04-29-2016, 11:30 AM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. My corpse masterpiece has her own small brood, children who hold no love for her, children left bloodied and strange in her dust. They were all stupid things, lax-jawed fools who cringed and keened. Amazing, that her deadened body could even produce anything, it was a strange sort of magic that let the dead breed. (The last child delivered from her loins had been a son, sniveling and weak, a boy she bruised and left once his purpose had been served.) But the children don’t matter now – if indeed they ever did – because here before her is a vibrantly colored her, the swell of her belly barely noticeable, a girl crooning her name back to her and a sweet expression slapped on her charming little face. Both players in a game, maybe, but authenticity has never been of much interest to my corpse queen. The mare brushes her lips against the dishwater gray of her skin, which Chantale takes as an invite, she brushes her own muzzle along the mare, savored the warmth. She wants to press closer, lock their bodies, take her warmth – but it’s too soon. There are rules, see. Propriety. (A funny word, coming from her.) “Ryss,” she coos back, and likes the name, it’s short and easy and seductive. She doesn’t care if it’s a lie – she’s worn many names herself, the ones that strike her fancy. “And what are you doing out here alone? There’s monsters about.” Monsters who have slumbered and risen, even. Monsters who are hungry. how original a sin. |