10-09-2017, 10:13 PM
Ellyse
Better beware, I go bump in the night.
devil-may-care with a lust for life.
Rage.devil-may-care with a lust for life.
White-hot, blistering rage. Blood still caught between bristled, unkempt feathers – no longer ivory, coated in grime, filth and decay, haphazardly placed over hollowed bone tucked against her flank. She is breathless, delirious with an anger she cannot conceal, a fury she cannot contain. She can feel the dried blood across her cheek, caught in the sullen, concave eye socket that once held delicate nerves that had been torn freely from her skull effortlessly. The anguish and agony of it had long since faded – she felt numb where she should feel misery; she felt numb to the loss, to the vertigo that had come and gone in its absence, to the hideous disfigurement left where beauty had once held its place.
She did not feel numb to the betrayal of the one she had given her heart to (he had left her to die, and she would one day do the same to him) – to what had been given to her by her tormentor, only to be taken away – to what she had been forced to do, to what she had destroyed in the process of it all.
She felt every agonizing moment of the woe that inevitably came as the distant sunrise bathed her in its warmth and vibrant color. Oh, how it causes her brain to ache - she cannot process the sight as she once could; she had taken her eyesight for granted – she no longer felt whole, merely a shadow of what she once was. It would not last, however – she had not fought through the blood, sweat and tears to falter, nor had she done so only to fail – she would go on, she would thrive, and in the end –
Only time would tell.
She is worn and weary, but the familiar, stifling humidity envelopes her, as the gentle ocean air caresses her open, seeping wounds – caught between a plethora of emotion, she is raw, unrestrained and flinching with every wayward step. A shiver traverses the length of her spine as her single eye roves the thick and swaying vegetation for a glimpse of her sons, of her daughter – her own stomach snarls with a ravenous hunger, but if she is aching with famine, she cannot imagine the hunger stirring in the young bellies of her children. Her longing for vengeance is strong, but her yearning for her young is stronger.
Smoak - his scent is heavy in the stagnant air, and a winding knot of dread has already begun to coil within her heart – what would he say, what would he see? The blood, the gaping wound of her missing eye would not go unnoticed, but she had not fought for the fragile tendril of her life to go another forsaken moment without clutching him close to her rapidly beating heart. There is a glimmer of gold among the flora and fauna, and some small part of her writhing, shriveling heart is warmed by the sight – she only hoped that Joaquin and Joplin would be near, and well – the dark God had taken so much from her already.
What lay before her is enough to stir her heart into a furious frenzy, and her blood into a churning force of wrath and anger – and her long, muscled legs are carrying her over rivulets of magma, roiling water and through the dense field of undergrowth as a bellow of anger echoes out from within the dry confinement of her throat –
”Get away from my son!”
As she lunges for the misshapen, partially transformed creature before her, her body is sheathed in overlapping diamond, glistening brightly beneath the pale but unforgiving sun – a blinding sight, as her outstretched wing and diamond-encased body shield her yearling son from the snarling, snapping jaws that belonged to a shadow she had never known at all.