your hips on my jawline; any||[mature html]

[Karsi]

karsi

She has yet to tie herself to a plot of land. None were able to satisfy the crave of her perversions. Some have come to lay their seed, some melted into a hazy glow of autumn, some simply lay with lolling tongues and glazed eyes. None could enrich the dark woman's mind. They were all a fading blip on a vast spectrum yet all thought they were a special circumstance despite their lives being mere repeats of a pathetic fairytale that always ended in sweet, tragic devastation.

Karsi is not entirely sure is her own was of significance.

The water parts to reveal broken shells and scattered bones. The pale blue legs remain dry as the white haired bitch disembarked from the thickly pine scented shores of Taiga with Ischia in her hungry sights. She had the whim to visit the island but did not care to explore with a sopping body and tangled mane. No, the animator would not accept the flaws that could have been dealt and instead bends the very essence of the world to meet her desires.

Her walk is slow and deliberate, enjoying the water wall and the way the sea life suspends at her eye level or above. Karsi has had much time to practice her little gift and demonstrates by having a long drowned carcass of a unicorn finding it's split feet and moving behind her oily black body, it's jaw hinged together with kelp, fangs protruding from the edges of it's rotting lips as it follows like a lost puppy beckoning for her attention. A single eye is cast over her shoulder as the rotting thing hurries, bits of grey flesh tearing off.

She emerges not long after on Ischia, the dead unicorn silent without it's tongue but not completely blind with it's infected eye sockets. It sees as thought Karsi does and she wills the dead and rotting skin bag ahead to scout and clear anything that should object of her prescence.

your hips on my jawline

just something casual.

[Brennen]

hold me in this wild, wild world
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be

He is not a stranger to reanimated corpses.

Of course, Brennen’s creations aren’t really…corpses. His control extends only to bones, after all, and the flesh doesn’t tend to tag along. He doesn’t usually reach for the recently dead, either. Perhaps his could look like this. He’s intrigued by the figure as it drifts past him, where he stands just inside the tree line, but he doesn’t follow; the bay stallion turns his gaze towards the surf, looking for the puppeteer.

He doesn’t personally know everyone and their traits who reside on the island with him (though he knows them by sight, and smell), but Brennen does know that the girl on the beach is a stranger. A bold stranger, to send the dead scouting into someone else’s Kingdom with so little worry or regard to the wishes of the residents. But it’s a scout, not apparently an attack, so he is lazy in his movement as he approaches her, though that might not be all that reassuring when you take a second look.

At second look, his honey-brown gaze has toughened to amber, cool and hard. His lazy movement is easy slide of scarred skin over defined muscles. His wings are held loosely, ready for deployment, rather than tucked tight against his sides.

Still, his expression is polite; curious even as he approaches, hooves sinking into sun-warmed sand when he halts. “Hello, and welcome to Ischia.” he lets his eyes flick to the treeline and vanished corpse, but only for long enough that she is sure to have noticed. “Do you always send dead scouts into other people’s territories?”

Okay so he’s not going to win welcome committee of the year award, but it was courteous enough. And Brennen has only ever played at being a diplomat – he’s a warrior, a general, a titan. And she is a potential threat.

hold me in this wild, wild world
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get

BRENNEN