07-31-2016, 10:16 PM
stay close to me while the sky is falling
She is grace, beauty and eloquence personified - with gentle curves and a slender figure, she is exquisite femininity encasing an otherwise troubled, brewing mind. The heart that lay trapped within the tight confines of her rib cage aches with the unending agony of prying loneliness, and her soul pines for something beyond her superficial exterior. In the heavy weight of evening's blanket of stars, she remains quiet and idle, nestled between the many pines littered throughout the dwelling of her still charred, burnt abode.
The blinding light of the burning tree had since waned, leaving little but fading embers behind, dredging the dense thicket in its cloak of darkness. The canopy overhead shields her away from the light of the moon, and so she remains, shrouded by darkness and plagued by a longing she cannot quite quench.
With a heavy breath, she emerges at last, too restless and uneasy to remain rooted for too long. She tucks her tightly wound wings tighter against her body as she weaves through the tightly knit foliage - the grace that fate had so kindly bestowed upon her falters now; her plumage is nothing to balk at and navigating with it in such tight confines still alludes her at times. Atop her skull, two winding obsidian horns shimmer beneath the brief rays of moonlight that flicker between the more sparse branches overhead. The stagnant warmth of summer lingers, trapped by the foliage near to the forest floor, and a gentle sheen of sweat lingers on her pelt.
His scent is heavy in the air, and for a long moment, she settles to indulge in the heavy scent of his sweat and - blood? Her brows furrows in disdain and with a heavy sigh lingering on her breath, she presses forward, pushing through the thicket to find the necromancer looming on the other side. There is something heavy in the air, and for a moment, she recoils - but she knows it is too late to turn away and hide away in the shadows.
The weight of her body has shifted too much of the moist soil, and dry, brittle twigs crack beneath, giving her position away. A lump grows in her throat, but she presses on in spite of it. The stench of metallic copper weighs on her, and she moves closer, observing the way his mahogany pelt hides away the various welts and gashes that litter his body. Her breath is warm against his skin, and finally she breathes, "Nymphetamine. You're hurt. What can I do?"
The blinding light of the burning tree had since waned, leaving little but fading embers behind, dredging the dense thicket in its cloak of darkness. The canopy overhead shields her away from the light of the moon, and so she remains, shrouded by darkness and plagued by a longing she cannot quite quench.
With a heavy breath, she emerges at last, too restless and uneasy to remain rooted for too long. She tucks her tightly wound wings tighter against her body as she weaves through the tightly knit foliage - the grace that fate had so kindly bestowed upon her falters now; her plumage is nothing to balk at and navigating with it in such tight confines still alludes her at times. Atop her skull, two winding obsidian horns shimmer beneath the brief rays of moonlight that flicker between the more sparse branches overhead. The stagnant warmth of summer lingers, trapped by the foliage near to the forest floor, and a gentle sheen of sweat lingers on her pelt.
His scent is heavy in the air, and for a long moment, she settles to indulge in the heavy scent of his sweat and - blood? Her brows furrows in disdain and with a heavy sigh lingering on her breath, she presses forward, pushing through the thicket to find the necromancer looming on the other side. There is something heavy in the air, and for a moment, she recoils - but she knows it is too late to turn away and hide away in the shadows.
The weight of her body has shifted too much of the moist soil, and dry, brittle twigs crack beneath, giving her position away. A lump grows in her throat, but she presses on in spite of it. The stench of metallic copper weighs on her, and she moves closer, observing the way his mahogany pelt hides away the various welts and gashes that litter his body. Her breath is warm against his skin, and finally she breathes, "Nymphetamine. You're hurt. What can I do?"
Misra