o dark dark dark. they all go into the dark.


She almost looks otherworldly.
She’s changed her appearance, sharpened the angles of her face and sides, so she is something more alien and less equine. Not so much as her monster – it is the thing apart – but still, enough so they give her some berth, so she may walk unimpeded.
(Of course, if they impeded her it would be easy enough to strike them down, send shadow-snares to their ankles, but she doesn’t care for such theatrics.)
She is a woman sharpened, a sword laid too long against a whetstone. The angles of her almost hurt the eye.

But now is there a new form – a soft curve of the belly as her daughter grows. She’ll be an odd one, offspring of a night-witch and a monster, and Cthylla is still unsure if she’ll keep her or not. Already she grows tired of her pregnancy, of the soft curve intruding upon the hard-lined body she has so carefully crafted.

But that is aside the point, she has not come here to dwell on motherhood. No, she’s come to seek something – someone – else.
She doesn’t know his face but she knows he smells of blood gone rancid, that there are women who cry his name with something like love, something like fear.
She doesn’t know his face but she remembers the warmth of him, bodies tangled in a womb and then torn into the light, ripped from a dying woman, birth by vivisection.
She doesn’t know his face but she knows a name - Kingslay - and this is the name that forms on her lips.
“Kingslay,” she says, and her voice is too loud amongst the dredging night, but she doesn’t mind.


cthylla
carnage x spyndle