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The wind is loud in his ears, loose twigs snap under his paws, the watchful eye of the moon half-lidded in the dark sky above his head. Nikignik runs for his life, barely taking in his surroundings, the all-too-familiar forest around him a death trap, pine needles burning soft paw pads like ambers, pines grinning with warped bark. His tail isn't doing too good of a job at covering his footprints with loose dust and leaves, but Nikignik can't afford treading carefully, time seeping through his hands like water through sand.
A glint of reflected light catches his attention, and he turns sharply, losing precious seconds: there's a stream of water, inky-black in the darkness of the night, ahead of him now, and he jumps in without a second thought. The cold water makes him lose his breath and he recoils in shock, but bashes with his paws, trying his best to go as far upstream as he can before freezing down to the bone. Only when Nikignik feels like he covered a safe distance he gets out, wet fur clinging to his skin in the chilly air, his limbs trembling and failing to comply to his will, but he can finally let out a sharp breath of relief, shaking some of the wetness off and scrambling into the woods on his limp paws. He truly is a picture of helplessness, a wet dog-like beast running from one shadow to another, omnipresence limited to a physical body, life Indescribable shaking in fear. He feels like a newborn pup, defenseless and almost blind in comparison to his regular state, and like a newborn pup he finds the first hole between the crooked roots of a tall black pine and crawls into it with no regard for cleanliness of his coat. Nikignik breathes in deeply and finally relaxes just a bit and even feels somewhat safe, hidden from the cold green light of the stars above by a towering tree, when a distant sound of a horn disturbes his shaky peace. The hunt has begun.
Marolmar, on the contrary, steps through his woods with the royal confidence of this place's creator and overlord, small flowers and patches of weeds sprouting from the trails of his hooves. For this little game of theirs he picked out a more humanoid shape than he is used to, hands holding onto a crossbow with a single bolt loaded in; Marolmar is sure he won't miss his shot.
As he ventures further in the forest, he can see smallest disturbances in the pristine landscape where no man has ever gone: broken branches, uneven splotches of dust, bushes of blueberries trampled by Nikignik's paws. Marolmar follows his trail patiently, his nose catching the bouquet of scents that is a scared indescribable being in a dog's body.
The trail leads him to a river, and Marolmar humms contently, putting the crossbow on his back. Smart dog.
He can't catch the scent in the water, so he makes his way across the river and decides to go upstream first, believing Nikignik to choose the harder path, and his bet pays off when after walking half a mile and almost deciding to turn the other way he finds a set of wet pawprints leading off into the thick of understory. Marolmar can't help but smile as he lifts the horn to his lips a second time.
Against his wishes, the tiredness catches up to Nikignik, and he is slowly drifting in the delirium on the edge of dream and wake when the horn blares again, barely fifty feet away from his hiding place. He is wide awake immediately, trying to still his breath as much as possible and not move a muscle: he is exhausted, he won't be able to run away, so trying to hide is his best bet.
"I know you're here, puppy" – Marolmar's voice is thick with hunger, sacharine, deep and velvety, the kind of voice that takes up your whole attention whether you like or not. The sound of this voice twists into Nikignik's stomach like a white-hot knife, paralyzing him with fear and deep, excruciating, shameful want to feel this voice growl out while Marolmar sinks his teeth into Nikignik's own flesh. The desire of prey to submit to its devourer, to end the endless hunt, to belong somewhere.
Nikignik doesn't give in. He sits and waits, listens carefully for the featherlight step of one after him, listens for his breath, can almost hear him smile as his hooved feet stop by the entrance to his hiding place.
"Gotcha", breathes out this voice.
Nikignik doesn't get the privilege to react as Marolmar drops to the forest floor and yanks him out by the foot. He squeals and whimpers and thrashes against his captor, paws changing to hands, trying desperately to get out of Marolmar's iron grip. He winces and grabs Nikignik by the throat with his other hand, closing fingers against the air pipe, forcing Nikignik's panicked eyes to look into his own. The green spark of life and death and rebirth in his voidly black eyes burns into Nikignik's corneas – as if it hadn't been forever engraved in every fiber of his being.
"If you struggle it will make you all the more delicious", Marolmar whispers, leaning so close to his ear Nikignik is sure his voice is just resonating in his skull on its own.
Nikignik doesn't get a chance to answer when something sharp digs into his right side and the pain blooms out, the bolt going straight through the flesh, etching itself just under his ribcage.
The desperate inhuman howl tearing through the quiet of the forest can't be his. This body just doesn't have the lung capacity or the right combination of vocal chords to produce such sounds. Despite that Nikignik feels his throat dry out as the sound comes to a halt, leaving only sharp whines as he coughs up first drops of bloody foam.
"Just look at you", cooes Marolmar, cupping Nikignik's wet, dirty cheek in his palm. There is no mockery in his voice. Marolmar is genuinely fascinated by this cruel sight, he takes in every little twitch of Nikignik's hands and paws and entire being. Nikignik is trying very hard not to dissolve into dark cloud of unspeakable nature, and his self-discipline deserves a reward, Marolmar thinks. That's why he lays him down on the forest floor, on a bed of sprouting black vines and tiny red flowers, and lowers his head to Nikignik's thigh, nudging it with his face. Marolmar is so gentle it almost hurts, thinks Nikignik, whimpering and clutching the crossbow bolt in his side.
"Now, love," Marolmar softly moves his hand away from the wound, "this stays. You are my prey, my prize, aren't you?"
Nikignik nods weakly, feeling heat pool under his ribs, on the left, where his heart is still beating frantically. When Marolmar calls him "love" he is willing to do anything, willing to give up much more than this simulacrum of a body.
"Here you go, apple of my eye."
Marolmar kisses his thigh one last time and bites, skin bursting under the onslaught of his jaws with a disgusting wet sound, blood trickling down. Nikignik can't scream anymore, just mutter something under his breath, hands clasped as if in a prayer. Marolmar doesn't concern himself with this, his entire being condensed to the piece of flesh that he swallows whole without bothering to chew or savor it. First bite is for the beast who wants nothing more than to stuff its gut; the second bite Marolmar takes is for them both. He runs his tongue over the gaping wound in Nikignik's thigh, tasting the unnaturally red blood, almost as sweet, almost as viscous as honey. His teeth scrape the bare twitching muscle before he digs them in, closing his eyes and chewing down on Nikignik's flesh. For him it's nectar and ambrosia, heavy, sickeningly floral smell just as prominent as the taste and texture. Marolmar can't hold himself back from taking another bite, then another, smothering his face with blood and breathing it all in – and then out, burning Nikignik's exposed nerves with his breath.
Nikignik is still there. Nikignik is doomed by his nature to watch, to be present when Marolmar sinks his claws into his chest, prying open his ribs in a crude mockery of a blooming flower. Nikignik isn't even dead yet, his heart, brain and other vital intestines are powered by life Indescribable and don't give up this easily; so he watches with two eyes this body has, lifting his head just a bit, as Marolmar lovingly sucks the bits of flesh left on his ribs. Nikignik can't help the low, gurgling sound that escapes his mouth in place of a moan, and Marolmar smiles at him, and Nikignik is almost passing out from sheer ecstasy of seeing this smile, even if filtered through a human face.
"Stay with me", asks Marolmar, petting his cheek, and Nikignik stays, focused as he'll ever be on this sickening moment and wishing he could stretch it into eternity. When Marolmar's gentle hands, hands of an artist, hands not made to tear and rip and break, cup his beating heart, caressing it as he looks into Nikignik's eyes, Nikignik mouths:
"I love you".