06-24-2018, 12:17 AM
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror
She reacts just as he pleases (a hitch in her breathing, a disruption to the pattern of her body’s routine, a moment that leaves her on edge) and the casual smirk that rests upon his face is just a touch larger than normal. She is disgusted with the wanderings of his eyes, but he pays this fact no heed. Woman either hate him or love him and an average-size (though still growing) population of them have proven time and time again to love him.
The leopard mare aims herself in a subtle direction away from him. He cannot know where home is (perhaps with some knight waiting in their marriage bed, perhaps she does not actually have a home, perhaps sunken among forgotten ruins of a forgotten land) but he can steal her away from it. At least for a few enjoyable moments. The shadows converge again (as real to touch and see as if it were happening, but merely an illusion to her) in a dramatic display and form a dome over top of them. Whatever moonlight had been shining through the forest’s ceiling is drowned in the darkness of the shadow-dome.
“You were traveling home.” He is in this dome with her, his voice echoing off the walls of her prison, and a single light (hazy and eerie yet strangely bright among the absence of light otherwise) finds the angles of his face. “Tell me your name.” It will aid him, in his conquest to strike fear or otherwise — with the knowledge of her name he can make the monsters and creepy-crawlies and blood-lined caskets sing her sweet little tune.
If she doesn’t answer (if she presses that slender, supple body against the wall of the dome), the shadows shrink in on her, the walls slick and bitterly cold to touch. He again asks, this time with a sharper edge in his voice, “Tell me your name, babe.” Adrenaline (the lover’s high that accompanies such endeavors as this) pumps through his veins like a drug-addict’s favorite dose and he reveals in the sensation of it all.
The leopard mare aims herself in a subtle direction away from him. He cannot know where home is (perhaps with some knight waiting in their marriage bed, perhaps she does not actually have a home, perhaps sunken among forgotten ruins of a forgotten land) but he can steal her away from it. At least for a few enjoyable moments. The shadows converge again (as real to touch and see as if it were happening, but merely an illusion to her) in a dramatic display and form a dome over top of them. Whatever moonlight had been shining through the forest’s ceiling is drowned in the darkness of the shadow-dome.
“You were traveling home.” He is in this dome with her, his voice echoing off the walls of her prison, and a single light (hazy and eerie yet strangely bright among the absence of light otherwise) finds the angles of his face. “Tell me your name.” It will aid him, in his conquest to strike fear or otherwise — with the knowledge of her name he can make the monsters and creepy-crawlies and blood-lined caskets sing her sweet little tune.
If she doesn’t answer (if she presses that slender, supple body against the wall of the dome), the shadows shrink in on her, the walls slick and bitterly cold to touch. He again asks, this time with a sharper edge in his voice, “Tell me your name, babe.” Adrenaline (the lover’s high that accompanies such endeavors as this) pumps through his veins like a drug-addict’s favorite dose and he reveals in the sensation of it all.
Lokii
lover of chaos
@[Kagerus]
