12-11-2017, 03:08 PM
It's in her kiss; the black seal.
”Call me bitch again and I will give you proper reason to think that I am,” she snarls, the deeply rooted predator emerging with the sharpened fangs protruding from her parted mouth. ”I belong to no one, and least of not him,” she breathes, recoiling from him as if he were made of acid, bitter and vile, or diseased – contagious and abhorrent. There is a gleam of disappointment within the darkness of her blackened eye, refusing to linger further across the marred, uneven flesh, no longer drawn to him. Any flickering flame of curiosity doused by his inability to see her for what she is, for who she is – she thought he had potential; she yearned to find another as chaotic and as vehement as she, but he is nothing. Nothing at all. Not if he cannot see beyond those she has taken as a lover; not if he cannot see her as anything but subservient to a King that would be nowhere without the Queen that had made it all possible.
”If you need to use the genitals that sit between my legs to define me, to define the relationship that I share with Gryffen, you are not half of what I thought you were.” She utters softly, though there is poison beneath her tongue, seeping into every arsenic-laced word pouring from the darkness of her lips. She is not frightened of him – he cannot do anything to her that she would not find delight in, that she would not revel in – (even death!) – but chauvinism held no place and no merit; he discounted her before every truly knowing her, and there is no roiling fury in her belly urging her to prove him wrong. Not even Gryffen had wronged her so.
She owes Lokii nothing.
Sylva would not be what it was without her; without her spilling the blood she had.
Without her kidnapping, enslaving, murdering at a whim –
Without her carving the bloodshed into the brittle and dying bark of the birch and hickory of the forest; without her moving seamlessly beside Gryffen while darkness descended, and Death followed their every move. She is left yearning for her companion in destruction, in decimation and devastation, angry that he is nowhere to be found, as betrayal and abandonment both fester inside of the dirtied blood of her sordid veins. But she would go on.
”I sought you, to see if you could carry your own reputation – to see if you might want to take a place in the history of our own making, but so far you are a terrible disappointment,” she does not look at him – not even once! Her ire is too much; her fury heavy and aching. Salivating, the wolf inside of her aching to burst forth, to clutch his jugular between her clenching jaws and to taste his blood under her tongue. ”Tell me why I should let you leave Sylva unscathed?”
Thana.
It runs deeper than you can dare to dream it could be.