.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
03-30-2017, 09:39 AM
The cursed doll holds her eye upon him, the suitor, her flirtatious flutters of tail and lashes intentional, and carefully placed and metered. Though she is as sure to attempt to steal his life as she is his free time this evening with more pleasant things (for him, anyway, in more than one way), it’s ever difficult to deduce. The witch is as fickle as the wind, cold as its arc through the tundra.
It is fitting that she resides to the north.
Indeed marked by scars, in the ways she has retained perfection, her eyes meander across his figure as it is displayed, her dainty limbs moving beneath her, applying outward curvature to her proper bits; slipping from behind, the scant view of her round haunches reveals itself about her small shoulder, her tail still swaying, its Arabian arc poised toward heaven, her hooves each placed for poise.
But the grin, wicked and malformed, which eases across her lips, reveals the truth: she is no maiden, or angel cast from above. She is that which has arisen, from the deep, cold dark; a shadow given form.
"Much as the Ocean is. Cold and proud," she deems her home, child’s voice breathy, split by laughter, "its heart of water unfreezing. At night, the sky is often lit by color, rather than stars."
"Like the mountain, too, the sea holds many secrets," she whispers, a sudden glimmer in her eye seemingly arisen from the incantation of the mention of the deep ocean’s companions (the brine and breeze), "dark as night at its depths, be it below waves or stone. If Beloved were to die, she would find either a suitable bed."
"What is it you fight for, Green-Eyes?" she questions, last, not truly curious but to mock him, mentally or aloud, depending on the foolishness of his reply. Family, honor, love; what were these things to the wicked one but fleeting illusions, held fast to the strands of this mortal frame? Yet, it is what they lifted their swords for, these day-walkers, entrenched in the rain filled, muddy ditch of their short lives, too blinded by the grit and downpour to see the shadow that lie beneath, and from which it fell, from above.
[ OOC: I SUCK AT SHORT POSTS FML ]
It is fitting that she resides to the north.
Indeed marked by scars, in the ways she has retained perfection, her eyes meander across his figure as it is displayed, her dainty limbs moving beneath her, applying outward curvature to her proper bits; slipping from behind, the scant view of her round haunches reveals itself about her small shoulder, her tail still swaying, its Arabian arc poised toward heaven, her hooves each placed for poise.
But the grin, wicked and malformed, which eases across her lips, reveals the truth: she is no maiden, or angel cast from above. She is that which has arisen, from the deep, cold dark; a shadow given form.
"Much as the Ocean is. Cold and proud," she deems her home, child’s voice breathy, split by laughter, "its heart of water unfreezing. At night, the sky is often lit by color, rather than stars."
"Like the mountain, too, the sea holds many secrets," she whispers, a sudden glimmer in her eye seemingly arisen from the incantation of the mention of the deep ocean’s companions (the brine and breeze), "dark as night at its depths, be it below waves or stone. If Beloved were to die, she would find either a suitable bed."
"What is it you fight for, Green-Eyes?" she questions, last, not truly curious but to mock him, mentally or aloud, depending on the foolishness of his reply. Family, honor, love; what were these things to the wicked one but fleeting illusions, held fast to the strands of this mortal frame? Yet, it is what they lifted their swords for, these day-walkers, entrenched in the rain filled, muddy ditch of their short lives, too blinded by the grit and downpour to see the shadow that lie beneath, and from which it fell, from above.
[ OOC: I SUCK AT SHORT POSTS FML ]
you've lost your demon.
@Bartholomeo
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
