02-17-2016, 11:39 AM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She likes to make them react. It elicits an animal pleasure within her, whether the reaction is fear or disgust (and sometimes it’s something else, a heady lust, a morbid fascination). So when a curl of the girl’s fear rises up she inhales, deep, the coppery stench of it something bright and beloved in her mind. The girl stumbles away, stumbles back as if my corpse masterpiece was a disease, something virulent in the air. And mayhap she was – mayhap she is - because lord knows the thing that is Chantale has sat beneath their skins too often, has poisoned the wells of their hearts and salted their earth, a plague with a too-perfect body and a too-dead smile. She does not let the give move too far, for the game is not done yet. Her own limbs slip across the earth, following the fear-scent, following her ill-got daughter. I have nothing for you, the daughter claims, but my corpse masterpiece knows better. “Vaermina,” she says again, sighing her name, “that’s no way to speak to your mother.” Another step. She doesn’t want to chase (she’s never been graceful, she prefers her hunting insidious), but she will, should she be made to. “Besides,” her head cocks and she’d almost be pretty if it weren’t for the utter wrongness of her, “you’re warm, and you know how mother’s always cold.” Always dead, she means, but that seems like semantics. how original a sin. |