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09-23-2014, 11:20 AM
A change takes the dark one with her pale mask, so sudden that malevolence brewing within the ivory damsel falters and staggers weirdly within herself. An audible gagging sound breaks from her lips as her soul grapples with its own folds, as emotions tumble and break and seep dust into the faulty gears of her mind; the other mare’s eyes search her, no less ravenous than her own that probe and seek, that tongue which lashes sharp and eagerly outwards with the rancorous truths of her ruminations.
Tiny, opalescent towers rise to catch the words that fall from the heathen lips of the wanderer, Beloved sensing in the timbre of the feminine vocals that dance and flick before her a kindred madness, a lack of belonging in the fabric of the wholesome and true; she does not care. They are all crazed at the end of their hours, shown the final moments in slow motion to discover that for all their logic, all their sane planning, the end is as it always was and always will be.
The end is nothingness, unless they know you, unless your name becomes stone and never dies, a looming monument to your shadow that casts no more; will they know us? Will they remember our bones with reverence, or is this life as all the others?
Without meaning, devoid of purpose; a filter for the air, decay that feeds roots.
Eyes tilt and watch cautiously the movements of the other as she paces, the dancer pivoting her delicate frame about to retain sight on the stranger, disliking the way she wanders and weaves around her, ears again falling to lay flat and threatening atop her crown as her heart beats frenzied against the bars of her chest.
The revocation of having been called useless and a body does not stall the rage that brewed suddenly, does not quaff the waves that crash and boom loudly in the confines of her busy skull, and when she is asked for her name, the Beloved one scoffs aloud; she is not a ghost, she is not a toy, she will give her calling when she damn well pleases to those she knows will not sell it for wicked uses, for those who have earned her.
"You cannot have me," she hisses, white plume striking irritably with a whistle through cold air and a crack upon fine porcelain flesh, "no conjurer are you. A name serves you little good." With a haughty and adorably feminine harrumph, she tilts her eyes swiftly away from the mare, a low hum sounding from her vocals as the wind strokes its long fingers against her flesh.
Suddenly, the eyes return to the prize, the silver burning and molten in its frame and the black dead, motionless, swallowing with greed the light. "I have found you," she says, a whisper, a croon of love that rises deep from the portion of her soul that is only dust upon dust, layered over broken things, forgotten things, things crafted of hatred and seeping shadow, "your name." A breath, long and ragged, ripples its sickening sound through the eve, her pale lashes fluttering with each sputtering, wet sound. "I have earned it. Tell me." She blinks, slow, languorously, her tongue runs along the rims of her pink lips.
"Tell me," she states more clearly, "for I have things you will need."
Tiny, opalescent towers rise to catch the words that fall from the heathen lips of the wanderer, Beloved sensing in the timbre of the feminine vocals that dance and flick before her a kindred madness, a lack of belonging in the fabric of the wholesome and true; she does not care. They are all crazed at the end of their hours, shown the final moments in slow motion to discover that for all their logic, all their sane planning, the end is as it always was and always will be.
The end is nothingness, unless they know you, unless your name becomes stone and never dies, a looming monument to your shadow that casts no more; will they know us? Will they remember our bones with reverence, or is this life as all the others?
Without meaning, devoid of purpose; a filter for the air, decay that feeds roots.
Eyes tilt and watch cautiously the movements of the other as she paces, the dancer pivoting her delicate frame about to retain sight on the stranger, disliking the way she wanders and weaves around her, ears again falling to lay flat and threatening atop her crown as her heart beats frenzied against the bars of her chest.
The revocation of having been called useless and a body does not stall the rage that brewed suddenly, does not quaff the waves that crash and boom loudly in the confines of her busy skull, and when she is asked for her name, the Beloved one scoffs aloud; she is not a ghost, she is not a toy, she will give her calling when she damn well pleases to those she knows will not sell it for wicked uses, for those who have earned her.
"You cannot have me," she hisses, white plume striking irritably with a whistle through cold air and a crack upon fine porcelain flesh, "no conjurer are you. A name serves you little good." With a haughty and adorably feminine harrumph, she tilts her eyes swiftly away from the mare, a low hum sounding from her vocals as the wind strokes its long fingers against her flesh.
Suddenly, the eyes return to the prize, the silver burning and molten in its frame and the black dead, motionless, swallowing with greed the light. "I have found you," she says, a whisper, a croon of love that rises deep from the portion of her soul that is only dust upon dust, layered over broken things, forgotten things, things crafted of hatred and seeping shadow, "your name." A breath, long and ragged, ripples its sickening sound through the eve, her pale lashes fluttering with each sputtering, wet sound. "I have earned it. Tell me." She blinks, slow, languorously, her tongue runs along the rims of her pink lips.
"Tell me," she states more clearly, "for I have things you will need."
you've lost your demon.
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
