. He could no longer keep the panic at bay. “Crowe,” he said in the language of the desert. “Let me in. I know you are hurting. I know you are frightened. I know you feel you must hide your hurt from me. You never need to hide from me. There is nothing you could do that would cause me to turn away from you or hurt you. If only you knew how long I waited for you. The seer told me when I was a young, young pup that I would one day meet a warrior who's eyes were both blue as the sky and as white as a blazing star. From the moment she told me this, I waited for you, dreaming of a life beyond the desert…”
He stopped when he heard movement on the other side of the door. His heart skipped a beat when the lock clicked.
The door swung open. Crowe looked at him from beneath the rim of his cowl. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his face marked with bruises. It hurt the lycan to see such delicate skin marred in such a way. When Crowe did not say anything or move towards the Okanavian, the Okanavian went to him. He eased himself through the door, careful not to scuff the paint - he’d already gauged holes in the door with his claws. The closer he drew to his beloved, the stronger the smell of another became.
The reek of another male.
A male who had marked his twin o’rre.
The thought heated his blood into a boiling frenzy. The thought of someone touching what belonged to him; the half of his soul he’d waited so long to meet. To hold. To protect. To love. Looking up at the stars, praying to Gaia to transport him away from a life in the desert. A life he’d never wanted. Only for someone to defile his beloved who had eyes that burned like stars.
I’ll kill them…I’ll rip their eyes from their skull…
A small sound pierced the bubble of rage that threatened to explode out of the Okanavian. Crowe still remained where he stood, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. Great, racking sobs that rooted the Okanavian to the spot. Only once before had he seen the sorcerer react this way, when Barghast had parted from him to hunt an elk.
The room they stood in was so small, Barghast's broad frame blocked the door. Crowe seemed even smaller, diminishing before the lycan's very eyes. When his twin o’rre began to sink towards the floor, so heavy was his shame, the barbarian's paralysis broke.
He held Crowe while his twin o’rre wept against his chest, letting the practitioner’s hot tears fall in his fur. The sorcerer trembled with such force it seemed he had fallen in the grip of a fit. “I am not angry with you, my beloved,” he told him, stroking his hair. I could stroke his hair all day. Everyday for the rest of my long, long life.
After what could have been several seconds or several minutes, Crowe straightened. He rubbed at his face with the back of his arm. Blood colored his cheeks like a rash - a sign he was embarrassed. Not for the first time Barghast wished he had the words to tell him not to be ashamed. We all must do things we don’t want to do in order to survive.
At last Crowe looked up, looked him in the eye. “In the name of Monad, look at us. We’re both a mess. We should get washed up. I’m not crawling in bed looking like this…I don’t care how tired I am…and neither are you.”
Barghast cocked his head.
Smiling, Crowe reached for something, pointing to the large basin in the corner of the room. He called it a tub. He made two fists and brought them up to shoulder height. He repeated the gesture three times, repeating, “bath” with each repetition. As a final illustration, he grabbed a round object he called a “sponge”. He mimed scrubbing Barghast’s chest fur with the object. The lycan yipped with excitement, remembering how Crowe had used the same object to wash him clean in the stables.
“Monad has blessed us,” Crowe said. “This time we have a full bathroom with indoor plumbing.” He pointed at two handles made of steel. “That’s what turns on the water, which comes out of this…” He pointed to a pipe he called a faucet. He grinned and this time it was a real genuine grin, not a shaky grin that attempted to hide the truth of how he felt. He turned the nozzle on the right. Immediately steaming hot water fell into the basin. Steam rose into the air. Barghast leaned forward, panting with excitement. He’d never in all his life seen such a contraption. He yearned to ask the practitioner where the source of the water came from but he did not have the words. Not yet.
“We don’t water to be too hot.” The sorcerer turned the other nozzle. He looked at the Okanavian, a twinkle in his eye. A twinkle Barghast liked to think was only reserved for him. Crowe held up a bottle made of dark blue glass. He popped the cap, raising it to his nose. “Hmmm,” he said. He closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the side. “It smells good. Lavender and honey.”
Barghast leaned forward, his nose twitching with curiosity.
Crowe held the bottle out. “Be careful. With your strong sense of smell, it might be a little overpowering.”
The barbarian caught the warning in Crowe’s voice too late. He lurched back into the wall behind him with a snort…ACHOOOOO!”
Again, Crowe raised his hands to hide his face, only this time he wasn't crying. He laughed, his eyes twinkling with that merry light Barghast loved to see so much, that presented itself so rarely. Once the basin was full enough to the practitioner's satisfaction, he shut the water off. “This tub isn't big enough to fit the both of us. Since you're the biggest, you get to wash up first.”
He gestured for Barghast to climb into the water.
The lycan eyed the basin suspiciously. Steam rose from the water, curling in the air, turning the room foggy. In the desert he and the other members of his clan had bathed in a large river close to the camp. Sensing his reluctance, Crowe scratched his back and shoulders, speaking in a low soothing voice. “The water isn't too hot, I promise. You're filthy and you stink, Barghast. We both do…”
Eventually he won Barghast over. It was impossible to deny his twin o’rre, especially when he pampered the Okanavian so, those long skinny fingers combing through his fur, always scratching in just the right places. He hesitated just a moment longer, whining, tucking his tail between his legs so he could enjoy the belly scratches a moment longer.
