Devotion and reliability mixed with inquisitiveness billow as sweet as the south wind into the icy undertones of her core, twist and fall with the waves of rain, even as the precipitation in the air has dried into a drizzle, even as droplets form rivulets down her spine and drip down her dome. They create constellations in long lashes, and cut through marrow as butter. The Seeker's flesh turns to ice, and frost touches the delicate curves of her bodice with touches of the arctic's kiss the dark woman has not been exposed to on this eve. The wintry mourn is bizarre upon a summer's eve far too chill, and the woman wonders if perhaps the haughty Lord of the Sun has abandoned his throne, left it to perish, break down and be crushed beneath the hooves of Time, to crumble with age and lack of affections cast unto it's surface.

The drizzle washes away the woman's sins, it exalts her, sanctify's the curse of the charcoal Lady, washes across her as the waves of the broad, everlasting, never-ending sea, bathes her in invigorating spray and calms the screams of her mind, the rippling frustrations of those whom she holds dear, the utter confusion and chaos that wage wars in her glass heart, sharpened daggers that crush against sinew and pounds the wisps of sanity into powders of grain and dust, sand and froth, and she floats away upon the wind, a child-like elation raising forth from breath that causes steam to form in the freezing oxygen that fills her lungs with crisp harshness and soothe the hungers of the devil that boils within her bosom and threatens to spring forth as some deranged monster, to pillage and consume, wreck and fulfill the thirst that rises within its veins.
In the midst of the bleak world stands forth a brilliance of aureate and sanquine, specked as that of a robin's egg, familiar and riddled with camaraderie, the vermilion Queen, Eris. The Lady of Death.

With striving elegance the charcoal Lady moves forth, a flitting smile dancing across her maw, a dull shade in response to the opulence of her Queen, affection boiling within veins and forming clots that shall end her as time moves onward, for it waits naught, it waits for no mortal, no man nor woman, no Lady of Death, and soon the curse shall be wiped from the Earth itself, sent forth to the demons of Hell for punishment upon her crimes. And yet for now, the mistress rearranges her liquid core for her Lady, gleeful as that of a young girl with the visions of flowers and ballerinas in her mind. The mistress of discord and the Seeker of the cursed, a intriguing experience to view, and further to explore, who shall win the duel on this eve? Shall the Goddess of Fate frown upon her, send tidings of despair in her wake? The Seeker has fought the Werewolf and has proved unvictorious: Does the Seeker dare face the wife of Thanatos in confrontation and combat? A pause, and the woman gazes with a soft expression upon her Queen, mischievous intent darkens her violet orbs and she allows a gentle laugh to lilt as birdsong into the rainy air.
"We meet once more, Lady Death."

Liquids takes solidity, and the Seeker moves forth, slim bones and refined muscles bunching beneath thin flesh, yet the Seeker is anything but regarded as the weak. Power and control are built into each electronic step, a dance of war, and the song beats within her eardrums as the morning cries of larks. "Dance with me?"
The dangerous slow dance quickens with the beats of her bloodied heart, concentrations as she aims to breeze past the Lady and scrape the aureate flesh with a twist of the dome along her external intercostal muscle, a abrupt yank of the dome as she makes her way forwards aimed to snap teeth into her Queen's croup. The attacks are made within short succession of one another, light and almost gentle, she means no harm on this eve.
Her Queen shall live for many more years, with the softest of bruising if her song tells true.

So then, doll, the dance of the Queen and her subject took place, on a gloomy mourn of dew drops and storms, as was customary of their bittersweet meetings.
The tale of a loyal subject and the Queen of Death.
She finds it perplexing.

And she waits.


— WC: 752 words 4200 characters
Attack: [ 1 | 2 ]
Defense: [0 | 1
:: Circuta lopes towards Eris at an even pace, then lunges forwards along her left side, dipping her head and aiming to lightly scrape her external intercostal muscle with her horn. Yanks her head and neck
upwards once more as she passes by in an attempt to bite at Eris' croup.


Circuta</style>
who's the killer in the crowd -</style>