07-03-2017, 11:33 AM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
She is quiet.
She is restless.
She is one with the shadows – isolated, still, with shallow breath and a steady beating heart. The darkness has shrouded her from their vision, and she is no fool – following the gentle caress of the wayward wind to conceal her presence. Silently, she is listening – testosterone is surging through the clearing, and the corner of her mouth rises, pulling into a wry smile.
Those of the weaker sex often craved power, and would go to any length to obtain it, and such was no exception. The air is crackling with the electricity of magic, exuding from the broad, obsidian carcass who is snarling to another (he is formidable, Deimos, and it stirs an excitement deep within – causes her skin to tingle and her heart to thrust raggedly against the tight confinement of her chest).
There is a tender thing, caught in the clutches of where she clearly does not belong – a beauty, with delicate curves and a soft, pliable heart (she can almost hear it echoing its rhythmic beat; almost) – and an unusual third eye. At last, she is drawn away from the shade – she, herself, is a silhouette of cobalt and obsidian with a gleaming two-toned gaze – one a dismal, dreary gray, and one a deep, endless abyss of black. She is not wary; quite the opposite – she moves forward with self-assurance and poise, a fleeting glance given to each of those lumbering around in the clearing (useless, with nothing to show but biting, scathing words – a typical game of penile comparison - whose is bigger?).
Gently, she presses her shoulder against the rounded curve of Giohde’s hip, raking her teeth gently across her spine – tasting the remnants of sweat across her skin; feeling her tremble under her tongue – terrified, uncertain. She can nearly feel her fear seeping through her skin, and it stirs a giddiness in her wildly pounding heart.
”Ooh, she is a little spitfire,” she croons, casting a glance towards Deimos, and then to Gryffen, amusement laced into every carefully constructed word. ”she could be useful.”
Quietly, she touches her cheek to the strong, heavily muscled line of Deimos’ shoulder, sliding the length of her slender, curvaceous body against his own, while behind her, there is a stirring – a crackling; a rumbling from within the ground. There is a snap and a plucking of each grounded root from a single, towering oak – and with a simple toss of her neck, it is torn from the ground, leaving a gaping, concave hole where it once stood proud.
Her gaze searches for the searing, burning crimson of Gryffen’s own, as the levitating tree is thrown deeper into the thicket, reverberating through the densely packed soil with a thud.
”And maybe, I could be too. Thana.”
She is restless.
She is one with the shadows – isolated, still, with shallow breath and a steady beating heart. The darkness has shrouded her from their vision, and she is no fool – following the gentle caress of the wayward wind to conceal her presence. Silently, she is listening – testosterone is surging through the clearing, and the corner of her mouth rises, pulling into a wry smile.
Those of the weaker sex often craved power, and would go to any length to obtain it, and such was no exception. The air is crackling with the electricity of magic, exuding from the broad, obsidian carcass who is snarling to another (he is formidable, Deimos, and it stirs an excitement deep within – causes her skin to tingle and her heart to thrust raggedly against the tight confinement of her chest).
There is a tender thing, caught in the clutches of where she clearly does not belong – a beauty, with delicate curves and a soft, pliable heart (she can almost hear it echoing its rhythmic beat; almost) – and an unusual third eye. At last, she is drawn away from the shade – she, herself, is a silhouette of cobalt and obsidian with a gleaming two-toned gaze – one a dismal, dreary gray, and one a deep, endless abyss of black. She is not wary; quite the opposite – she moves forward with self-assurance and poise, a fleeting glance given to each of those lumbering around in the clearing (useless, with nothing to show but biting, scathing words – a typical game of penile comparison - whose is bigger?).
Gently, she presses her shoulder against the rounded curve of Giohde’s hip, raking her teeth gently across her spine – tasting the remnants of sweat across her skin; feeling her tremble under her tongue – terrified, uncertain. She can nearly feel her fear seeping through her skin, and it stirs a giddiness in her wildly pounding heart.
”Ooh, she is a little spitfire,” she croons, casting a glance towards Deimos, and then to Gryffen, amusement laced into every carefully constructed word. ”she could be useful.”
Quietly, she touches her cheek to the strong, heavily muscled line of Deimos’ shoulder, sliding the length of her slender, curvaceous body against his own, while behind her, there is a stirring – a crackling; a rumbling from within the ground. There is a snap and a plucking of each grounded root from a single, towering oak – and with a simple toss of her neck, it is torn from the ground, leaving a gaping, concave hole where it once stood proud.
Her gaze searches for the searing, burning crimson of Gryffen’s own, as the levitating tree is thrown deeper into the thicket, reverberating through the densely packed soil with a thud.
”And maybe, I could be too. Thana.”