09-16-2020, 04:03 PM
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BLOOD AND BONE !
the soft uncurling of sunlight, cotton candy smiles bleeding red, dripping blood. all grainy images that you never want to reveal to yourself: reflection. Sakasu is the catastrophe hidden in the stillness, the mourning of a single-note song and the death of all the purity. Battle lust wrapped in a guise of sweet allure
The age of a fox is told in tails; each external limb added after each important event in life. Each tail for a tale never told. Sakasu has held his tongue on three, and three tails sway behind him as he moves: they don’t move like- a normal fox per se; while foxes can be considered cat-like, there are differences. And even to transcend that: kitsunes are another breed, another species of the same tree in life. They curl, possessive along what is theirs when entwined with a lover, they double in size, when Sakasu feels the need to threaten past the point of idle threats-
Fuzzy memories messing with tranquil temper. Steel bars to his back, a single tail stil behind him and his entire form, all fur standing on end- ears laid back a steady hiss. It does not stop the hand that eventually tugs his fur, punching a collar around his frail throat-
It isn’t often that Sakasu will eat anything that taste sweet; he finds the savory iron-tang of iron rust enjoyable. A dinner and a show as the kitsune bites down on a thrashing prey under his control. Watching a body squirm under the lack of oxygen as he slowly asphyxiates it. But on occasion, Sakasu will travel from the high peaked mountain tops towards the bar coast south-east where there is a small cluster of trees, where the berries are ripe and sweet and the kitsune fills a bowl full of them to last him a week.
He doesn’t snack on them; not initially, but in the end it is what happens my the end of the day. He prepares them you see. Tossing a few into a motor with vibrant red dried flowers with hints of rosewater. Using a pestle to grind the entire mix down into a paste. The paste is used from the bowl and added to as Sakasu goes through the motions.
The morning finds him on the coast, there is less sand here than broken dirt and water-logged soil, so he sits upon the roots of a sprawling tree. The motor is tucked along the roots, one of his tails swirled around the bowl to secure it and the pestle tucked neatly away into a satchel after it was licked clean. The poultice is sweet as sin on his tongue- but it is not the purpose of the paste initially.
No, as the sun rises, few could not see him for the pure white pelt of him. Two tails swinging along the large roots as he laid upon dried ground. Licking into the bowl and then preening his pelt with the color of ruby red. His paws are dippined in the paste spread and rubbed delicately along his ears- just the tip, tails lightly dragged through it and then dipped into the water edge’s to create a more realistic fade before the sun dries the paint. Rosewater is used to relive the itch it maeks against his fur.
It is a weekly ritual of his, since returning to the wilds, the kitsune has found the best mixture of all of the materials. And as the bowl is used, he adds to it from what he gathered before the sun rose. Adding more rosewater and flower petals into the motor before the pestle is once again used to grind it into paste.
Fuzzy memories messing with tranquil temper. Steel bars to his back, a single tail stil behind him and his entire form, all fur standing on end- ears laid back a steady hiss. It does not stop the hand that eventually tugs his fur, punching a collar around his frail throat-
It isn’t often that Sakasu will eat anything that taste sweet; he finds the savory iron-tang of iron rust enjoyable. A dinner and a show as the kitsune bites down on a thrashing prey under his control. Watching a body squirm under the lack of oxygen as he slowly asphyxiates it. But on occasion, Sakasu will travel from the high peaked mountain tops towards the bar coast south-east where there is a small cluster of trees, where the berries are ripe and sweet and the kitsune fills a bowl full of them to last him a week.
He doesn’t snack on them; not initially, but in the end it is what happens my the end of the day. He prepares them you see. Tossing a few into a motor with vibrant red dried flowers with hints of rosewater. Using a pestle to grind the entire mix down into a paste. The paste is used from the bowl and added to as Sakasu goes through the motions.
The morning finds him on the coast, there is less sand here than broken dirt and water-logged soil, so he sits upon the roots of a sprawling tree. The motor is tucked along the roots, one of his tails swirled around the bowl to secure it and the pestle tucked neatly away into a satchel after it was licked clean. The poultice is sweet as sin on his tongue- but it is not the purpose of the paste initially.
No, as the sun rises, few could not see him for the pure white pelt of him. Two tails swinging along the large roots as he laid upon dried ground. Licking into the bowl and then preening his pelt with the color of ruby red. His paws are dippined in the paste spread and rubbed delicately along his ears- just the tip, tails lightly dragged through it and then dipped into the water edge’s to create a more realistic fade before the sun dries the paint. Rosewater is used to relive the itch it maeks against his fur.
It is a weekly ritual of his, since returning to the wilds, the kitsune has found the best mixture of all of the materials. And as the bowl is used, he adds to it from what he gathered before the sun rose. Adding more rosewater and flower petals into the motor before the pestle is once again used to grind it into paste.
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