04-18-2017, 12:15 PM
i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
Her eyes follow the deeply etched markings into the old, fragile wood – frail, brittle bark has fallen away, revealing the tender flesh of the fir, which is unyielding to the force of his weight as he rests the girth of his body against it. The hollow of his cheek, the terse ridge of his jawline – and the curling mass of his thick, heavily ridged horns (with thin, coiling remnants of pulp and dust clinging to the edges); he is a sight to behold. She does not waver beneath the weight of his stare, and soon, a kindling of an ever-burning flame ignites when the dancing, golden flecks of her own eyes meet with the empty voice of his own.
A stirring emerges within the pit of her belly (discomfort; an instinct urging her away from him – a plea she would not entertain), and the muscles lining the rigid bone and its tender marrow become tense and taut. The surface of the pallid skin that lay along her shoulders is soon split, bone sliding past the sinewy tendons and soft tissue, bristling in long, languishing lines of sharpened osseous matter – spikes carved out of her own bone contouring her shoulders, down along her breastplate, and back towards her withers – coursing down the length of her spine.
”The darkness does not belong to you,” a snarl emerges from her lips, a sneer tugging at the corner of her pale mouth. ”you underestimate me, Pollock.”
Why are you here, then?
His words are soft, weaving through the heavy silence enveloping the diminutive clearing, and within each carefully spoken syllable is a hidden meaning – he cared little for why she has stolen away into the shadows; the sardonic tone of his timbre unveiling his boorish temperament for her to feast upon.
”I doubt that I am here for the same reason that you are,” she breathes, sinew and bone shifting as the bleak sunlight reaches the edges of her pale skin, illuminating her cheek and the hardened stare of her irises, set intently upon him. ”your wasteland is barren and dull – even the King of nothing must long to spend his time in less of an eyesore.”
Slowly, his tongue presses against the ridges of his chapped mouth, but she does not shy away from his stare, boring into him with her own intensity. Though her heart presses urgently against the solidity of her rib cage (adrenaline coursing through her veins, leaving her enthralled, inebriated by something she cannot discern), she sidles closer to him, the stench of rotting death pervasive, swathing her in its vulgar heat.
With her breath warm and sweet against his cheek, and her voice low, ”You are nothing but an unfortunate interruption in my day, Pollock – an unpleasant surprise,” a pause, and her gaze searches the flattened line of his mouth, craving to see the way it will inevitably twist and change with the weight of her words - the tension between he and Lucrezia had been palpable, rife with hostility. ”and regrettably, your highness, you are behind in the times and ill-informed. Magnus no longer holds the title. Lucrezia does.”
A stirring emerges within the pit of her belly (discomfort; an instinct urging her away from him – a plea she would not entertain), and the muscles lining the rigid bone and its tender marrow become tense and taut. The surface of the pallid skin that lay along her shoulders is soon split, bone sliding past the sinewy tendons and soft tissue, bristling in long, languishing lines of sharpened osseous matter – spikes carved out of her own bone contouring her shoulders, down along her breastplate, and back towards her withers – coursing down the length of her spine.
”The darkness does not belong to you,” a snarl emerges from her lips, a sneer tugging at the corner of her pale mouth. ”you underestimate me, Pollock.”
Why are you here, then?
His words are soft, weaving through the heavy silence enveloping the diminutive clearing, and within each carefully spoken syllable is a hidden meaning – he cared little for why she has stolen away into the shadows; the sardonic tone of his timbre unveiling his boorish temperament for her to feast upon.
”I doubt that I am here for the same reason that you are,” she breathes, sinew and bone shifting as the bleak sunlight reaches the edges of her pale skin, illuminating her cheek and the hardened stare of her irises, set intently upon him. ”your wasteland is barren and dull – even the King of nothing must long to spend his time in less of an eyesore.”
Slowly, his tongue presses against the ridges of his chapped mouth, but she does not shy away from his stare, boring into him with her own intensity. Though her heart presses urgently against the solidity of her rib cage (adrenaline coursing through her veins, leaving her enthralled, inebriated by something she cannot discern), she sidles closer to him, the stench of rotting death pervasive, swathing her in its vulgar heat.
With her breath warm and sweet against his cheek, and her voice low, ”You are nothing but an unfortunate interruption in my day, Pollock – an unpleasant surprise,” a pause, and her gaze searches the flattened line of his mouth, craving to see the way it will inevitably twist and change with the weight of her words - the tension between he and Lucrezia had been palpable, rife with hostility. ”and regrettably, your highness, you are behind in the times and ill-informed. Magnus no longer holds the title. Lucrezia does.”
Ellyse