The leaves come away easily enough, waxy and alive under your fingers until you pull them from the stone. A form begins to emerge, a long figure sitting. Much longer than a human, not a symbol of a dead Queen or legendary figure. Something like a snout juts out, and you cover the flat nose with your palm. The rumbling of men’s voices become louder behind you and you suck in a sharp breath. It seems to echo in the open air.

A gutteral shout from the other end of the stone arches warns you that your hot blooded friend has spotted you. The fear of them is suddenly and overwhelmingly taken with indignant, boiling anger. Bastards. You feel the solid stone under your hand, pressing your weight against it. Thick vines block you from feeling out the shapes properly.

You take your bloody blade and slice away the more tough, woody vines that have adhered themselves to the stone’s surface like a heavy blanket. Anger powers you, you can hear half muttered, furious words spilling from your lips as you tear the vines away. It’s clear now, the figure is a long sinuous beast. You recognise a wolf’s muzzle, but more stout and wide. The wild fur on its neck looks soft and thick. It’s lips are heavy and blackened by the blood from your blade as you cut it free. Something about that seems right.

Your balance shifts with a sudden, sickening lurch. The stone figure was so captivating you didn’t notice the men catch up to you. Their jeering begins again, but they’re sweating and winded now. Even in such a dire situation you can’t help but laugh at them, mock them for being unable to keep up with you.

A cracking blow to the side of your head makes your cheek swell and your ears ring, all sound momentarily falling away. It’s your friend with the fat tongue. His friends hold your arms and turn you to face him again. Gore and spittle and bile cover his chin and the front of his shirt. His mouth steams in the low light as he tries to say something to you but only grunting half words come out.

Every tense muscle in him already looks exhausted. His mouth twitches as he rubs the sweat from his brows and his eyes. He’s not satisfied with his night’s hunt. Not yet. With mad, dark eyes he kisses you again. Even his friends rear away from him in surprise, yelping. Some slap at his shoulders to push him off you but his need to finish what he started gives him an almost feral strength. It’s not a kiss as such, but another attempt at invasion. Tasting of copper and sweat, the cut edge of his tongue ragged and hot. It makes you gag and retch, spitting blood onto the statue’s base.

Your bloody mouthed friend staggers away, giving the rest the chance they were looking for. Their hands are on you again, pulling and tearing layers of warm clothing from you. The cold is back, you feel it now. The air is bitter and their hands are clammy, the frost on the ground crunching against your skin as they push you down onto it. Fingers tug and pull you into awkward, painful shapes, trying to work their way inside you any way they can.

No one wants to kiss you anymore. They leave your head free to stare up at the statue, staring as it leans down to press its flat muzzle against yours. A wide tongue swipes across your mouth. A much better kiss. It feels distant and separate from the rest of the sharp night air, you barely notice their rough, insistent pawing.

The statue tilts its head, watching you.

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