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03-02-2014, 02:43 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-02-2014, 03:28 PM by Confutatis.)
Demonic in her sadistic intents, ugly in her rage; she advances, impetuous and cruel, towards the stallion of crimson and scarlet. Where he is cold and contained, she is wicked and wild. She is the damned, the mare doomed to the seven hells, a devil clothed in satire of midnight skin and bone, crowned with her evil and her ambition. Not a common slut to be used, a pretty whore to sell herself to the highest bidder, but a queen who would enslave and punish, leave behind her a trail of blood and desecration as she burned them all down.
Who better to first taste her wrath than a boy dressed in blood?
Her eyes are feral in her wordless fury, jaw working itself to a sullen ache as her lips lather with acidic foam, dripping and bubbling. Does he see her darkness? Does he not see her craze, her unwillingness to bend to the punishing punch of his words, that she was COMING FOR HIM when the sun went down and no-one was around to protect his idiotic pride? The stallion thought himself better than her, but nobody was, nobody could be. Mortal flesh could not withstand her presence, hearts withered and shrank from her wicked touch and the taste of her black magic- he would be no different. She would knock on his windows, tear down his door, and watch him squirm and scream beneath her while she shattered his ribcage and rended his puny heart from dripping chest.
How she despises Déodat's mockery- so she did not get to mount like a stallion did, she had to sit under the weight of thrusting hips- did this make her any lesser of a warrior, of a ruler? Still she had teeth and hooves, the wickedness of her vile sorcery. She had borne herself through the pains of childbirth, and any mare who had gone through that knew that no amount of pain on the battlefield could compare to expelling a foal from the womb. FUCK him and his beliefs.
“Sexist bitch,” she snarls, her voice full of poison, writhing like snakes if the reptiles were sounds. “I am the daughter of demons, the crawl of unseen monsters in the shadows. You do not play with bitches and devils; YOU RUN AWAY.”
The bones of her family press against her ribs and haunches.
They are here with her, even if others have forgotten them.
The hellion vows in silence to uphold their name; she will be defeated no longer. Today she would arise victorious, and this unicorn would take back his insults. The Demon Days may be over, but they would come again, one step at a time.
Poisonous orbs slit as he speaks easily- ooh, all right, I'll fight you (as if you had any fucking choice, stupid little dick she thinks to herself)- as if he is simply shrugging off her heinous taunts and biting challenges. Did he not realize she was a weathered mare of war? No matter if he did not take her seriously. Once she stripped him bare of muscle and the intricate mappings of veins he would find himself regretting his oh-so-casual indifference.
Her Mongrel stays behind her as she steps forwards, a royally slow progression. It is magic Confutatis focuses on, rather than attacking immediately. The magic of rot is always there, a seething force of malignant energy, shifting waves which vary in size of the area it encompasses, but never reaching past a radius of five meters. A slight sweat breaks out over oily shoulder and neck as she concentrates; the sorcery is difficult and tedious to maneuver, reluctant to obey her demands, preferring to crawl and slither over nothingness and to nibble at the flesh of small, scurrying creatures. There is a presence to it, a living sense of death, and she lets out gentle sigh as it wraps around her, curling close to her obsidian flesh, yet not quite touching her charcoal skin.
Eyes flick up towards dear Déodat, lips curling into a vindictive leer that is terrifying to behold. Lady Death stands, hopefully face-to-face as they had been just moments ago, a couple of meters away; and then charges, hooves clattering on the crystal floor, ears twisted and pinning to knotted mane, aiming to move to his left side. If successful, she hopes to twist her cranium over his haunches to bite down on the end of the spine, towards his tail, while simultaneously swishing up her tail, aiming towards his face to give him a stinging bitch slap.
She hopes he likes her poison kisses to be lavished upon his scarlet body; soon he will not need to appear red as blood, because he will be covered in gore.
How was that for irony?
Who better to first taste her wrath than a boy dressed in blood?
Her eyes are feral in her wordless fury, jaw working itself to a sullen ache as her lips lather with acidic foam, dripping and bubbling. Does he see her darkness? Does he not see her craze, her unwillingness to bend to the punishing punch of his words, that she was COMING FOR HIM when the sun went down and no-one was around to protect his idiotic pride? The stallion thought himself better than her, but nobody was, nobody could be. Mortal flesh could not withstand her presence, hearts withered and shrank from her wicked touch and the taste of her black magic- he would be no different. She would knock on his windows, tear down his door, and watch him squirm and scream beneath her while she shattered his ribcage and rended his puny heart from dripping chest.
How she despises Déodat's mockery- so she did not get to mount like a stallion did, she had to sit under the weight of thrusting hips- did this make her any lesser of a warrior, of a ruler? Still she had teeth and hooves, the wickedness of her vile sorcery. She had borne herself through the pains of childbirth, and any mare who had gone through that knew that no amount of pain on the battlefield could compare to expelling a foal from the womb. FUCK him and his beliefs.
“Sexist bitch,” she snarls, her voice full of poison, writhing like snakes if the reptiles were sounds. “I am the daughter of demons, the crawl of unseen monsters in the shadows. You do not play with bitches and devils; YOU RUN AWAY.”
The bones of her family press against her ribs and haunches.
They are here with her, even if others have forgotten them.
The hellion vows in silence to uphold their name; she will be defeated no longer. Today she would arise victorious, and this unicorn would take back his insults. The Demon Days may be over, but they would come again, one step at a time.
Poisonous orbs slit as he speaks easily- ooh, all right, I'll fight you (as if you had any fucking choice, stupid little dick she thinks to herself)- as if he is simply shrugging off her heinous taunts and biting challenges. Did he not realize she was a weathered mare of war? No matter if he did not take her seriously. Once she stripped him bare of muscle and the intricate mappings of veins he would find himself regretting his oh-so-casual indifference.
Her Mongrel stays behind her as she steps forwards, a royally slow progression. It is magic Confutatis focuses on, rather than attacking immediately. The magic of rot is always there, a seething force of malignant energy, shifting waves which vary in size of the area it encompasses, but never reaching past a radius of five meters. A slight sweat breaks out over oily shoulder and neck as she concentrates; the sorcery is difficult and tedious to maneuver, reluctant to obey her demands, preferring to crawl and slither over nothingness and to nibble at the flesh of small, scurrying creatures. There is a presence to it, a living sense of death, and she lets out gentle sigh as it wraps around her, curling close to her obsidian flesh, yet not quite touching her charcoal skin.
Eyes flick up towards dear Déodat, lips curling into a vindictive leer that is terrifying to behold. Lady Death stands, hopefully face-to-face as they had been just moments ago, a couple of meters away; and then charges, hooves clattering on the crystal floor, ears twisted and pinning to knotted mane, aiming to move to his left side. If successful, she hopes to twist her cranium over his haunches to bite down on the end of the spine, towards his tail, while simultaneously swishing up her tail, aiming towards his face to give him a stinging bitch slap.
She hopes he likes her poison kisses to be lavished upon his scarlet body; soon he will not need to appear red as blood, because he will be covered in gore.
How was that for irony?
1/3
WC: 800
Summary: Brings her magic 'into' her so unless he touches her skin, he will not begin to rot. Activates poison mouth magic. Charges to his left, her right, aims to bite down on his croup, tail swinging up to hopefully swat him in the face.
Join the Regime.
♛
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