.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
03-14-2014, 05:45 PM
Lizard-yellow eyes watch him; they weigh heavy, matching the flexing line of her jaw hard and firm. The sloe mare sidles closer, hips swaying in a whoreish fashion, yellowed liquid dripping from her nostrils- and it is fatally clear, even despite the dull glare of her ill-boding eyes, that she is a demanding presence, a powerful one, decay emanating and dripping from oiled pores, slithering over soil and blankets of snow, creeping malice and sleuthing shadow. She studies him, the firm lines of inky skin stretched tight over compact muscle; the skeletal lines of bone white; and the viridan poison of his orbs. Throat grates as she swallows, nares flaring raggedly, pitch shutters sweeping over cavernous and desolate expanses of yellow and white. "I am not a lassie," the wolf allows, skull face rigid, monstrous; ivories bare in gruesome grimace, wicked warning of her intolerance for impunity and disrespect. "Predators do not listen to blatant backtalk of backwater boys." Her mongrel gives her warning of the impending sun-child, the glint of copper-gold on snow-white, the grass of Cyrus' youthful eyes. An ear twitches to the cavorting kitsune, who plays beneath the trees out of reach out of her black magic; he who watches while she plays her games and lies her lies. It is as such that she is not surprised to hear the crackle of hoof on snow, his warm scent on the breeze, boiling in the winter cold. What she does not expect is compliments and sickly flattery; the old harlot might have been appeased by a gilded tongue, but she had been reborn from her failures and her shortcomings, to be reborn in shadow and ash to a legacy of rot. Her head twists upwards, ears pinning to neck, lungs singing a death rattle as she inhales, turning her skull to face him, impetuous and cut of black marble, abhorrent eyes resting on silver mane and pretty face: "A dragon has no time to waste on laudatory lies from a sheep," she snarls, voice dripping with her contempt, her disdain and ridicule; "We do not slander about beauty of beasts, child, and you would do well to learn of that." The shadow queen, crowned ruler of nothing but seething masses of dogs and bitches, again shifts her cranium, yellow eyes coming to rest on Oberon, as he had introduced himself. There is a tilt to her skull, sinister and wicked, and her smile is worse- a crawling thing of sin and violation. "Does the shadow interloper intend to find a place to rest his head, or would he go on his way to be devoured by soft-hearted paladins and weak-kneed cravens?" ♛ THE REGIME ♛ |
Join the Regime.
♛
♛
