Crash, crash, Burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground
when she turns toward the face of dawn, to let her hungry eyes linger along the blue coastal line, her gaze drinks the ruby sunrise that drowns the sky in violent, visceral prayer. when she turns to face the sun. her lips curves upwards into a devilish smirk; feeling the brush of satin light, hotly, caress her skin like the wings of a hundred, storming fireflies rushed too quickly, too suddenly over flesh. today, she dances in the beach-side of terminus sea. drinking in the raw, morning light. she dances and slides past the mangroves, in a laconic purr of white and scarlet. breathing soft, feral breaths, as she wove through the deep shadows of its still-beating wilderness. in the background, emblazoned by fiery hues, the oceans were nothing more than a steady thrum of languidly, lapping waves; waves, that smothered the shores. drummed, and sang in tune with the rhythm of her heart.
today, winter's grasp does not relent; cold and fervent with icy wrath. red hits the boulders in a burst of smoldering fire as sunlight weaves fervor, through the boorish cliffs. its caressive torridity, sweltering raw gold through the sinews of its granular-sculpted halls, and rocky crevasse. and she watches the sunfire, as it drips like yellow bones from slit fissures upon the cliffs and mountainside. upon the feral savagery of her curves, the rays of sunlight, spills, in smooth curves of blinding, acid-white. tracing the lightening edges of her spine. sleek with hot-white warmth and steel and blood. she is the violent, crimson song that dances wickedly through the hallowed halls of this empty wilderness. how her heart pounds in her chest. how her mind, her thoughts, stray beyond reality - plagued, by the screams of war. even amidst the golden breath of dawn, the bitter songs of revelation, torments her every waking hour.
suddenly, she is far away from here. she is far from the violent beauty of the oceans. she is far from the purifying melody of the seas. the low whisper of its intimately rushing tide; the deep waves of azure, that thrashed gently asunder, dream after dream after opiate dream. suddenly, instead of beauty, she sees blood. instead of roses, she smells gunpowder. she remembers the war. she remembers every visceral detail. every flow of dark, crimson blood, dampening her skin and the scent of ruination and deep, red terror. the memories of battle-forged armies. broken civilians. torn civilizations. her sisters, her mother; succumbing, to its irresistible destruction and inevitable fate.
she remembers the streets had lain, empty. barren. molten carnage, pouring forth, from the obsidian shroud. the blackness. the salivating jaws of horror, that consumed the dying and tortured the despaired. she remembers the beasts of war, that drenched the heavens in its venomous emulations. culling souls, with each whisper of grisly end. she remembers the smell of death. hot, and heavy, and mingled with rank debris and eternal rot. twisting the inside of her stomach in tight, knotting fists. destruction, lay everlasting. ruin breathes eternal. ash, falls down like deathly-pale snow. loitering and dusting ruminated buildings and shattered hallways full of broken glass, and blood-stained carcasses. such a desolate stretch of apocalyptic vacuity. a silent hill of consternation. the gorey nothingness, that which mirrors the emptiness in her heart. in her body. in her soul. she remembers it all and her heart both screams and aches with a wild, uncontrollable vengeance. she is hungry for release. wild, for retribution.
o, when she turns away from the ocean, she can still hear their screams. an echoed fabrication, violently tearing into her reality. whisper after whisper after shrill whisper. broken, with the prayers of the forgotten. of the damned. the shadows leave her mind; yet she cannot leave its darkness - she knows she can't be saved. these walls were nothing more than a cage; a cage, to savagely entice the hunger that is our wicked euryale. whisper after whisper, she wants to pull away from the violent reverie. to pull away from the siren cries of violence and hunger that consumes her mind. and thus, with tempered grace, her body brushes thru the oceanic gardens with a feral sigh. sensuous and earthly; she bows her crown, and moves in a sashay of devilish abandon. she breathes in the fiery morning light. inhale. exhale. she breathes softly, as air expands the lithe definitions of her so-girlish skeleton.
her hand is silk. her nails are knives - stained, in blood. the wolf's grasp comes in the form of iron. her body is euphoric; laced in scars - traced, in vicious malady. she unfurls like a python of wild lilac, before the rush of scarlet. with dark curves, twisting in the language of vipers - how she writhes along the raw pathways; her body of vermilion, descending, and tattooed snakes made manifest. ribbons of jade, snake beside her thighs; brushing her flanks in a smooth caress of violent satin - how they flow behind her like a ravishing gown. all silken curves, and red angles of her, swathed in their unabashed, semi-transparency. the memory of euryale's fragrance, lingers like the aftertaste of candied sanguine. though far more tainted, fore iron lay beneath its soft petals.
