[P] [fire] even the moon will not lend thee her light

[Arawn]

underworld


do i still taste of war.  can you feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back

Arawn laughs in the darkness. His voice echoes with cruelty and criminal want.  Beneath the hazy moonlight he smiles like a heathen prince.  His muscles are drenched with moist crimson.  His body glistening red, so visceral and unholy. It is not his blood that he washes off his saturated physique; his muscles rippling by the darkly, laughing rivers of a black, Delumine stream.  The water feels cold beneath his touch – it darkens with all that vermillion blood, washing down his frame.  It swims against his muscles like forbidden silk.  He can hear it whispering to him. Darkness is a drug he swallows, greedily. Darkness falls against his toned frame and he drinks the nocturnal ambience with a low growl of want and ravenous need.  It is always the darkness he finds beautiful.  A siren call for his devilish heart. 

Arawn closes his eyes and remembers the taste of a soul between his lips. How it skims his fangs like ambrosia, and slides down his throat like sin, like suffering.  When Arawn finally wakes from his reverie, he wakes to whisper of dusk kissing his flesh – to the evening chill of nightfall, that beg his violence to crawl; like curses wound from his ancient, wolven lineage. Somewhere songs are sung in ode to Spring.  Fire crawls through the starving earth and midnight skies are charged with witchcraft, ecstasy and laughter.  Arawn is the dark, brooding gentleman against the cut of tangled, dancing bodies.  Tonight, he is drenched in moonlight and not blood.  Tonight, Arawn watches the flames rise higher, higher; as the smoke spirals up and up.  Thirsting like arms thrown in intimate prayer against the nightsky.  On his breath is the taste of whiskey.  He watches the world partying around him through the rich haze of alcohol. 

The clearning is obscured by sable canopies – candlelights, swaying to the overture of wind.  A zephyr catches in the flickering of a silver moon-haze.  The breeze that washes along his form feels chilly – a sinful caress, that lingers with forgotten need. He will see her then, amid the throes of dancing bodies. In the shadows of fire and smoke, she is a porcelain face, with slender features.  How the lunar light descends upon the body of a young maiden, with moon-touched curves.  "Do you enjoy their music?"  Arawn grins, downing another shot of whiskey. "Will you dance with them?"

@Aster

Am i still rebuilding bone by fragile bone

[Aster]

I met a lady in the meads,
      Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
      And her eyes were wild.

It is the smoke and firelight that draws her; it is the music that makes her stay.

Aster leaves her companion in the forest, far beyond the throngs of horses. The cheetah watches her with eyes the same shade of gold as her own until she disappears among the small spring buds on the trees. He is uncomfortable in crowds, but she is drawn to them - too curious to resist, at least for a while.

She does not paint her skin, or play games, or even talk with the others her age. The pegasus slips between them all like a ghost, a spirit colored only by firelight, each flare of copper-fed green or or hungry red painting her as she passes by. Neither does she drink, or eat - it is as though she is in the fairy-country, as though she will be ensorcelled if she does, although if there is any fae-child among them it is she.

The moon is high overhead when the stranger approaches her. He is not the first to speak to her tonight, though he is the first she answers; when Aster turns her wide golden eyes to the pale skull markings of his face, she thinks that she has never seen a unicorn stallion before.

Aster doesn’t answer his first question; instead she only blinks at him, thinking that the answer is evident in the way she sways, the way her gaze has been straying toward the musicians, the fact that she is here at all. She watches a swallow of dark liquid disappear down his throat - she wonders at the flash of teeth she sees, ever so briefly, teeth that were not made for chewing hay, for cutting grass. “I dance alone,” she says.

@Arawn | <3