Crackling embers cast long shadows through dark twilight grass. Familiar sights of trees and stones twisted into grotesque figures in the wavering light, making the landscape itself seem aggressive. More eerily, perhaps, was the silence. Africa, the cradle of life, was as silent as the grave in that strange, rippling atmosphere; the creatures of the night gone quiet, or fled.
All, it seemed, but one.
Two cool eyes, turned golden-green as they caught and reflected that dancing light, stared out of the long grass. It had been so long. One orbit was wrapped in bone, half of a jagged skull perched upon the watcher's head; a cruel looking helm. Her face, near always turned in a stiff frown or knowing smirk for once was instead an open expression of awe and terror. It was not that she'd never seen a god before—not at all, she'd helped tear the throat from a goddess only moons ago; that alone should be enough to steel her spine. It was GOOD news she meant to deliver, after all, not failure, or just as bad, nothing.
She'd lain in wait for hours, having crept up onto the low grassy hill near dawn. It was nearly night proper now, but she'd waited. She'd waited hours and hours for his arrival, and several more after. He was not to be rushed, and it was not he place to approach him. It'd been years. A few hours more wouldn't matter. Even if she had been praying to him every day, with every breath, every beat of her black heart.
He'd never once answered.
A sudden brightening of the low flickering light drew the lioness from her thoughts. The great god of Hate had turned, regarding her with what was almost dismissal. His nostrils flared, her breath caught in her throat, and with an ear-shattering roar he surged forward, flipping and pinning her before she could react.
"I smell the rank blood of a goddess on you, daughter." He was massive, blotting out the sky as he pinned her on her back, the lioness' skull helmet clattering to the dirt. A violent thrill shot up her spine—her father's moods had ever been erratic, and death was far, far more likely than praise. Such a glorious way to die though...
"You dare raise a claw to your better, whelp? You think yourself fit to taste the blood of Mkodi's first children?"
Ashes rained down around her, singing fur and grass alike. Doxailol's eyes were wide, terrified and triumphant, and silent. His cavernous jaws cracked and gaped inches from her throat, almost as if he knew just how that goddess had died... And perhaps he did. She wouldn't be the first of his children to meet their end between those fangs if he decided her act of devotion was to be answered with the gift of martyrdom. Of course he would hate her for what she'd done; it was his entire nature, and he would likewise hate her for not doing it, or for doing anything at all. If he killed her now, he would hate her still for daring to die and be no longer useful to him. And all of this hate would fuel and feed the dark being. What more could a devoted servant ask to do for their god?
Luck of some kind was on her side though (at least if you asked anyone else) and after a long, painfully hot stare-down, the god released her. She dared not rise; his fury still burned viciously hot. "Your strength is a gift, daughter. I will...reward...your talents." A claw lashed out, carving a vicious streak through the fur of her chest, carving an 'x'. She bit back any noise of pain, at least until a long, thick rope of molten spittle fell from the god's gaping jaw to sizzle and burn, cauterizing the wound. Her howl echoed across the empty plains, and by the time her vision ceased to swim and blur she found herself alone, the dark, throbbing wound on her chest and the silence around her the only sign that the god had come and gone.
It was some time before the lioness managed to roll and force herself to sit up, chest heaving with each breath, which unfortunately only exacerbated the issue, the tissue of her front pulling tight with each movement. Wind rustled the grass, and her legs shook. A claw reached out, flinching again at the twang of muscle, and she snagged her discarded skull helm. She fumbled, breathed deep, and then lifted it to settle it atop her head. A long sigh slithered out of her, and she forced herself to roll her shoulders. It hurt, and would scar, no doubt... But that was what her father had wanted. By extension, what she wanted.
She would wear this mark like a badge of honor. God given, for god's life taken. A proverbial pound of flesh, then? She would cast herself into her father's jaws if that was what he'd asked; this was so much less. Exactly what she'd tell her pridemates, well. She'd have to come up with something or other to tell them, but it made no matter. She did not need them to like her, or even trust her. Her work was too important to let them close, except to take that final bite.
And Hatred had not elected to free her from her self-appointed task. He had also not blessed her mission, but that was neither here nor there. Her work would continue. She'd tasted the all too savory blood of the immortal; felt the thrill of power as her fangs tore at her throat. She wanted it again. Would feel it again.
But first, of course, she had to pick her way home. Getting to her paws was taxing; walking home would be more so. But she was the daughter of Hatred. She was strong, strong, STRONG. This wound would not stop her. It would not dare.