This hurricane's chasing us all underground
Darkness settles in the forest, made of bones and blood. The scent of spring is fresh, and earthy, lacing decadently across the fern-overgrowth. It is dreadfully silent beyond the taiga forests; save for the stirring of rabbit-heartbeats, and the kiss-and-tell petals, that whisper their ghost melody through the earth, with their many reaching tendrils. The forest flowers bristle, like furs upon a ghoulish wind. The trees sway to the rhythm of the cool wind. Against the blooming forest-light, Euryale purrs, too; slipping like a leopardess beneath the shadowy-penumbra with each delicate, feline hiss. Moonlight pours along her back; moonlight descends her curves, dancing along her slender spine and hips. Dipping her in silver soot, in silver blood. Her arrival to Beqanna had been a silent one. She laughs like sin and dances to the curling music of a wild breeze.
Euryale dances with blood, with carnal motive; like the feral wilderness flowing in her veins; the dark laughter touching her silk throat, like saccharine venom and honey on a succubus’ whispering lips. It’s dawn shades, blood shades – all vicious and lupine – pooling into a wolf’s body made of unholy lust, made of lightening beauty. When Euryale moves, twists and turns; all the red blood moistening her skin glistens, wetly, too. The blood on her body, wears like a dress should; dawning along lascivious curves, and hips. A vermillion kiss, deep as any rose, just as wicked, just as sweet.
When Euryale dances, she dances like thunder and hurricane; full of spiraling, pale tendrils and powerful, slender limbs that waltz; lightening-white, dangerous, across the velvet earth below. She dances with hunger in her heart. She dances with violence in her blood. She dances with passion. Passion flows through her sleek body, made of storms and wrath and violence. Her storm-skin, so wrapped tightly, around a turbulent soul, as hers’. Euryale dances like she breathes; full of want, beauty and wretched desire. She dances like a Reckoning; like damned queens, with thorns for crowns. When only the thirst for blood, could ever sate her bottomless appetite. And it is always blood. Always souls, that Euryale thirsts for, endlessly. Euryale so loved possessing people, places, things.
@[Star]
and a riot about to explode into flames
─ she pins you to hotel doors, not a goddess anymore ─
but she still looks like religion in high heels; she kisses you, godless
whispers, we dress like princesses to go out and kill kings.