living like jim morrison; any

[Bitchcraft]

Whispy Lips

Let's be honest.

Her name is Bitchcraft...
Daughter of Pazuzu and Bitch...
She didn't exactly have the best start in life.
Some of us are just destined to be rotten.

The youth is inky black like pupils of a rabid dog. Slices of bright red are arched up her slender limbs and reaching the soft underbelly. She is not very old nor very large but the winged girl manages on her own just fine. Her young brain does not comprehend fear or it's very existence, but perhaps she is predisposition to be fearless. Dark eyes look into the chamber with a tired expression. Her wings hurt from the flight through choppy winds. Her landing was less than smooth when said winds managed to catch under her already struggling wings and flung the equine against a jutting cliff edge before falling and crumpling on the ground.

She lays still, huffing slightly to herself before gathering the spindly limbs under her petite frame and drawing herself up. Long lashes fall over the dark eyes in the annoyance of her arrival and she sighs slow and deep before lids lift, features flat. The ruby striped girl takes it upon herself to walk though the boundaries to find a resident or two...get a feel of the place.

"Hm." The grumble follows as the sharp nails pull her into the Chamber's embrace. The onyx filly does not know fear.

Nor does she care to know it.

Thanks mom and dad. How charming to look down upon your newborn babe and think, 'Gee, you look like a Bitchcraft!'

Some of us are meant to be ants and slave away while some of us are the ones to hold the magnifying glass when the sun is at it's highest peak.

This is the last night you'll spend alone
Look me in the eyes so I know you know

[Wyrm]

W Y R M

He is not the ant, nor is he the magnifying glass. He is the sun - bright, incandescent light that gives and takes away life in a cyclical pattern. He is one in the same with the piercing rays that warm his patterned fur while he watches her from his roost in the branches that wind together to shade the floor of the Chamber. Mottled skin, set to match the pattern of the nature that surrounds him so wandering eyes cannot discern his location, twitches faintly between his shoulders. A familiar itch: she seems so unsure in her actions and headstrong all the same. Young, tenderly so, without the inborn hesitation that comes with older age. Nothing disturbs her dreams, he bets. From on high the wicked wildcat grins, cheeks pulling back to reveal keen fangs that overlap while his tail drops from behind to flick lazily from side to side.

“Lost, little one?” The demon calls out tenderly, knowing that she won’t be able to see him quite yet. He slides easily off the thick branch, like fabric falling from it’s perch, dropping heavily to the earth yet landing with no sound. He’s shifted mid-fall into a miniscule creature, hidden now underneath the thick layer of drab needles. To her, it will seem as if he’s vanished in mid-air. A voice without a body is so much more uncertain than facing a danger one can see. “You look … tired.” He whispers from somewhere nearby, the wind carrying his voice as it echoes off the trunks around them.

So vulnerable. If he concentrates, he can see the supple curve of her nostrils as they quiver with each breath she takes. He could steal it from her - the air from her lungs, the eyes in her skull - if he so wished it. He could stop her heart and devour her flesh and it would be like any other day to him. She is weak and she doesn’t even know it yet. He could press one giant paw flat against her narrow, tender chest and grind her into the earth like the nothingness that she is and it would only bring him pleasure to watch her life slowly fade. But to Wyrm, there’s no fun in the kill without a chase. “Are you watching?” He laughs, hidden now behind a tree very near to her.

When he steps clear of the shadows, they are one in the same. It’s him, but it’s her. He’s the black filly now; her exact height, her exact build, her color and make. Identical, right down to the gender and dead-looking eyes. They are staring at each other now as if a mirror stands between them and slowly, ever so slowly, Wyrm grins. There - imbedded into his gums - are rows upon rows of serrated fangs. “What’s our name?” The imp chuckles, and the sun breaks free of the wooded pines to shower them both with light.

she shall crush thy head,
and thou shalt lie in wait for her heel