Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground
the heady rush, throbs at her temple. the rich elixir of deep red wine, brings out a hot, warm blush to fluster across her beautiful cheek. to pulse like a wicked, wicked heartbeat, against the swell of her ivory breastbone. she is not one for convivial festivities; for wandering the streets full of ecstatic, mirthful civilians laughing and singing in jocund spirits; yet the wine coursing through her veins - the wine, dripping along her throat, all brings out a sigh of bold ecstacy. all rings out, with a thrilling sort of warmth. that softens her dissonant mood, and smothers her feral wildness for the evening. beneath the curtain flow of moonlight, the delicate lines of her shoulderblade curves with sleek promise; her neck, arching, gracefully to gaze at the rich, mohagany ink being smothered across the carmine of her complexion.
with astute curiosity, she watches the artist at work. following with vulpine eyes, every singular gesture. studying the intricacies and painterly detail; the careful gentleness with which the painter, moves. draws. touches. the delicate brush-strokes, that line the immaculate ivory of her skin; and the cool, lingering sensation of wet paint dappling, smoothly, over the sharp, slender angle of bone and sinew. she feels the thick, smothering paste and brush, cooing, like moist rose petals sighing over the tenderness of her flesh. running down, in wet rivers of exquisite ice. before cooling with the wild softness of spring rain. the tent remains open before the hour. flapping lightly before the midnight breeze. when a youthful boy enters with a dazzling, dreamer's smile and a playful candour in his step. the pale ivory of his complexion; the jade glossiness of his smooth, oceanic scales; the deep green of his sea-foam eyes. every dream-inch of him, all catching in the soft, auroral glow of wild, wild candlelight.
euryale answers with a soft, guttural purr. she turns to face him; her soft, lilac hair brushes the edge of her web-white collarbone. the dusky, silver sensuality of her skin, lent by the bold kiss of the moon. her lips, curves upward in their feral crimson. when the rose is finished, euryale steps away from the artist. incense burns in the air. thick. heady. pulsating. her voice curling like blue smoke against the pale of the boy's skin, and the deep, deep shadows seething silently between them. she whispers, and her whisper is a dark, bold thing. her whisper, unfurls like the wings of a dark angel; wild, and tender. she looks upon the inking on his side - a compass - and smiles.
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters
A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright
