10-19-2017, 08:44 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
"Ooh, aren’t you delightful?" she croons softly to her, a sharp intake of air following with a trill of laughter, as the shapely muscle beneath the darkness of her skin slowly moves with the predatory movement of her limbs. A gentle breeze weaves through the tousled tresses across her slender curve of her neck, brushing the ivory streak away from her insidious, mismatched gaze – roving the femininity of her own stature; the ridges and curves that simply do not exist in the presence of testosterone. There is a gleam of uncertainty (the moment in which her beloved must cross her mine – wondering why she had not brought him; why indeed) – and it is enough to stoke the effervescent hunger within her.
She knew scarring. She knew it intimately – she knew it did not always mean bravery; it oftentimes meant futility. Pride. Recklessness. So many that bore the scars of war, of combat, of survival were too foolish to know when to run; when to act as the trembling, quivering prey their instinctual drive urged them to be.
"That is where you are wrong, precious constellation," she muses, her dreary gray eye tracing the starlight moving closer, as if drawn down from the celestial sky by her sheer desire alone. Thoughtfully, she paces before her, while her lithe and agile limbs carry her to the east, and then to the west – and all the while, her hunger is growing, filling her to the brim with the insatiable desire to split her apart, to shed her blood and to taste her shuddering with fear. "only the most foolish prey stand idle in the presence of a predator."
Within the steady thump of a rhythmic heartbeat, she has shed her equine skin for that of the predator that lurked within – with thick, pitchless fur, claws extended (outstretched), and a hackling snarl drawn up from her throat, while her gleaming incisors drip with saliva, craving a piece of the what lay so defiantly before her. A rumbling growl reverberates through the length of her slender, yet wholly muscular frame, as her long legs carry her with might, lunging toward Ciri – her teeth gnashing at the tender crook of her jugular, while her claws lash out at her broad cheek, seeking to strike her eye and to render her blind.
She knew scarring. She knew it intimately – she knew it did not always mean bravery; it oftentimes meant futility. Pride. Recklessness. So many that bore the scars of war, of combat, of survival were too foolish to know when to run; when to act as the trembling, quivering prey their instinctual drive urged them to be.
"That is where you are wrong, precious constellation," she muses, her dreary gray eye tracing the starlight moving closer, as if drawn down from the celestial sky by her sheer desire alone. Thoughtfully, she paces before her, while her lithe and agile limbs carry her to the east, and then to the west – and all the while, her hunger is growing, filling her to the brim with the insatiable desire to split her apart, to shed her blood and to taste her shuddering with fear. "only the most foolish prey stand idle in the presence of a predator."
Within the steady thump of a rhythmic heartbeat, she has shed her equine skin for that of the predator that lurked within – with thick, pitchless fur, claws extended (outstretched), and a hackling snarl drawn up from her throat, while her gleaming incisors drip with saliva, craving a piece of the what lay so defiantly before her. A rumbling growl reverberates through the length of her slender, yet wholly muscular frame, as her long legs carry her with might, lunging toward Ciri – her teeth gnashing at the tender crook of her jugular, while her claws lash out at her broad cheek, seeking to strike her eye and to render her blind.
@[Ciri]