Part I: Isley and Priscilla.

Before:

It's the center of the universe. The North's allies and the teeming amount of vicious beasts, mostly men of ages old, and Isley's the first of their rank, dressed in fine clothes when he's human. But all traces of humanity have been wiped away, many eons ago, and he doesn't even count the long drawn days of his existence. He has taken many lives, and has dined on the entrails of humans, the weak and the strong.

When he was younger, before he turned, he came from a class wealthier than the villagers who kept the bridge to their homes barricaded from Yoma; he decided long ago that he wished nothing more than to live a life of power, and when he first tasted flesh, it gutted him. He decided long ago that if he wanted a life of prominent status that he'd take the North, because the North holds so many secrets. His ever sharpening ecstasy lost within the folds of his melting hot tongue; yet, in the end, he was only a man.

And men, have been prone to exhibit the pleasurable side of their curse, and great blessing. All those things in the past had been what he was, but this is now, and his fingers curl around the woman beneath him, whimpering, moaning a sigh like a hiss of a breathy angel. Her face isn't beautiful, but it's innocent, and her eyes, those soulless eyes, not intelligent are filled with base desires—of need, of want, and of the rich desires of an awakening betwixt her thighs.

He teases her lips when she's done eating her last kill, dined obsessively on her prey, eating quick fast gulps as if she couldn't stop herself. As if it was her last meal. She doesn't want to die, nor does he.

He is always tender with Priscilla. He hasn't always been. When he first met her, she was a tall fearsome creature, with a phallic horn that would have skewered his guts through. But, this way – this way, he can possess her, claim her and master over her.

When in the end, the only way he knew that could defeat Priscilla in every way was through his own masterful intellect. She's been sighing like a calming, soothed little girl, her face the face of a child, pale against the cave's interior—her hands in prayerful position against his lap, and he takes his elegant pale hands along her hair, touching them. He sits there like a stoned statue, listening to her balanced inhalation.

He knows that Raki has come in to bring more firewood. He would have preferred the cold's kiss. But the boy's humanity would not be able to withstand this kind of condition. He watches there, sitting on the cold ground, watches with a silent derision the way Raki bundles the cut up firewood against the slenderness of his chest, dropping them into the slowly dying embers. The boy stirs the fire quickly, causing a blaze, a delicious fiery temperate blaze that heats the cave's interior with a cozening tickle of warmth.

Priscilla stirs, smells the scent of her boy-toy, and struggles to sit up, rubbing her eyes like a child would. Her large eyes, vacant expression first settles on Raki, and she makes a gesture, a whimpering sad gesture, one with a cry of alarm. Raki instantly runs to her side and he's trampled by her possessing arms-- thin yet strong, clinging and clinging, and the tears—they fall like broken diamonds.

Isley feels a tug of jealousy within his breast, but shoves it aside. He tolerates Raki for her, and finds the human quite interesting study, and finds even further use when he sees how Priscilla clings desperately for Raki's body.

Isley isn't a fool; he knows Priscilla clings to Raki because he represents everything she's lost. That tiny piece of hope, of something she doesn't even remember, but her senses tell her something that it's something that's more than her own life. To her, that importance was something that she's mislaid not too long ago. Foolish, foolish powerful Priscilla.

For him, his own loss was an eon ago. Even the North's cold chill could not keep him from remembering, but the silent reminders kept his blood boiling like a creeping promise.

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Miria & Rigald:

His loins hitch; pitches levels up into a feverish tempo, even as his own fangs bear down, the transformation wavers between human and bestial. The dark hum of his own growl, foreign to his own ears, prickle intensely between heat and static—the furred satiny feel of his own skin, now haloed with a swarthy balmy seductive sensation, begins to curl within him. It's so good – this feeling –this between battle and desire, between her legs, between their blood. He even leans into her further, to get more – her muscles ripple between flesh and blood, the manifestation of her bestial form and the wings that span like a dragon's. They rip out from under her body and that's when she screams. It is painful and pleasurable. He knows this. It's sweet to taste her with his mouth against her breast, puncturing against the hard armour.

His shudders pull her tighter into him, as she cries desperately against his ears, sobs silently against his furred cheek—between his human flesh vibrating like a drum against her thighs. The ropes that once bound her now lay in a coiled heap beside the bed's meager sheets, ripped and torn, crumples beneath them.

The soundless arch of her back, the way she moves, with her fingers curling into his hardened flesh, digging deep to cause a deep gash—and as instantly as it severs the skin, it is brought back to normalcy. The way he likes to take her, in his bestial manifestation is when she's down on fours, with her wings for him to grab hold, to grip betwixt his furred and strong fingers. Long nails protrude from each of his fingers, enough to injure and dent, hear the cracks as she wails, but not enough to kill her. Rigardo even snarls viciously as he orgasms, cursing through gritted teeth, growling words of profanity—a guttural snarl until he climaxes, but not before she lets out a ragged scream as he thrusts in a savage motion.

It is over.

Even in the aftermath, the room's just big enough for their manifestations to bloom. Even in the warm glow of their awakening, she reverts slowly back to her human form—an injured lost, wayward claymore under the now human Rigardo. His hair is wet from the sweat, the exertion leaves them ragged and flushed. His fingers are curled in her hair. And for the first time, he's tired. There is a rumble of satisfaction beneath his chest as he moves above her, her body spread out against the broken bed. Her thighs are cut up with slashes and the blood dries quickly, but her regeneration powers aren't as good as his. He looks into her eyes as he sits up slowly, his hands on both sides of her as she stares back.

"You should have killed me, Rigardo." She chokes out; the blood trickling along the side of her lips propels him to flick them away with a soft gesture. With his human thumb. Surprisingly, he is normally not a gentle being, but the aftermath, as it always does, leaves him half exhausted that's coupled with a kind of suffocating kindness. He could...he thinks, get used to this. He feels her attempt to struggle beneath him. Her once hated eyes are too drawn; yet, her body tries to rebel.

"And forgo our experience, Miria?" He gazes at her face, the tired pale blue eyes and the almost drawn look.

"I don't think," she heaves a hollow sigh, "that I could take much more---so much of this…"

"If I find great pleasure in it, your cries tell me it does the same. Do you not find it enjoyable?"

"Yes.." she says in great honesty, turning her head, the pain in her eyes sharpen, "but I cannot, I cannot live through so much of this, it's – it's bound to be disastrous. What pleasure could this hold for us if it's such a selfish act each and every time?"

"Righteous." He gives her a derisive snort, "righteous. All you claymores so righteous and it doesn't leave your blood—does it?"

"It's wrong."

"Wrong to indulge in the pleasure of your awakened powers? Or wrong with me?"

"I'm hungry." She says after a moment, her lips are dry and the blood is gone, "I need something to nourish me."

He understands, and pushes off her. His clothes are torn, so he's left naked above her. She even allows a small blush as she looks at him in his human form. He understands that claymore's have no embarrassment or shame when it comes to any form of nudity. But her obvious flush meant much more.

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