His twin o’rre was no fool. He knew exactly what the Okanavian was doing. He swatted him playfully on the rump. “That’s enough belly rubs for you…Don’t try to lick me! Your mouth is an abattoir…I imagine I don’t smell much better, but I didn’t eat a man for dinner.”
Crowe was right about the basin being too tiny. Removing his tunic, Barghast had to fold his legs to lower himself in the water. Crowe was also right about the water not being too hot. The heat was a balm to muscles that had been tensed after a week of non stop travel and peril. He tracked Crowe’s movements across the bathroom. The practitioner stood with his back turned. Slowly he peeled off his robes until he was completely naked. In the light Barghast could see just how much weight he’d lost. The bones of his shoulder blades stood out sharply against pale flesh marred by black bruises and scrapes. The sight of his injuries pulled at Barghast’s instinct to protect his twin o’rre. He started to rise, sudsy water spilling over the sides of the tub.
The sorcerer whirled around. He glared at the Okanavian with a stern frown. Barghast froze. He laid his ears back against his head. “Don’t look at me that way!” Crowe admonished in a tone that said he was displeased. “Get back in the water, you’re getting it all over the floor.”
The lycan watched him dubiously from the corner of his eye, his tail wagging beneath the water. In one second Crowe had sounded stern, disappointed, but now his eyes were sparkling again and he looked like he was trying to hold back his laughter. It both fascinated and confused Barghast how he could bounce so quickly from emotion to emotion, his face shifting like a series of masks. His eyes were windows into his soul, always showing what he felt. Oftentimes they were guarded.
Crowe knelt beside the “tub”, wringing water and bubbles out of the sponge. He was back to talking in his sweet way, starting at the top of Barghast’s head, shielding his eyes with his hand so as not to get water in them. The lycan was more than happy to lean back in the tub - as much as the basin would allow - and let his beloved tend to him. No lycan could be more blessed than I am, to be granted a twin o’rre like the one I have. He protects me and pampers me. What did I do to earn such a blessing?
Crowe worked meticulously until every inch of Barghast’s body had been scrubbed free. While the tub drained he had Barghast stand again so he could dry him off with a drape he called a “towel.” By the time he stepped out of the tub, Barghast’s dark gray fur gleamed with renewal. He grinned at himself in the mirror, feeling lustrous. Crowe’s reflection laughed beside him, nodding in approval. “Looking sharp, indeed.”
The practitioner refilled the tub with fresh, soapy water. When he climbed in, Barghast reached out to take the sponge for him again.
“No,” the practitioner said in that firm voice of his. “Another time. I can barely keep my eyes open.” He ushered the Okanavian out of the room before locking the door behind him.
Feeling dejected, the barbarian sat on the edge of the bed. His weight sunk heavily into the mattress. Eyes widening, he laid back on the bed. He let out a groan of pleasure. Had he ever laid on anything so soft? He rolled on his stomach, legs criss crossed over one another, legs bouncing in the air. He searched for signs of movement under the crack of the door. A thin strip of flickering light seeped through. He wagged his tail in anticipation, willing his twin o’rre to come out of the bathroom as if wanting it enough could make it happen.
The second the door opened, spilling light into the room, Barghast sprang up from the bed. Crowe emerged from the room, shoulder length hair swept back from his brow, a towel wrapped around his slender hips. The barbarian seized him with both paws, lifting the practitioner off his feet. He sat back on the bed, cradling his beloved against his chest. Before his twin o'rre could protest, his head darted forward; this time Crowe could not keep his affections at bay.
He licked every inch of Crowe he could. He licked his face. He licked the hollow of his throat, leaving a trail of saliva leading down his chest to his navel. He stopped just short of his penis, so adorably small compared to his own - he would play with that later when his twin o'rre was awake enough to enjoy it.
Barghast climbed back up to Crowe's lips, those silky lips that he always loved overtaking with his own. He kissed his twin o'rre greedily, lapping at the inside of his mouth, enjoying the way he tasted. It took all his self control not to take his wraith right then and there. He knew his beloved needed rest. He’d pushed himself further than Barghast thought him capable of. He needed rest. We both do.
He fell back on the mattress so that Crowe straddled his belly before settling him into the free slot. He rolled over so that they laid face to face, eye to eye, their noses almost touching.
“Good night, Barghast,” the sorcerer said hoarsely.
“I keep you safe,” the barbarian rumbled.
It seemed he’d no sooner closed his eyes when the door shook under the force of hard knuckles. “Oi!” shouted a deep voice from outside the room. “Got a bit of grub for ya!”
Barghast sat up, snarling.
Crowe waved at him, hissing for him to be quiet. He went to the door with a blanket wrapped around his waist. The door creaked open. Barghast snarled. He bit his tongue, sinking his teeth into the muscle hard enough to draw blood. He could smell the other, the man who had marked his twin o’rre.
The smell hit him like a slap to the face, igniting his bloodlust. He rose to his feet, unfurling his claws. Ready to tear into flesh and feast on the beating heart of the creature who had disgraced what only belonged to him.
