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10-06-2013, 09:32 PM
The healer is in luck. A shade wanders this marsh, searching that which the Jester queen has promised her. A refreshment. A healing, a lack of the charred skin caused by burns, the scabs down her forelegs, the bruises forming on her sides and the front of her bodice. This is no good. She can't seduce the crazed whilst she has these disgusting injuries adorning her bodice. She cannot fight when her frame is weakened from acidic poison and blows given to her by the werewolf. It's a disgrace, and she all but screeches her frustration into the physical realm. With careful step and eager orbs she searches for her quarry, the femme she has heard deemed reizend. a strange title in the midst of the asylum, charming, delightful, it speaks nothing to her of the chains the woman must have held somewhere in her grasp. And yet, she must be at least partially sane for her to be a healer, a angel who guards the souls of the wounded and sick, brings them back into the world of the living by melodies of the celestial bodies above her dome. Darkened skies pause as they come to observe a bodice made of sugar and salty, ocean tides. They are adorned with a obsidian sword, and lavender blooms from each orb. As she scans the woman with her visuals, she begins her graceful steps once more. Moving and stopping at a comfortable distance, she hums softly in the back of her throat. Is this the healer, the wingless angel? A wisp of lyrics escape her maw, light, cloaked with ease. "Is it you, wingless angel? The one they deem as Reizend, the one whom heals the injured and sick? Shall you then bless me with your song, my dear?" CREDITS
VENOMXBABY : MIDNIGHTSTOUCHSTOCK |
