05-22-2021, 04:32 PM
a ghost in the darkness.
Lightning flashes and he enjoys the way the water splatters against his protruding bones, enjoys the taste of ash that dusts his cartilage. The fire starts to die beneath the storm but a few gusts of wind helps it spread a little further before it completely goes out. His skull is angled upwards as if it can see the clouds through the trees when the first mare approaches. Cherry blossoms woven in her mane with a scent that permeates his invisible nostrils. She is bold in her approach, coming near enough for him to reach out and drag the jagged edges of where his muzzle would have been along her flesh. She tastes of life just as he reeks of death. “Hmmm.” The skeleton seems to sing to itself, a reverberating noise amongst the bones as he considers Nikoline and her glowing dapples, her twisted branches and her doe eyes.
And then she comes.
She screams, she demands. The holes in his socket mold into something of jelly and flesh, no longer just glowing spheres of color as they protrude into red eyeballs the better to roll in annoyance with. “Whatever the fuck I want.” Smoke seems to fill his skull as it crawls out to her with a variety of nasty little things as his disembodied voice lingers in the air. Maggots and worms snake around his skeletal frame before burrowing into the dirt and then reaching from the ground to crawl up Sabra’s legs. As she inhales, the smoke starts to infest her lungs and he floods her mind painfully and fills it with images of Sylva when he had ruled it. Pictures of death and destruction, fornication and fear. Torture (as his sister’s flesh starts to peel away under the coaxing of one of his followers), pleasure (the bacchanalia he had once hosted beneath these dark limbs and the fire that had resulted in half the woods being burnt to cinders), and even glimpses of Taiga (flooded as unnatural wolves snapped their jaws and those unable to make it past the magicians wall drowned). There are even images of old, from a time long before she had even existed. Of the Chamber, of slave pens, of a burning magical tree in a place of Heaven. All chaos, wrecked by him.
He doesn’t care about her precious Laws.
Laws were made to be broken.
He takes the storm above them and fills the dark clouds until they are nearly full to bursting. And then, like a pin to a balloon, the storm explodes. Is it better to burn or drown? In this form he feels nothing so he doesn’t really know. But perhaps Sabra will be able to answer that particular question when the water rises and chokes down her throat. He doesn’t mean to kill her. Oh no, he’s killed before and that is just so completely dull. He would rather feed off the expressions on her face (it's been too long since he had smelled the sweat of fear), give her just a little taste of what it was like to be truly reprehensible. For he’s seen Sabra in his slumber of bone. There are pieces of her that remind him of his old Chamber self, when he had preferred to pull the strings behind the scenes instead of getting his hands dirty. However there comes a point when the puppets no longer serve their purpose and it’s best to roll up your sleeves and do the work yourself. A lesson that might be worth learning for Sylva's current leader.
He doesn’t worry for the nymph at his side, not that he would anyways even though the taste of her lingers and sweetens the air, there’s too much wild magic in the lands that even accidentally deaths would not remain permanent. It might be nice to watch her die though, to see the way her flowers wilt. He wants to see that now actually and so he touches her again, faded enamels that rake through her mane and touch the blooms and twigs with a caress of death.
And then she comes.
She screams, she demands. The holes in his socket mold into something of jelly and flesh, no longer just glowing spheres of color as they protrude into red eyeballs the better to roll in annoyance with. “Whatever the fuck I want.” Smoke seems to fill his skull as it crawls out to her with a variety of nasty little things as his disembodied voice lingers in the air. Maggots and worms snake around his skeletal frame before burrowing into the dirt and then reaching from the ground to crawl up Sabra’s legs. As she inhales, the smoke starts to infest her lungs and he floods her mind painfully and fills it with images of Sylva when he had ruled it. Pictures of death and destruction, fornication and fear. Torture (as his sister’s flesh starts to peel away under the coaxing of one of his followers), pleasure (the bacchanalia he had once hosted beneath these dark limbs and the fire that had resulted in half the woods being burnt to cinders), and even glimpses of Taiga (flooded as unnatural wolves snapped their jaws and those unable to make it past the magicians wall drowned). There are even images of old, from a time long before she had even existed. Of the Chamber, of slave pens, of a burning magical tree in a place of Heaven. All chaos, wrecked by him.
He doesn’t care about her precious Laws.
Laws were made to be broken.
He takes the storm above them and fills the dark clouds until they are nearly full to bursting. And then, like a pin to a balloon, the storm explodes. Is it better to burn or drown? In this form he feels nothing so he doesn’t really know. But perhaps Sabra will be able to answer that particular question when the water rises and chokes down her throat. He doesn’t mean to kill her. Oh no, he’s killed before and that is just so completely dull. He would rather feed off the expressions on her face (it's been too long since he had smelled the sweat of fear), give her just a little taste of what it was like to be truly reprehensible. For he’s seen Sabra in his slumber of bone. There are pieces of her that remind him of his old Chamber self, when he had preferred to pull the strings behind the scenes instead of getting his hands dirty. However there comes a point when the puppets no longer serve their purpose and it’s best to roll up your sleeves and do the work yourself. A lesson that might be worth learning for Sylva's current leader.
He doesn’t worry for the nymph at his side, not that he would anyways even though the taste of her lingers and sweetens the air, there’s too much wild magic in the lands that even accidentally deaths would not remain permanent. It might be nice to watch her die though, to see the way her flowers wilt. He wants to see that now actually and so he touches her again, faded enamels that rake through her mane and touch the blooms and twigs with a caress of death.
Gryffen
@[Sabra] @[Nikoline]