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03-16-2014, 05:30 PM
The raven prince smells of dry leaves and pine, the fatal embrace of winter; it is a pleasantly eerie musk, an aroma far more delectable than the demon daughter's own rich stench of decay and rot, crumbling soil and blood. She drinks it in lustily, eyes rolling back to her skull, a shiver crawling down her spine and wracking her back, drunk on the gentle scrub of his teeth on her haunches, meandering at idle pace over the curve of her ass... when was the last time she had ivories pressed so lovingly against her scars, such soft kisses to ease an old woman's bruises? Friendship was not befitting for a queen, unless it was her king's companionship, or so the harlot had always thought- is it so surprising that Confutatis is lulled into a profound sense of security and peace of mind when mutual groomed for the first time in what may be years?
Beguiled by sadistic charms, she is unaware of the way his mouth pauses at work momentarily; and then ivories snap down, gripping at charcoal flesh. With a shrill squeal of indignation, the mare lashes out a hind leg in warning, popping up her hindquarters, before she remembers to not go easy, to not give the blind boy special exceptions and allowances- oh and he was wrong if he thought she would take pity on the unicorn with his hollow sockets and gristly face. Confutatis snaps out with her acidic maw at his hindquarters, but they are not there, for the Duke had pulled away; instead she finds herself blinded by a face-full of dark, stinging hair. Yet whereas her tail is lacking in nerves, his is filled with meat and blood vessels, being leonine; so she bites down, hoping to grab at the decadent whip with her mouth of poison. And instead of relenting, bemoaning the first injury he puts on her weathered skin, she then pivots around her hindquarters- freeing his tail should she be successful in that regard- feeling his fangs tear free of her haunches. The fresh wound on her haunches give a painful sting, a furious twinge as she transfers her weight onto her hind legs, but the wolf ignores it with a locked jaw and narrowed eyes. It is a solid, deep albeit small chunk out of her ass, but what does it matter? Still she has the curves of a woman grown and the scars of a warlord proud.
Hooves slither over snow as the demon daughter cowkicks at his right foreleg, aiming towards the joint. She imagines with a slight tingle of delight the crunch of bones beneath her hooves (how would he like that, being crippled in his legs as well as eyes?) As she moves, she utters another squawk of agony- the vertebrae of her beloved armor squelches in deeper to her spine at the exercise, beads of blood bursting and oozing from the wounds she inflicts herself; it is excruciating, feeling it weld to flesh- but it is also a reminder that she should use it. Thus, her armor materializes into being.
One must recognize no matter their allegiance or alliance, they were still fighting one another, and she did not want to lose to this bat-blind crow. Too many times she had been embarrassed by abysmal fighting performances in Helovia; once, she had been defeated by a medic, another by a sluttish unicorn, and she would not add to this list of accomplishments by being outplayed by sightless lordling, no matter his intelligence.
It simmers and surges beneath her skin, the threat of ruin and rot, infection and disease prepared to seethe out from her pores and into his skin, to rob Morir the thrice-crowned of life and whatever remnants of laughter he may hide. For a moment, she withholds the magic, containing it inside her pelt black as sin, before she exhales and lets it slither free, contemptuous and vile, hungry for that moon-light striped coat. Let it bloom on his hide, flower and take seed- rings of decay, mottled camouflage of withering skin, depreciating and degrading moment by moment; would he find respect for her then, when his coat began to strip from bone and sinew, exposing barren red muscle to the freezing cold that burned in her lungs and smoked in her nostrils? Would he realize her strength only when his very essence began to slough from frigid skeleton? What would he be when he lay upon the soil, decomposing, looking up at her?
He would not be the first to die at her hands. War was a bloody business.
But this is not war, she reminds herself. This is a vicious playfight- we save our strength for the future, when the Regime rules Helovia and is the only thing left.
1/4
WC: 800
Beguiled by sadistic charms, she is unaware of the way his mouth pauses at work momentarily; and then ivories snap down, gripping at charcoal flesh. With a shrill squeal of indignation, the mare lashes out a hind leg in warning, popping up her hindquarters, before she remembers to not go easy, to not give the blind boy special exceptions and allowances- oh and he was wrong if he thought she would take pity on the unicorn with his hollow sockets and gristly face. Confutatis snaps out with her acidic maw at his hindquarters, but they are not there, for the Duke had pulled away; instead she finds herself blinded by a face-full of dark, stinging hair. Yet whereas her tail is lacking in nerves, his is filled with meat and blood vessels, being leonine; so she bites down, hoping to grab at the decadent whip with her mouth of poison. And instead of relenting, bemoaning the first injury he puts on her weathered skin, she then pivots around her hindquarters- freeing his tail should she be successful in that regard- feeling his fangs tear free of her haunches. The fresh wound on her haunches give a painful sting, a furious twinge as she transfers her weight onto her hind legs, but the wolf ignores it with a locked jaw and narrowed eyes. It is a solid, deep albeit small chunk out of her ass, but what does it matter? Still she has the curves of a woman grown and the scars of a warlord proud.
Hooves slither over snow as the demon daughter cowkicks at his right foreleg, aiming towards the joint. She imagines with a slight tingle of delight the crunch of bones beneath her hooves (how would he like that, being crippled in his legs as well as eyes?) As she moves, she utters another squawk of agony- the vertebrae of her beloved armor squelches in deeper to her spine at the exercise, beads of blood bursting and oozing from the wounds she inflicts herself; it is excruciating, feeling it weld to flesh- but it is also a reminder that she should use it. Thus, her armor materializes into being.
One must recognize no matter their allegiance or alliance, they were still fighting one another, and she did not want to lose to this bat-blind crow. Too many times she had been embarrassed by abysmal fighting performances in Helovia; once, she had been defeated by a medic, another by a sluttish unicorn, and she would not add to this list of accomplishments by being outplayed by sightless lordling, no matter his intelligence.
It simmers and surges beneath her skin, the threat of ruin and rot, infection and disease prepared to seethe out from her pores and into his skin, to rob Morir the thrice-crowned of life and whatever remnants of laughter he may hide. For a moment, she withholds the magic, containing it inside her pelt black as sin, before she exhales and lets it slither free, contemptuous and vile, hungry for that moon-light striped coat. Let it bloom on his hide, flower and take seed- rings of decay, mottled camouflage of withering skin, depreciating and degrading moment by moment; would he find respect for her then, when his coat began to strip from bone and sinew, exposing barren red muscle to the freezing cold that burned in her lungs and smoked in her nostrils? Would he realize her strength only when his very essence began to slough from frigid skeleton? What would he be when he lay upon the soil, decomposing, looking up at her?
He would not be the first to die at her hands. War was a bloody business.
But this is not war, she reminds herself. This is a vicious playfight- we save our strength for the future, when the Regime rules Helovia and is the only thing left.
1/4
WC: 800
Join the Regime.
♛
♛
