12-12-2015, 04:14 PM
She has perfect control. Tight, self-assured command of her body — but like a captain drunk at the wheel in the eyewall of a storm, her direction is wildly foolhardy. The last beating drum of a dying man; the last thirsty swig of bacchanalian life. But she feels a terribly arrogant certainty: He will not touch her, not until she is ready. Though the meaty and bloody quality of her shoulders might be tantalizing, he could have had her.
But he instead stands before her salivating, and it makes her feel powerful.
A terribly dangerous assumption. It emboldens her.
Her black-brown eyes grow wet and fixated — empty but for one glint, a singular drive animating her. (What lies beneath that cloak of dead treestuff.) A singular purpose compelling her probing mouth. Then she catches a quick glimpse of his teeth again. Those instruments for shredding, tearing, biting. She makes a soft coo-ing noise, running her tongue across her lips. Oh! The things she could do... She chuckles under her breath. (But how to get them out?)
And then he speaks and her ears flick lazily to catch the tones through the mire of her own feverish brainstorming. He demands. Sharp and strong, she almost considers acquiescence, but when he rears back she pulls her fine head away, snapping her neck back and to the side like a cornered snake. The raw snap of his twigs consumes her with now unencumbered panic — a sudden flush of true self-preservation. It renders her inert, but for the dance of hooves and she sidles back a few steps.
“What do you want?”
Her ears pin back into the tangle of her dark mane, and the alarm is replaced slowly with ire. She pushes forward, closer than ever, her breath heavy and she can feel now that he is cold. He is nothing but mortality embodied — both death and decay combined; he is the realization of the natural life cycle. “Did you have life once?” She spits, still catching her breath, “Or have you always been so fundamentally bereft of warmth?” Her nostrils flare, pink, “Does it hurt?”
She means the queer, branch tail. She means the migration of his soul.
Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
But he instead stands before her salivating, and it makes her feel powerful.A terribly dangerous assumption. It emboldens her.Her black-brown eyes grow wet and fixated — empty but for one glint, a singular drive animating her. (What lies beneath that cloak of dead treestuff.) A singular purpose compelling her probing mouth. Then she catches a quick glimpse of his teeth again. Those instruments for shredding, tearing, biting. She makes a soft coo-ing noise, running her tongue across her lips. Oh! The things she could do... She chuckles under her breath. (But how to get them out?)
And then he speaks and her ears flick lazily to catch the tones through the mire of her own feverish brainstorming. He demands. Sharp and strong, she almost considers acquiescence, but when he rears back she pulls her fine head away, snapping her neck back and to the side like a cornered snake. The raw snap of his twigs consumes her with now unencumbered panic — a sudden flush of true self-preservation. It renders her inert, but for the dance of hooves and she sidles back a few steps.
“What do you want?”Her ears pin back into the tangle of her dark mane, and the alarm is replaced slowly with ire. She pushes forward, closer than ever, her breath heavy and she can feel now that he is cold. He is nothing but mortality embodied — both death and decay combined; he is the realization of the natural life cycle. “Did you have life once?” She spits, still catching her breath, “Or have you always been so fundamentally bereft of warmth?” Her nostrils flare, pink, “Does it hurt?”
She means the queer, branch tail. She means the migration of his soul.
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
Holy. Poop. Sorry! I had no idea I was so late with this. Blame it a bit on life, a bit on the quest, and a bit on the exploding muse for my much nicer characters haha!
lines and shading
by bronzehalo
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