I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
She's can smell him. Or rather, she can smell herself drifting across lands she has not traveled - herself, but male. Potent. Virile. The scent is feral and untamed, a growling shadow of mystery that she demands submission from. This triviality will not escape her keen, scouring gaze; not if it's the last thing she does.
She slips away from Loess easily. Ivar has been a pleasant company, a useful way to pass the time and to amuse the black; in time, he may be more, or rather, less. She hasn't decided yet - the beauty of the man is undeniable, and she thirsts for him, and drinks deeply when given the chance. But this new scent, this heady, intoxicating scent - she must find it. Even in the depths of the kelpie's lair, it manages to weasel her out.
And so she goes. To the forest, the most sinister and private of places, where even Ivar could not find her if she did not wish him to. And for now, she doesn't - she will return to him in due time, she knows. And if the stallion had even a morsel of perspective, he would not be the hypocrite she expects him to be. If she can share, so can he. The thought of him finding out, however, is exhilarating; how erotic for him to lust after her even as she vies for another.
Trissy is a far cry from the child who was born from the Beyond some months ago... Or perhaps she is simply shedding skin.
The thicket she places herself in has room enough for two horses to stand comfortably, but not more - and the surrounding flora is expertly woven, leaving no room for prying eyes. The thicket smells faintly of other love and passion; she wonders if He will smell it too, when He comes. And she knows he will.
The dreadlocks of her hair fall to her knees, tangled and wild and messed into the chaos that both he and she knew all too well. The sleek and intricately muscled sinews of her hide flex in anticipation, rolling and bulging in a feminine display of sexuality and prowess. Her stature is small - doll like, a toy, something to play with and smirk at when she gives in to your touch and demands even more of you - but her eyes are a black tempest of muliebrity.
"Brother, brother, brother..." A rumble of husked words, toying with the ears she knows are listening. "Don't be shy."
She slips away from Loess easily. Ivar has been a pleasant company, a useful way to pass the time and to amuse the black; in time, he may be more, or rather, less. She hasn't decided yet - the beauty of the man is undeniable, and she thirsts for him, and drinks deeply when given the chance. But this new scent, this heady, intoxicating scent - she must find it. Even in the depths of the kelpie's lair, it manages to weasel her out.
And so she goes. To the forest, the most sinister and private of places, where even Ivar could not find her if she did not wish him to. And for now, she doesn't - she will return to him in due time, she knows. And if the stallion had even a morsel of perspective, he would not be the hypocrite she expects him to be. If she can share, so can he. The thought of him finding out, however, is exhilarating; how erotic for him to lust after her even as she vies for another.
Trissy is a far cry from the child who was born from the Beyond some months ago... Or perhaps she is simply shedding skin.
The thicket she places herself in has room enough for two horses to stand comfortably, but not more - and the surrounding flora is expertly woven, leaving no room for prying eyes. The thicket smells faintly of other love and passion; she wonders if He will smell it too, when He comes. And she knows he will.
The dreadlocks of her hair fall to her knees, tangled and wild and messed into the chaos that both he and she knew all too well. The sleek and intricately muscled sinews of her hide flex in anticipation, rolling and bulging in a feminine display of sexuality and prowess. Her stature is small - doll like, a toy, something to play with and smirk at when she gives in to your touch and demands even more of you - but her eyes are a black tempest of muliebrity.
"Brother, brother, brother..." A rumble of husked words, toying with the ears she knows are listening. "Don't be shy."
Trissy