WHEN EURYALE WAKES, SHE WAKES TO THE SCENT OF DUSK ON HER LIPS AND A BED MADE OF BONES. SHE STIRS FROM HER HALF-SLEEP. RISING, IN THE GENTLE APPROACH OF MIDNIGHT HOUR, WITH THE BRISTLE OF HER CRIMSON FUR AND A WILD FLASH OF FANGS. EURYALE IS THE BEAUTY OF BLOOD, AGAINST A BRIGHT, RED MOON.
EVERYTHING ABOUT OUR SHE-WOLF, DRIPS OF BLOOD; SWEET, RED BLOOD; PULSATING. MOIST. WET. ARTERIAL. THE KIND OF BLOOD THAT SPILLS FRESH FROM OPEN WOUNDS, AND COVERS GOLDEN THRONES; STAINING, THE GILDED WINGS OF GODS AND ANGELS. THE KIND OF BLOOD, THAT SINGS AND SINGS AND POURS OVER, DANCING INTO VEINS AND RIVERS OF ETERNITY; FOREVER RED - FULL OF RAW PASSION.
HER SLENDER CURVES, TWISTS, GRACEFULLY. THE SONGS OF HER BODY A CRIMSON VIOLENCE, AGAINST THE ORANGE SEAS OF A SETTING SUN. SHE DANCES LIKE WILDFIRE; RECKLESS, GRACEFUL, WICKED. HER IMAGE, A SULTRY TAUNT OF WOLVEN LANGUAGE, AS THE FURS ON HER NECK BRISTLES AND HER FANGS DRIP WITH A PANTING FEVER. AS IF TO WHISPER IN ALL THEIR PURRING VENOM; COME SATE THIS HUNGER, I DARE YOU.
SHE PROWLS IN THE SHADOWS. FOLLOWING, THE FADED BREATH OF SUNLIGHT. SHAKING THE LEAVES OFF HER SILKY COAT, UNTIL HER SHADOW RIPPLES ACROSS THE EARTHEN FLOOR. LONG, LEAN, LIKE A STARVING PACK OF WOLVES. ONLY SHE IS A SINGLE, SOLITARY PREDATOR AMONG THE COMING APPROACH OF NOCTURNAL BLACKNESS. LAST LIGHT, WEAVES FEVOR THROUGH THE BOORISH CLIFFS, AND HER PAINTED PHYSIQUE SINGS WITH RAPTORIAL EASE. ALL BLOOD-RED ANGLES OF HER, FLASHING THROUGH THE VAST WOODS IN A SHARP, RAZOR BLUR OF SCARLET.
THE SPRING CHILL OF AIR, DOES NOT RELENT; CLINGING, LIKE MIST TO THE COOLDOWN OF SUNSET. ITS ONCE CARESSIVE TORRIDITY, NOW SMOTHERED TO A BRISK CHILL AS DUSK FOLDS ACROSS THE EARTH LIKE THE GREAT, LANGUID WINGS OF AN ARCHANGEL - FOLDING, INTO A SWEET, FEATHERY DARKNESS; EACH FOREST MELODY, NOW PAINTED IN THE STIRRING OF CRICKETS AND THE SOUNDLESS WHISPERS OF DREAMERS.
RAW REDS AND GOLDS, LANCE THROUGH THE SHADOWY SINEW OF THE GRANULAR-SCULPTED CLIFF AND ROCKY CREVASSE. SOMEWHERE AFAR THE OCEANS, BELLOW. EURYALE WATCHES THE SUNFIRE AS IT DRIPS GOLD. SLIPPING, LAST RAYS FROM LUSH FISSURES UPON THE VERDANT CANOPY. THE GREEN, LIT AFLAME BY SHARDS OF AMBER, AS THE SUN DRIPS INTO A BEAUTIFUL CHORUS OF COLOR; BEFORE RESTING UPON ITS COFFIN OF BLACK OCEANS.
EURYALE WANDERS THE PRAISTIGIA CLIFFS. THE LAST BEAMS OF DUSK, WERE HUNGRY FOR ANY STRETCH OF LIFE, AS THEY SPILL OVER UNTO TWO FIGURES; A FLAXEN-HAIRED MAIDEN AND HER PHOENIX. EURYALE TAKES IN THE WOMAN'S PERFUME. DELICIOUS. ETHEREAL. THAT PALE, IVORY FLESH, BRONZED IN LUSH GOLDS AND THE HOURGLASS CURVACEOUSNESS OF ANGELIC FEMININITY.
As if led by instinct AND lupine impulse, EURYALE is a silent observer in their midst; only the faint trail of EURYALE'S perfume lingering across the brazen, honey-soaked air will WHISPER OF her sensuality. Lilac curls, fold elegantly about her slender nape; shadowing the bridge of her delicate nose, in a feathery cascade of wild, untamed tresses. The she-wolf will listen, quietly. lobes pulling forward atop her skull, catching THEIR dialect across the SHADOWY EXPANSE. EURYALE WHISPERS TO THEM, AND HER BREATHING IS NO MORE A black velvet SIGH IN THE EVENTIDE.
