An inferno set ablaze by the Lord of the Sun himself stretches before a scintillant woman, the licks of flame rising high into the clearest of morning skies. Hints of cerulean peek out from behind billowing towers of ash, smoke that rises far into the untainted blue of the skies, glaciers to gaze down upon the hungers of the flames.
The flames attempt to singe the woman's apparel, to ruin and burn, to consume with their abhorrence and revulsion of the mortal's frame to peek across the endless auburn of the fire, to wash and cleanse her from unrighteousness of the planet, to fuel the ever-lasting hunger for her kind.
The Lady moves from the edge of the abyss, a blast of warmth and heat bathing and encasing her in amber, charcoal and metallic reflection of the fires turned into that of a bittersweet apricot in the almighty force of the very depths of Hell itself. Blazing indigo meets the ocher, her dome raises with it's scorching kiss, cape wavering back and forth as the tail of a feline, elegant and regal and craving against the force of the choked winds, for she, too, shares it's starvation.

Yearning and desire and ravenous want and need that dance as devils in the bottom of her soul, frustration and confusion at the thoughts of allgemeine, of a home, of a place for her people, utter affection and - the Weaver's divine sands and the intimate murmurs. The voice of the wind as he scolds her, lashes against her, rages in her unfaithfulness, her fickle nature, the might of the ocean does not hold well with being chained in cages, it craves the freedom, the independence upon man. The nymph is restless. Dangerous amounts of blood lust and passion and thirst mix into her veins, a toxic slum which finds its way to drip into the glass core. It's time for a game.
The flames dance in front of the Lady, outline her with fire and darken the contours of her slender frame, a silhouette against the dazzling candlelight to which she gazes, ice and fire and burning, freezing cold that harden and smooth her simultaneously, the simplest and most confusing of paradoxes that writhe and scream inside her marrow.
Perhaps the Seeker was never water.
Perhaps she was gasoline.


And for tonight..
She will be flame.


:: @[Delinne]

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