What transpires between them reeks of sin although nothing has been committed yet. Instead, there is tension in the air—something like a promise of what is to come. Anastasia was too clumsy in her social interactions to fully understand it, but it ran like a live wire under her skin, and she was intrigued. Enough so that she did not leave through a portal even though she had discovered that this mare tasted rather rank.
“I am?” she questions, because no one has ever complimented her like that before. Atrox was not cruel to her necessarily, but his compliments were always purposeful and directed toward the rather unexplored nature of her gifts. He appreciated the perfection of her ability to hunt, but he had not necessarily appreciated her. Ana finds that she rather likes the attention, and she preens slightly beneath it.
She moves alongside the mare’s unnatural side, rubbing her darkness against it like a cat, before using a new portal to transition to the other side. “I like that,” she says in her thick tongue, finding that the more time she spent around Chantale, the less she found her undead odor to be offensive. In time, she imagined she wouldn’t even mind it at all—or notice. “Chan-tale,” the name is broken in her mouth, but she likes it all the same, repeating it with childish awe: “Chan-tale.” Her yellow eyes brighten. “I like Chan-tale.”
“I am?” she questions, because no one has ever complimented her like that before. Atrox was not cruel to her necessarily, but his compliments were always purposeful and directed toward the rather unexplored nature of her gifts. He appreciated the perfection of her ability to hunt, but he had not necessarily appreciated her. Ana finds that she rather likes the attention, and she preens slightly beneath it.
She moves alongside the mare’s unnatural side, rubbing her darkness against it like a cat, before using a new portal to transition to the other side. “I like that,” she says in her thick tongue, finding that the more time she spent around Chantale, the less she found her undead odor to be offensive. In time, she imagined she wouldn’t even mind it at all—or notice. “Chan-tale,” the name is broken in her mouth, but she likes it all the same, repeating it with childish awe: “Chan-tale.” Her yellow eyes brighten. “I like Chan-tale.”