02-21-2016, 12:12 PM
cast me down where the devil don't go
The way her name rolled off of her tongue, slick and sickly, evoked a wave of nausea to ripple through her body. She attempted to look away, to keep her dark eyes from seeing (feeling) the death exude from her flesh, but it was of no use. She was so close she could feel her breath on her skin, and it causes her to tremble. There was a time, once, when she might have admired her - been in awe of her - but age gave so much more to wisdom and she had grown wise to the illness that filled her life-giver to the brim. She knew of her doings, of her cravings and had been punished too many times for impeding on her darkened, bloody lustfest before.
It was difficult - no, impossible not to flinch, though she does stop, wary of a lashing or worse. She no longer feared for herself alone. No, that isn't what has instilled her sudden apprehension, nor is it what begins to make her skin feel as if it is burning, purtrifying from Chantale's gaze alone. She grows closer to her, and for that she grows wary, dark eyelids closing to shield her eyes from her, lashes brushing her own cheek as she attempts to ward off the darkness that is beginning to descend. Her mother always had a certain terror about her, along with many other things such as fear, bloodlust and vehemence - but now it was beginning to crawl beneath her skin, settle into her bones, penetrate her pounding, thrusting heart.
For she was not alone; she carried another. A new life, threatening to burst forth from its autumn creation into a new spring with vigor. It was growing, twisting, turning - developing within the pit of her belly, causing her to bloat, to swell. A spawn of her own, undesired but not altogether unwanted, was beginning to form within. She could feel her mother's skin brush her own, and it causes her to flinch again - she knows she will know; Mother always knows.
Vaermina
chantale x nykeln