04-15-2017, 03:27 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She hunts. She does not always hunt – though she is much more predator than prey, it is not an all-consuming thing – but today she wakes hungry, wakes full of wanting and the need for warmth. Such a strange thing, my corpse masterpiece – the wreckage of beauty, a sort of terrible, plastic perfection to her. All this, of course, well-marred by her terrible, lurching gait, by the way she is cool to the touch, like a thing fresh-dead. She is not quiet as she comes through the forest, twigs snapping underfoot, leaves rustling at her feltlocks. She has no stealth – shocking, for a hunter – and she draws eyes, ones that linger, tracing the curves of her with a lurid appreciation, but eyes that turn when she meets theirs, when she unveils the fever-brightness there, the madness laughing in her eyes, a parasite nestled dark and wretched in the pupil. She is looking for something, but she can’t define it. She never can, only knows she woke with a gnaw in her belly and a restlessness in her feet. There is a noise like a whip-crack, and then, a figure – a woman. A gift, proffered. My corpse queen smiles, a grin that belongs on something dead and rotting. “Hello,” she says, “I’ve been waiting for you.” how original a sin. |
(if you want me to edit any of this lmk <3)