07-30-2017, 11:55 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
The quiet is soothing to her.
Suffocating, stifling - the air is thick, but she has long since become accustomed to the density of the still, unmoving oxygen festering in the depths of the dark, concentrated darkness. She is a part of it, her breath shallow while the broad hearth of her chest is barely rising with her baited breath.
She has never felt more at ease than she had amid the thicket, with dry and brittle bark clutching hungrily at the swell of her feminine hip - the jagged bone resting against the curve of aged oak as her breath is caught within the confinement of her throat.
The thickness of the blood that had splattered across the shadow of her indigo flesh had long since washed away, whittled beneath the rough and raucous current of the unyielding river, but she could still feel it across her skin - the metallic scent of it lingered still, leaving her breathless, roused from her usual stillness. It had brought life to her she once thought impossible.
Her skin is tingling and lit with the festering flame of the adrenaline that coursed vigorously through her lithe, petite body. It had not taken her brute strength to steal the life of another, but nonetheless, the blood spilt had become a part of her, fueling a blistering ember of ravenous longing that burned brightly within her chest.
Quietly, her attention is drawn elsewhere, while the gleaming mischief of her wayward, silvery eye is settled upon an enticing glimmer of gold - beckoning her from the shadow that had become her own. She is quiet and deliberate, observing the curve of hardened bone settled at the base of his skull - his flesh is reeking of prowess, of power, and a shiver of enthrallment traverses moves its way through her, plucking at each of her frayed, sensitive nerve-endings.
She is drawn to him, and the shimmer of her eye and the warmth of her breath across his shoulder is enough to speak of her desire to be near him - a glint of curiosity tucked away behind the impish gleam of her eye. She has heard the quivering tale of his ascent to the thrown; of the burden that he had wrought with his bristling crown built of thorns - she can remember the hushed murmur of her father when his name was spoken in veneration, with a piece of uncertainty tucked away within each syllable.
"Pollock," her hushed voice murmurs, excitement filling every empty crevice of her body, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "it is you, is it not? The stories are true; I have longed to see you. To know you."
Suffocating, stifling - the air is thick, but she has long since become accustomed to the density of the still, unmoving oxygen festering in the depths of the dark, concentrated darkness. She is a part of it, her breath shallow while the broad hearth of her chest is barely rising with her baited breath.
She has never felt more at ease than she had amid the thicket, with dry and brittle bark clutching hungrily at the swell of her feminine hip - the jagged bone resting against the curve of aged oak as her breath is caught within the confinement of her throat.
The thickness of the blood that had splattered across the shadow of her indigo flesh had long since washed away, whittled beneath the rough and raucous current of the unyielding river, but she could still feel it across her skin - the metallic scent of it lingered still, leaving her breathless, roused from her usual stillness. It had brought life to her she once thought impossible.
Her skin is tingling and lit with the festering flame of the adrenaline that coursed vigorously through her lithe, petite body. It had not taken her brute strength to steal the life of another, but nonetheless, the blood spilt had become a part of her, fueling a blistering ember of ravenous longing that burned brightly within her chest.
Quietly, her attention is drawn elsewhere, while the gleaming mischief of her wayward, silvery eye is settled upon an enticing glimmer of gold - beckoning her from the shadow that had become her own. She is quiet and deliberate, observing the curve of hardened bone settled at the base of his skull - his flesh is reeking of prowess, of power, and a shiver of enthrallment traverses moves its way through her, plucking at each of her frayed, sensitive nerve-endings.
She is drawn to him, and the shimmer of her eye and the warmth of her breath across his shoulder is enough to speak of her desire to be near him - a glint of curiosity tucked away behind the impish gleam of her eye. She has heard the quivering tale of his ascent to the thrown; of the burden that he had wrought with his bristling crown built of thorns - she can remember the hushed murmur of her father when his name was spoken in veneration, with a piece of uncertainty tucked away within each syllable.
"Pollock," her hushed voice murmurs, excitement filling every empty crevice of her body, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "it is you, is it not? The stories are true; I have longed to see you. To know you."
@[Pollock]