YOU ALWAYS SAID HOW YOU LOVE DOGS // open, snare trap *WEEKLY PROMPT 7/4*

[table][tr][td]

[/td][td]

[/td][/tr][/table]

SING, GODDESS, OF THE RAGE OF ACHILLES

Bastille realized a second too late that he'd lost her, and he hissed in annoyance as she lunged for Church. That was not good, and his first instinct was to get in front of Gordon and her cluster of would be healers, gaze trained on the raptor as everything descending into chaos. "Delta," he snapped, immediately followed by, "Wash, don't--" But they were rolling and slashing at one another, and things moved a lot faster in the heat of things, when he was trying to figure out how the fuck he was going to diffuse this situation. It was too late to throw himself between them once more, but he supposed that had never stopped him before.

But then Delta was scrambling away, putting some distance between them, and Bastille had his opening. "Enough," he snapped at both of them, stepping directly between the two. He was less concerned about Wash making another attempt, and he wheeled towards Delta, certain that the raptor would not be pleased with this development.

"Delta, no," he said lowly, keeping the words even and clear, uncertain of just how much he could communicate in this fast. He made a chittering noise, and then barrelled on: "No attacking pack." There was an impatient prodding at her thoughts, trying to convey what he meant with images: her sisters, pack, followed by flashing images of the Ascendants. "Okay? Pack." He knew the sisters bickered and squabbled, but they didn't seem to go for the kill with one another. It'd have to be a good enough comparison. "Attack pack," he pointed a paw towards Washington, "No food. Lots of fire."

[b]BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS — ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — TAGS

She'd backed up away from the large feline, her clawed feet steady as she hunkered lower to the ground - he seemed quite bad off, though she disliked how little blood flowed from his wounds. She wanted to watch him slowly die before her, but she supposed he needed a few more nasty gashes to do the trick. With the shiny armor, he both enraged her and successfully blocked parts of her attacks; if she hunted him for sport, she probably would have run off in search for an easier target by now. But she wanted him and the rest of the shiny-heads dead. Or, failing that, stripped of their shininess.

As Favorite dropped between her and the object of her ire, yet again, she curled her lips at him. Clearly displeased, that much seemed obvious just by the crooked crocodilian-like sneer on her face. She understood fragments - her name, no, food, but nothing else. Evidently, Bast thought Washington shouldn't be food; she already figured this out, though. He was a threat, a mammal with human technology wrapped around his head and coiled around his torso like a metal snake. "Not food. Threat," she babbled back at him, annoyance evident by the tapping of her sickle claw and the following hiss that left her throat.

She shook her head, unsure where the heck those flashing images came from - they reminded her of before, when sometimes she'd stand around Bast and flashes of carrion appeared before her mental eyes. She understood this as an annoyance in situations like these but didn't understand they were caused by Favorite. Perhaps she'd outright attack him, if she figured out these random 'visions' originated from a similar ability to the one that nearly roasted Echo. Growing irritated, she enunciated again with a louder shriek, "Threat!"