This post is hidden due to the following trigger warning: Violence, mentions of blood
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SKILL : HUNTER ( 1 / 5 )
Life had never really been easy, nor predictable.
Since before she could encode memories, Camille's existence had been a thing of misfortunate and change. She lacked consistency and safety, but she learned to roll with the punches rather than let slights or losing battles get her down.
That was not to say the street urchin hadn't grown sneaky to accomplish her means, however, for she had. What her unassuming frame couldn't pry from others, her quick wit often afforded her purloined fruit, baked goods, or whatever she could get her hands on in the streets of her province.
It also led her into meeting Lady DuBois - an event that forever altered the trajectory of her life. Perhaps she had grown complacent in the expectation of warmth, a solid roof over her head, and the absence of hunger pangs when she slept at night. Within a moment, she had gone from the doorway of the Lady DuBois' vast library to the land of Mythris, though the weight of such discovery had not yet set in.
As her lids slowly lifted, she was first made aware of the coppery scent of blood. It was overwhelming to her waking senses, far denser than when she had simply been human - a sentiment she did not yet fully understand as her consciousness hedged between the realms of woman and beast, landing on neither.
Though, if you were to ask the more distinguished gentlefolk of the life before, they might have suggested she had always been a lesser being even after she became an outlier of dignified society.
Survival instincts awakened - and with them came a slow-burning anger. It seemed like a life force all its own, churning beneath her skin - an itch she couldn't scratch. Lips that were not her own flickered in a snarl, the first conscious clue that suggested she was not from whence she came.
Camille was no longer herself.
Pale eyes cast their sight lower, to the space where paws pooled before her - occupying the area hands should have taken. Her stomach sank, taking some of the anger with it - at least for now - as she scrambled for her last memories. She had just been in the library, but a frantic glance around her person indicated she was now in some sort of dilapidated structure. The smell of farmland permeated the air - animals, stale debris, and manure to a lesser extent. It was not necessarily an unusual smell, but there were no animals on Lady DuBois' property.
So, then, there was only one explanation.
She was dreaming.
This was all a figment of her slumbering mind, the bits and pieces of fables she read to make a melting pot of some strange fever dream she would soon wake from. It would all be quite silly and amusing when she awoke, assuming she remembered it.
For a beat, she felt relief. It was quickly smothered by the irritation from earlier; for her ignorance of it, the sensation redoubled its efforts. The feral rage demanded acknowledgement and tithe, it was no longer requesting her attention - it would have it, by any means necessary.
Under the guise of accepting the situation as an altered reality found only within dreams, she indulged the heated blade of fury that pressed to her throat, her mind, her very soul. Every transgression she had weathered since she was a child turned corporeal, flooding into her veins and fueling her to stand, hackles arced above her small shoulders.
There was something, somewhere that she felt a need to find, but she knew not what it was. Dream logic was so often a product of mismatched thoughts, she did not even blink at the passing impulse. She allowed an invisible force to guide her, to hone the latent anger into something palpable as her light, yet sometimes faltering, steps coasted her through the shamble of the unfamiliar barn and into the open grassland.
Time had rendered the cottage ahead of her into little more than a lean-to, but she paid it little mind as something fluffy crossed her path. With blood already on the air, her teeth ached to sink into the hapless chicken - it was likely seeking shelter in its panic when it smelled blood, but its decision to stray would be the seal upon its own death certification.
With a predatory slope she did not recognize or consciously invoke, Camille pressed forward, taking only a handful of steps before she lunged, jaws arced wide. The chicken was caught off-guard, but its demise was swift beneath jaws that crushed the delicate bones and cartilage within its tiny neck. Feathers billowed into the air with the force of her tackle, but its stilling between her teeth would not be enough to quell her - it served only to whet.
Camille's teeth dug deep, as if hoping to find the bottom of her rage if she could only encroach further upon the dead avian's flesh. Blood spilled into her mouth, drenching her pale fur and oozing across the half-earthen floor, but she was unmoved - after all, this was a dream. Her wanton show of violence would be swept away when she woke, a distant memory.
The chicken was not what she sought.
She could feel it in her bones; there was something else she needed to find. No matter how her mind strained, she could not decipher what she needed. Camille was fed only savage, beast-like impulse - the instinct to drive tooth into flesh, it did not matter whose.
A thrill of alarm sounded somewhere among these tangents, but they were just a quickly discarded, ignored. The chicken fell from slackened jaws as her eyes - dark with a predatory hunger - scanned her surroundings. She knew another existed here, but she set her sights upon the cabin all the same.
Decidedly, she angled her body in its direction. At the very least, it would offer her refuge from the tempestuous winds and elements. With any luck, passing the doorway would deliver her to wakefulness, as dreams were so oft to do.
