10-17-2017, 10:52 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
The air is heavy and laden with desire – and the solitude she is accustomed to is rife with laughter, wicked and shrewd, while dense and dimly lit woodland echoes with delight and with exquisite suffering. Her gaze is cast away from the plethora of bodies, shifting, moving in erotic satisfaction, but she is not enraptured with the sight, nor the scent permeating the darkness. Her lover had found eroticism in drawing out the suffering of a sister she had brought to him, carefully bound with a ribbon and bow of dying, decaying vine and brush, and she is restless – seeking to cause her own havoc.
She is quiet, moving seamlessly with little else but her feminine, shapely silhouette to give her presence away. Her cheek brushes once, and then twice over a lone birch, pale and stark in contrast to the dry and brittle bark of the pine and hickory surrounding her, and her haphazardly ivory forelock is brushed away from the gleaming silver of her roving eye, searching the darkness, illicitly drawn to what might lurk within.
There is movement within the thicket – subtle though it is, and she is drawn toward it, while the thrumming of the festivities seep through the rousing fog enveloping her. A shiver of delight traverses the length of her spine, with the dismal abyss of one eye is left soullessly peering out into the obscurity of evenfall. The Nightmother had been aptly named by the one her bitter, callous heart yearned for most – she is stealth and danger personified; her shallow breath caught within her throat.
Her dark, tousled tresses lay prone across the slender curve of her neck, while her long and tangled tail lashes to and fro across each hock, while the muscle that lines her shoulders moves smoothly beneath her indigo flesh with each forward stride – she is carnivorous to the very core; a predator sheathed in the skin of prey, seeking the next morsel for her ravenous hunger to feast upon.
”Show yourself,” she croons softly to the distant outline of another – her eyes alight with mischief. ”come now, don’t be shy ..”
She is quiet, moving seamlessly with little else but her feminine, shapely silhouette to give her presence away. Her cheek brushes once, and then twice over a lone birch, pale and stark in contrast to the dry and brittle bark of the pine and hickory surrounding her, and her haphazardly ivory forelock is brushed away from the gleaming silver of her roving eye, searching the darkness, illicitly drawn to what might lurk within.
There is movement within the thicket – subtle though it is, and she is drawn toward it, while the thrumming of the festivities seep through the rousing fog enveloping her. A shiver of delight traverses the length of her spine, with the dismal abyss of one eye is left soullessly peering out into the obscurity of evenfall. The Nightmother had been aptly named by the one her bitter, callous heart yearned for most – she is stealth and danger personified; her shallow breath caught within her throat.
Her dark, tousled tresses lay prone across the slender curve of her neck, while her long and tangled tail lashes to and fro across each hock, while the muscle that lines her shoulders moves smoothly beneath her indigo flesh with each forward stride – she is carnivorous to the very core; a predator sheathed in the skin of prey, seeking the next morsel for her ravenous hunger to feast upon.
”Show yourself,” she croons softly to the distant outline of another – her eyes alight with mischief. ”come now, don’t be shy ..”