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12-27-2016, 12:21 PM
The prey is elusive.
Like smoke, curling away when grasped, or light, warm, radiant, tangible, but bodiless, shape-shifting… conniving. Prowling between the stark outlines of the trees, Beloved hunts, her anger so quickly turned into hunger driving her without thought to the signs of passing a creature might leave; her gaze is upon the horizon before her, about each weathered trunk, searching for the flutter of foliage as the prey flees. She does not seek tattered branches, worried Earth.
Monsters are not animals. It is why another word was invented: to describe something without honor, without thought, an avalanche with the ability to precisely locate where to strike.
She crashes through another shrub, her cries of anguish piercing the air again. Still, she feels herself growing closer, that instinctual knowledge of the feast lingering at the tip of her tongue driving her forward, her desire so vast that her tiny, black pupil trembles, and her perfect white skin shudders across her gaunt, small frame.
Suddenly, the forest is screaming. Driven to her haunches by the sound, as if it presses upon her chest, a physical force, and the witch howls in reply, a caterwauling wail of shock and rage; stabbing at the chilled air, her plumed breath wreaths about her sculpted crown and pearlescent blade, her forelimbs striking at the air before her wildly. Landing with splayed, dancer’s limbs, her dual toned eyes shift through the nothing, the red forest, her heart beating against the white cage of her chest. Like a starved beast cornered, she bares her teeth, her giggles of the hunt now snarls of defense, a mad woman unsure.
Perhaps that is even more dangerous than a Monster.
With a wild charge, she unleashes a cry of her own, a trumpet of rage, madness, and fear, entwined into the wild crash of her body through the wood; without thought, she madly cavorts about the forest, her blade and teeth striking ahead of her wherever she dashes. It is not long before her laughter returns, the water-streaked maiden shivering from the cold against her skin, her teeth clattering between the stammered, peculiar rumble of her ceaseless mirth.
It is time she ended this… game.
Like smoke, curling away when grasped, or light, warm, radiant, tangible, but bodiless, shape-shifting… conniving. Prowling between the stark outlines of the trees, Beloved hunts, her anger so quickly turned into hunger driving her without thought to the signs of passing a creature might leave; her gaze is upon the horizon before her, about each weathered trunk, searching for the flutter of foliage as the prey flees. She does not seek tattered branches, worried Earth.
Monsters are not animals. It is why another word was invented: to describe something without honor, without thought, an avalanche with the ability to precisely locate where to strike.
She crashes through another shrub, her cries of anguish piercing the air again. Still, she feels herself growing closer, that instinctual knowledge of the feast lingering at the tip of her tongue driving her forward, her desire so vast that her tiny, black pupil trembles, and her perfect white skin shudders across her gaunt, small frame.
Suddenly, the forest is screaming. Driven to her haunches by the sound, as if it presses upon her chest, a physical force, and the witch howls in reply, a caterwauling wail of shock and rage; stabbing at the chilled air, her plumed breath wreaths about her sculpted crown and pearlescent blade, her forelimbs striking at the air before her wildly. Landing with splayed, dancer’s limbs, her dual toned eyes shift through the nothing, the red forest, her heart beating against the white cage of her chest. Like a starved beast cornered, she bares her teeth, her giggles of the hunt now snarls of defense, a mad woman unsure.
Perhaps that is even more dangerous than a Monster.
With a wild charge, she unleashes a cry of her own, a trumpet of rage, madness, and fear, entwined into the wild crash of her body through the wood; without thought, she madly cavorts about the forest, her blade and teeth striking ahead of her wherever she dashes. It is not long before her laughter returns, the water-streaked maiden shivering from the cold against her skin, her teeth clattering between the stammered, peculiar rumble of her ceaseless mirth.
It is time she ended this… game.
you've lost your demon.
@Yael
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