Since before she could encode memories, Camille's existence had been a thing of misfortunate and change. She lacked consistency and safety, but she learned to roll with the punches rather than let slights or losing battles get her down.
That was not to say the street urchin hadn't grown sneaky to accomplish her means, however, for she had. What her unassuming frame couldn't pry from others, her quick wit often afforded her purloined fruit, baked goods, or whatever she could get her hands on in the streets of her province.
It also led her into meeting Lady DuBois - an event that forever altered the trajectory of her life. Perhaps she had grown complacent in the expectation of warmth, a solid roof over her head, and the absence of hunger pangs when she slept at night. Within a moment, she had gone from the doorway of the Lady DuBois' vast library to the land of Mythris, though the weight of such discovery had not yet set in.
As her lids slowly lifted, she was first made aware of the coppery scent of blood. It was overwhelming to her waking senses, far denser than when she had simply been human - a sentiment she did not yet fully understand as her consciousness hedged between the realms of woman and beast, landing on neither.
Though, if you were to ask the more distinguished gentlefolk of the life before, they might have suggested she had always been a lesser being even after she became an outlier of dignified society.
Survival instincts awakened - and with them came a slow-burning anger. It seemed like a life force all its own, churning beneath her skin - an itch she couldn't scratch. Lips that were not her own flickered in a snarl, the first conscious clue that suggested she was not from whence she came.
Camille was no longer herself.
Pale eyes cast their sight lower, to the space where paws pooled before her - occupying the area hands should have taken. Her stomach sank, taking some of the anger with it - at least for now - as she scrambled for her last memories. She had just been in the library, but a frantic glance around her person indicated she was now in some sort of dilapidated structure. The smell of farmland permeated the air - animals, stale debris, and manure to a lesser extent. It was not necessarily an unusual smell, but there were no animals on Lady DuBois' property.
So, then, there was only one explanation.
She was dreaming.
This was all a figment of her slumbering mind, the bits and pieces of fables she read to make a melting pot of some strange fever dream she would soon wake from. It would all be quite silly and amusing when she awoke, assuming she remembered it.
For a beat, she felt relief. It was quickly smothered by the irritation from earlier; for her ignorance of it, the sensation redoubled its efforts. The feral rage demanded acknowledgement and tithe, it was no longer requesting her attention - it would have it, by any means necessary.
Under the guise of accepting the situation as an altered reality found only within dreams, she indulged the heated blade of fury that pressed to her throat, her mind, her very soul. Every transgression she had weathered since she was a child turned corporeal, flooding into her veins and fueling her to stand, hackles arced above her small shoulders.
There was something, somewhere that she felt a need to find, but she knew not what it was. Dream logic was so often a product of mismatched thoughts, she did not even blink at the passing impulse. She allowed an invisible force to guide her, to hone the latent anger into something palpable as her light, yet sometimes faltering, steps coasted her through the shamble of the unfamiliar barn and into the open grassland.
Time had rendered the cottage ahead of her into little more than a lean-to, but she paid it little mind as something fluffy crossed her path. With blood already on the air, her teeth ached to sink into the hapless chicken - it was likely seeking shelter in its panic when it smelled blood, but its decision to stray would be the seal upon its own death certification.
With a predatory slope she did not recognize or consciously invoke, Camille pressed forward, taking only a handful of steps before she lunged, jaws arced wide. The chicken was caught off-guard, but its demise was swift beneath jaws that crushed the delicate bones and cartilage within its tiny neck. Feathers billowed into the air with the force of her tackle, but its stilling between her teeth would not be enough to quell her - it served only to whet.
Camille's teeth dug deep, as if hoping to find the bottom of her rage if she could only encroach further upon the dead avian's flesh. Blood spilled into her mouth, drenching her pale fur and oozing across the half-earthen floor, but she was unmoved - after all, this was a dream. Her wanton show of violence would be swept away when she woke, a distant memory.
The chicken was not what she sought.
She could feel it in her bones; there was something else she needed to find. No matter how her mind strained, she could not decipher what she needed. Camille was fed only savage, beast-like impulse - the instinct to drive tooth into flesh, it did not matter whose.
A thrill of alarm sounded somewhere among these tangents, but they were just a quickly discarded, ignored. The chicken fell from slackened jaws as her eyes - dark with a predatory hunger - scanned her surroundings. She knew another existed here, but she set her sights upon the cabin all the same.
Decidedly, she angled her body in its direction. At the very least, it would offer her refuge from the tempestuous winds and elements. With any luck, passing the doorway would deliver her to wakefulness, as dreams were so oft to do.