she smells of blood, caramel and deep, jasmine flowers. smoldering, and permeating delicately; the sweet, saccharine lingering of ethereal femininity - bathed, in hot iron. across the earth, she pads with a growl. hooves like talons, scratch the hard soil. her songs of carmine venom, unfurling in the silent kiss of her wake. she does not sleep in the castle with the others, but hunts and prowls in the wildwoods, by the light of the moon. by the savage cries of the ocean. the she-wolf has spent her evenings hunting the animals of the forests with her lilith. skinning them, then bringing their skins to lay lavish upon the floor of her bedroom. even the mangroves pulsates with the perfume of her arrival. even their stark foliage, grown wild amid the wintry foray, twists within their feral gardens. quivering at the intimacy of her touch. euryale moves restlessly, running her body against the smooth rocks, against the cliffside walls. the siren lets a purr leave her lips. savoring the cool of shadows, that may soothe her weary mind.
her lips, curves around a silent prayer and her voice, softer than a song, drifts into the morning light. into the brewing waves of relentless oceans, that howled with the hunger of her heart.
There is a fire inside of this heart
and a riot about to explode into flames
08-19-2020, 10:54 PM
Played by
Obsidian [PM] Posts: 70 — Threads: 5 Signos: 25
It is dawn when at last she steps out of the treeline and turns her gaze toward the siren song of the sea. The waves beckon her to them. Their breath is loud, the taste of it is salted and fresh. Up the beach the dawn tide crawls reaching for its girl who stands still hidden by the evening shadows. The hour is young, the dawn sky a blushing pink like worried skin. The young sun paints the sea red like blood. Above the horizon it rises, its crown rising as it watches a girl dance upon the beach.
But it is not just the sun who watches the woman dance, lupine and feral. In the dark of her trees Leto watches too. Her silver eyes glow, lit by the moonlight the beach-dancing girl should be howling beneath. But Leto owns the sky, the moon is hers and every star bends at her command. Its celestial fire is the shedstar’s to own and she calls them down, each by name to scold the world.
But this morning she watches as a feral girl dances. There is nothing tribal about how she moves. Leto longs to turn her grace into something sharper than the hooves that dig into the sand like talons. The ebony kelpie needs no sharp claws to end her prey upon the shore. Her dance is earthen magic belonging to wicked wild woods.
The bones chatter in her hair. Their voice is the melody of the wind as it tap, tap, taps her bones together. The canvas of the Ilati’s obsidian skin is painted in Ilati sigils and shed-star seals. They glow in the new-gold light of the dawning day. They whisper ancient magic over the meadow. The air trembles with her presence.
Sleek and slow as a panther Leto steps out from the cover of darkness, out, out into the dawn light. It does not know how to hold her, it does not know how to drench her space-black skin in golden sunlight. As the space between stars, Leto swallows down the sunlight, bleeding out of the air until she is a black hole, drawing all into her a grasp.
Down, down to the beach she slinks, her gaze only for the waves, not the witch who dances at their edge. Oh how the ocean groans for her return, her magic swells and light radiates out from her veins. Her skin glows with the spidery map of her vessels. Leto’s swallowing black splits with light and she gleams wicked and wild and hot like stars.
The startled sea, scolded by her heat, hisses as it laps at her stomach, her hips. Steam rises, salt sticking to her ebony skin. Her pearls begin to melt, her feathers catching light, all the other trinkets woven into her hair succumb to the savage heat of the black priestess. She stands a torch within the sea that begs her to be cool, as it throws itself upon her and steams, steams, steams.
Leto has no eyes for the ocean, not when she fills her gaze up with lilac skin and lupine limbs. The girl still dances her strange dawn dance and the kelpie watches, watches, watches as she burns, burns, burns.
Crash, crash, Burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground
My skin feels hot beneath the sunlight. I can taste the ocean salt upon my lips. But more than the ocean’s tears, I can taste all the blood. Blood fills my jaws, hot and silky, like wine. It feels warm against my teeth, in my mouth, and I enjoy the swirling warmth, as much as I enjoy the sunlight hotly caressing my back. I am alone on this desolate beach. I am feeding. I am laughing. I am dancing. The beach is empty save for my unholy prayers - save for my dancing body, that runs wild like sin, beneath the gleaming dawn-light of winter religion. And then I feel her, in all her delicious darkness. I feel her, like I feel sweet torment. A new kind of warmth - a heat - that makes me ache and croon, for more. She comes to me like a wild whisper along a forbidden breeze. Like a panther’s snarl, beneath the overgrowth of a velvet jungle. When she moves, I feel her. When she shines like starlight, I feel the whole night rushing in before me.
It is not charred bones, nor star-shed magic, that trembles like bone fingers through soft, lilac strands; nor the luminescence of star magic, woven beautifully across sweet, ebony skin – ethereal, savage, and heavenly. Euryale dances with blood, with carnal motive; like the feral wilderness flowing in her veins; the dark laughter touching her silk throat, like saccharine venom and honey on a succubus’ whispering lips. It’s dawn shades, blood shades – all vicious and lupine – pooling into a wolf’s body made of unholy lust, made of lightening beauty. When Euryale moves, twists and turns; all the red blood moistening her skin glistens, wetly, too. The blood on her body, wears like a dress should; dawning along lascivious curves, and hips. A vermillion kiss, deep as any rose, just as wicked, just as sweet.
