give my worst to the curse

the Rift

[OPEN] give my worst to the curse

Beloved Posts: 121

Aurora Basin Soldier atk: 8.5 | def: 10 | dam: 3

Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.3 :: Appears 6 HP: 62 | Buff: NOVICE

Orphan :: Ragdoll Cat :: None Bunnie

03-27-2017, 01:31 PM

B e l o v e d

She left the boy Thief to his wandering, slipping away from the light drenched beach no sooner than she might, cautious to skirt about whatever vagabond trails might linger in the wake, too, of the General. Though not necessarily apt to secrecy about that which she believed potent and, thusly, important, the wicked one had ears, and she had seen, too, the others recoil at the sight and word of Kaos’ treachery. Though she would never condemn her God, she certainly, also, would avoid having to defend herself from other’s malevolence, if need be.

She had better things to do, you see.

The day lengthened into eve, the meandering demoness arriving in the last, deeply golden hours of the afternoon as it was swallowed beneath the comfortable black cloaks of the Moon’s rule, when the trees were the longest, their depths the darkest, and their dead branches stretched far across the soggy earth. Increasing speed as she broaches the realm of the many-God, her lower body is soon splattered with dark, almost black mud, each down stride of her canter provoking voluminous response from the putrefied loam below. No longer white as ivory, but stained from the belly down in dark murk, her pale, stringy tresses glutted with partially dried globs of mud and mire, the witch does not seem to care.

Her giggles arrive before her, though her eyes soon find the other one here, too. Crooning lustfully at the miraculous image of the Obelisk, greedily glancing for sight of the bone behemoth, the vile maiden is left with none but the child and the obsidian pillar, for her searching.

They will do, she supposes, meandering closer, her head sloping downwards, her wild eyes roving maliciously (as they do over all things) across Kiada’s snow capped, golden pelt. Beloved does not remember her, but a chord is struck within the bitch, one that lingers, that throbs, that demands she takes notice: stopping, her peculiarly pretty face tilts, her lips twisting into the smile that smashes that perfection into bloodied shards.

"Hello," she giggles, her child’s voice like syrup, an ear twitching to the pillar, as if it speaks, her head tilting rightwards in suit, "Beloved is not sure one should touch it, without permission."

The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Image & Table by Me
Quote from Keith Douglas' How to Kill
@Kiada

Tag Beloved, please!

Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D

Find