12-03-2017, 09:37 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
She does not know whence the anger came.
It had begun by leaving her shriveled and calloused heart still and numb to whatever the ache was that lingered beneath her breast - and it had blossomed into a blistering rage, quieted only by the sheer power of her will. Stoicism remained at the surface - with only the wicked gleam in her silver-laden eye to give away what emotion lay beneath the placidity of her expression, but in the dark recesses of her mind, it thrives, ravenous and insatiable. She had devoted her time, her drive - her strength and wit and effort to him, and for what? Silence has permeated the woodland as winter waned, as her body convulsed and birthed a child born from his loin -
She cannot waste her energy being bitter over what never was, over what never could be.
She moves 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 the disarray of her ivory forelock is brushed away from the gleaming gray of her roving eye, searching the darkness, illicitly drawn to what might lurk within. She is not alone, and she is startlingly aware of it, as a shiver traverses the length of her spine - the heaviness of another breathing the same air as she is sucking the oxygen from her lungs, as she becomes still.
Never cautious, always curious.
”Show yourself,” she demands, searching the abysmal darkness for differentiation between black and blacker - for an outline, for a pair of watchful eyes, just like her own. Her teeth unsheathe with a faint sneer - no longer blunt, but sharp and glistening like the wolf that hid beneath sheepskin. ”come now. I don’t bite. Not unless you’d like me to, that is.”
It had begun by leaving her shriveled and calloused heart still and numb to whatever the ache was that lingered beneath her breast - and it had blossomed into a blistering rage, quieted only by the sheer power of her will. Stoicism remained at the surface - with only the wicked gleam in her silver-laden eye to give away what emotion lay beneath the placidity of her expression, but in the dark recesses of her mind, it thrives, ravenous and insatiable. She had devoted her time, her drive - her strength and wit and effort to him, and for what? Silence has permeated the woodland as winter waned, as her body convulsed and birthed a child born from his loin -
She cannot waste her energy being bitter over what never was, over what never could be.
She moves 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 the disarray of her ivory forelock is brushed away from the gleaming gray of her roving eye, searching the darkness, illicitly drawn to what might lurk within. She is not alone, and she is startlingly aware of it, as a shiver traverses the length of her spine - the heaviness of another breathing the same air as she is sucking the oxygen from her lungs, as she becomes still.
Never cautious, always curious.
”Show yourself,” she demands, searching the abysmal darkness for differentiation between black and blacker - for an outline, for a pair of watchful eyes, just like her own. Her teeth unsheathe with a faint sneer - no longer blunt, but sharp and glistening like the wolf that hid beneath sheepskin. ”come now. I don’t bite. Not unless you’d like me to, that is.”