When Euryale dances, she dances like thunder and hurricane; full of spiraling, pale tendrils and powerful, slender limbs that waltz; lightening-white, dangerous, across the velvet earth below. She dances with hunger in her heart. She dances with violence in her blood. She dances with passion. Passion flows through her sleek body, made of storms and wrath and violence. Her storm-skin, so wrapped tightly, around a turbulent soul, as hers’. Euryale dances like she breathes; full of want, beauty and wretched desire. She dances like a Reckoning; like damned queens, with thorns for crowns. When only the thirst for blood, could ever sate her bottomless appetite. And it is always blood. Always souls, that Euryale thirsts for, endlessly. Euryale so loved possessing people, places, things.
Her lavender curls spill hungrily across her shoulder-blades - pale strands of illuminating thinness - when at last, the witch pauses, feeling hot eyes upon her back. She kneads her soft lips with sharp teeth. She feels the heat, and sweat, beading like cooling droplets along her porcelain breast, as dawn light pours like silken-honey along the ruinous curves of Euryale's body. When she turns to view the stranger, she sees a dark, sultry figure, wrapped in obsidian desire. When she turns, suddenly, starlight pours from their ebony frame; bright, scalding, and beaming with wicked intensity. The oceans tremble like lovers, below the dark-skinned woman’s physique. The ocean trembles, and hisses, with something like desire; and all the oceanic froth, rushes in to greet them, both. Twisting like watery snakes against their slender legs. Euryale’s own breathing falls like silk; her lips, curling into a gentle crescent-moon, even as she turns to the source of burning light that which shone hotter, wilder than the sun. She watches the black satin-skin lit by star-kissed tattoos. Tumultuous sable curls, tumbling in the rough wind, with the singing of bones. Euryale's whisper becomes dark, soft - a fervent whisper, more song than words; ”Who are you?”
Leto is alight. Flames so hot they glow white, white, white, leap from the feathers in her hair. The dangling bones, tangled into her bones, char black. The bells melt and run down the groove of her slender and throat before dripping like silver and gold blood into the swallowing sea. Her feathers are gone, they are little more than ash.
The ebony kelpie is a star-strewn rock. She burns, celestial. The sea seeks to cool her, but its touch turns only to steam. Yet over and over it reaches for her, pressing in swells along her abdomen, into her flank along her slim legs. The shed-star is a statue within the sea. It is now so clear to Leto what she has become: a thing of earth and sea and sky. She was never balanced before, but now, triadic she stands, complete.
The other woman comes and she dances, dances, dances. She does not rest but moves crimson and wicked beneath the violence of the sunset sky. Euryale moves near, her skin warm, but the sea presses her back, back, it warns of the inferno she approaches. Slowly Leto’s head turns, holding the other kelpie fast with her galaxy eyes. It is not just the sea she was made to swim within but the space between stars, the black which is as deep and hungry as her own skin.
Who are you? The other woman asks. Leto smiles and tips her chin up and up and up. She laughs and the sound rises as incense. Up like a prayer towards gods she no longer believes in, down and across a sea that no longer owns her fear, out within a wood that no longer holds her captive. She laughs free and loose, it is the sound of tumbling chains, metal unraveling. Leto is free and bell-like. Her attention is a resounding gong, so straddling it is when she turns it fully upon the girl. The paint upon her face is savage as tribesman’s spear, her sigils echoing ancient magic and prayer.
Who are you?
That is the question that Leto still asks herself. What have you become? the answers are so easy:
A kelpie.
A priestess.
A woman.
A girl.
A shed-star.
An Ilati.
Leto is so many things and none of them all at once. Her smile is still wild and dangerous, intoxicating with its feral darkness. Slowly her sculpted jaw lowers, her hair falling salted and windswept to tangle in her lashes, to stick to her grinning mouth. “I am Leto.”
Her name means nothing at all. It bears no piece of who she is or what she is. The sea splashes as she wades through it. A slink, a stalking step brings her to crimson skin. She touches it, like a creature starved, like a kelpie asking another if they will ever cause a problem. Loneliness stalks panther dark at Leto’s heels. She clings to her independence, she paints self reliance across her skin in the arch of her neck, in her gaze throughout which distrust spreads like stardust.
“Why have you come to me?” Leto asks as her head lowers, her flaming mane tumbling across her cheek. It burns her, the sea swells in ire. Never does the kelpie let her eyes drop, always they press like teeth, like blood, scrying, the hidden truths from the other woman.
Will we be enemies? Her slim body asks as it watches Euryale, predatory, savage, gentle, curious. Leto makes no move to drive the other woman away. Her smile still plays across her lips, her eyes still press, pinning, holding, seducing - as all predators are wont to do.
