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12-29-2013, 04:22 AM
Zuriel the Seraphim</style> i fought the angels here today. </style> When the angel freezes it is not a rigid thing. Like water hesitating on the tip of an iceberg, her body rolls to a fluid stop, quivering and curvaceous, reflective and smooth. How lovely, how tempting, to run the soft of your nose over those luscious hips, along the ridges of that slim, lithe back, and into the base of her ivory mane- but how cold you would find her, frigid but not frozen, liquid ice that burns to the touch, clinging you close and crystallizing your pain. She rolls to a stop and for a moment she's torn, a snowflake caught in a dizzying spiral, still and alert in wake of the stallion's words. That's right, fuck off! his echo booms. Hornhead whore! Faelon slinks away, unnoticed. The demure thing is meaningless in the face of this ass. How dare she try and tell her, Cinnoru's heir, what she can and cannot do! Flat-hooved prick. What, did some unicorn steal his precious balls and roast them on a spit? If so, she would greatly like to meet that hero, and thank her for her gift to society. If not, well, she would be happy to perform such a service to the world. Really. Our of the goodness of her frozen heart. But our Seraph does not shout, does not snarl her building rage; she will not stoop to his level, fall to the ground at the asshole's feet. He isn't worth it, the follow of Nieque who would not know his place if it struck him upside the skull. Nay, the mare does not speak, but pauses in her steps and turns her neck, arching elegantly to cast an impassive gaze on the buckskin's hide. Her expression bellows I don't care, and her eyes rake him brazenly with all the haughtiness of a queen. She soaks up his appearance, from the scar on his face to the sock on his hoof, and that of his mongrel of a dog, too; she categorizes it, stores it, and hides it away. Someday the boy will get his just desserts, will feel the wrath of an angel and sob in his despair. Lucky for Ricochet, the queen has a more amusing playmate for today. The butterfly follows her. The Seraph has won. With a cold, triumph smirk at the stallion's teal gaze, Zuriel turns again, the water now fluid as she continues away, leaving the stallion to stew in his wrath. Turn flows to walk, without hesitant pause; "Come, little butterfly," she calls to her pet. "The world is waiting; wouldn't you like to see it with me?" Hindquarters sashay, triumph gleans in her gaze. I win, says her smile, and the world knows it's true. |
