Hunter/Hunted
"Tareth," a caller shouted, "hope you got sperm in the bank, buddy.
Otherwise, there go the kids."
Tareth. The name seethed in her mind like the hiss of boiling water - blood
- and she recognized the scent that had taunted her, leading her beyond the
cattle-market of the Red Dragon Inn to the Outback. It wasn't the fighting,
the smell of blood or tang of adrenaline in the air -- it was Him.
Concurrent with this recognition, pantherine eyes lit with green mamba poison
and the purr which chased her every breath became steeped in
sky-blue death. The jungle cat sank into shadow and watched him fight. Near
the end of the match, when he was distracted and struggling to hold his own,
she eased out of those shadows -- motion like an oil-slick animated, only the
roll of a hip and the scuff of a boot to reinforce solidity, reality. She
moved nearer the ring, ignoring the chairs and tables there in favor of
settling into a comfortable crouch well below eye-level. One arm
stretched to drape across a bent knee, the fingers of the opposite hand
trailing the wooden floor.
End it. Regardless the commotion in the room, her attention fixed on that
match; small hairs at the nape of her neck rose unnoticed; whether from the
excitement in the room or some form of skittishness or even a charge that
crackled across her own flesh remained unknown even to her. Finally did it
end; she didn't glance to the scoreboard as both struck but only one
succeeded -- the caller's reaction was all she needed, a mere motion in
periphery. As He went down, she rose in a serpentine undulation, stretching
as she straightened to drop back a pace into shadow. Bare arms drifted to
dangle by her sides; she suddenly became the picture of cat-in-the-sun calm,
golden-green eyes lazily half-lidded. She remained in place, features placid
and contrasted only by the energy which hums constant beneath taut skin.
There it was again, motion too near the edge of a spent ring... an admirer
perhaps? Well, let them admire from there, because he's got some important
whining to do. With a grunt, he pulls himself up from the mat and sits...
hand on tummy, eyes shut. So why does he feel like the singled-out sick
animal in a pack that's being hunted by lions? Ah well...
She shifts, the roll of a hip and the glide of a step removing her from the
path his vision will take when those quicksilver eyes open.
A small belch... well, it helped a little... and he clambers slowly to his
feet. Oh, boy... an intestinal parasite might've been moer fune than
tonight's joyous moments. At least there's the hope of some cold water as he
thumps ungracefully from the ring and plods toward the new bar.
The temptation is to get impatient... tension coils at the base of her
spine, slipping greedy hands up the length of it.
[CONTINUE]
Or go back to:
[INCARNATIONS]
[TALES OF THE JUNGLE CAT]
[ARCHIVE]
Taken from live roleplay at the Duel of Fists. All characters are the intellectual property of their respective players.
