[P]  fun to play with, not to eat. [M]

Odin

King of Swords

4 y/o xlarge Male
© danny.
The Gods were fighting in his head tonight. The wrath of Ares clashing in his bloodied throat, the might of Bellona lashing around -- to and fro -- in resistance as she attempted to break out of the cage behind his polished ivories. 

There had been so much he wanted to say to the woman who he shared his love. So many words, so many flicks of his warm tongue, so many passings of cold nights. He sat alone in his melancholy, harboring it inside of him as if it were the only thing he had left from his crumbling love life. Yet still, with all his churning anger, the toiling male couldn’t do much about the situation that was pulling itself apart in his head. Everything he could have done to prevent this from occurring, to protect her, the unborn kids; the sentences that were held between his teeth fell silent… All amounting to this anxiety, this pain. Like a wake of vultures scavenging upon his carcass did he rip himself apart, and though he clearly conveyed the impression of being alive, it was obvious that the light in his eyes had all since vanished. His thoughts, his inner self, oh, how they kept cussing and thrashing their head, it snapped its soundless jaws into the atmosphere with such animosity he was certain that at any moment he, himself, would tear the very sky from its seat and spit the stars at everyone around him. 

But he couldn’t do that, could he? He had no more power than the next lonely bloke. For he was alone here, in his thoughts and in the company he shared under the chilled moon. All those years struggling to lift his back from under the paw that beat him, only to stumble around like the lost pup he’d been the weeks prior. He’d left The Order, left his family, his friends… And Anaru. He’d left her with nothing, so in turn, he deserved nothing, and thus it was what he was being left with. 

-------------------------------------------

Waking from his sweet slumber did a fragrance reach his nose; one of smoke, blood, and death. The brute had previously been on high alert since his parting from the mundane grasp, as he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before his ex-lover sent her devils upon his flesh. He’d already taken out three of them, and though it was obvious he’d won, they’d still left him with reminders. His chest, his throat, even his chin, all ran long with thick scarring but regardless, they added character to his chiseled face. A face that was soon met by a single bi-colored eye. He took in the figure, for a lot longer than a moment. Its face littered heavily with memories -- torn ear, battered visage, roped neck. Its fangs clashed with venom, but something in that velveteen eye… Was as soft and cold as freshly fallen snow. 

From the sidelines did his broad frame approach, chest wide and eyes beckoning those who looked too long in for a stay. He didn't want to get too close, but making himself known was what he had intended to do in the first place. He lifted his tail, pointed his ears, gazing onward at the stranger with not a single word. After all, this was now his company, and he dared not speak over his new guest. @Titan


"speaking,"



Table by Centience. Art by Kharpa.
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