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04-05-2014, 11:04 AM
illynx, The wind brings a new scent to the meadow, the golden queen’s head rising to find the wretched figure she has summoned to her arriving to the call. For now, it seems she is alone; no other impure stench writhes through the air to brush her muzzle and the silhouette that approaches is solitary and familiar, bringing memories like flashes of lightning to her of a rain soaked evening, a torrential river of moving stones beneath their flailing hooves. There were no such tricks the skull-faced whore could pull here, with only the rivers standing behind the Lady as she waits to provide any nature based offense. They are far from the pristine elegance of her vale. The bitch seems to have gathered one of her own, Illynx takes note of as Confutatis arrives into clarity, a dark glare shot towards the fox draped along unworthy shoulders as she takes in the words of her inferior. As she handles most misplaced insults, the woman finds herself quaking with laughter before the scarred horse can manage her final question, bright beads of tears building in the corner of her bemused eyes. How little this wretched creature knows of her, for she has no sons and keeps no lovers, her body as pristine as it had been on the day of her birth. She was no whore, and she knew that women so quick to call others such things were only painting the mirror displaying their own features black. ”Now, now, dear,” she manages once her laughter has died, her words airy and light under the effects of her rippling amusement, ”one with a spine curved from a child of their own should not toss empty insults at a queen who has not soiled herself with unworthy seeds. No man has tamed me, darling.” Her smile is sharp and wolfish, her dark tail striking half halfheartedly at her right flank as she pauses and luridly grins at her opponent, quite enjoying the game of being called things she was not. Of all insults, a whore? Why not a racist, foolish cow, a murderous and sociopathic fiend born from the loins of a narwhal? She had much she could teach skull face, if she could be bothered to try. ”I’ve called you here to finish our last melee,” she says, still smiling as if they were enjoying a cup of tea over a plate of sugar cookies, ”to teach you of your place… beneath me.” She giggles again, tossing dark locks from her eyes which twinkle with mockery towards the subject of her icy words. ”You ran away before I completed my lesson. Some Warlord's Daughter you proved to be.” 0/3 : 454 words intending to burn - pretending to fight it everyone learns faster on fire |
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