This hurricane's chasing us all underground
her heart calls for death, merciful death, the way angels call to god. "art, like us, can be deceiving. the body moves, but the heart is empty, the soul consumed," euryale's gentle voice threads the unicorn's mane like bone-comb does. her silken syllables pouring from intoxicating lips. the press of the unicorn's horn against her wound feels like euphoria. feels like intimacy, like living. even the sharpness of its sting, feels as sweet as any rose-thorn to a dead-living thing such as euryale. euryale feels parts of her being brought back to life. being swallowed whole by thana's beautiful darkness. a million whispers fill her heart; a million more whispers, etch her soul. ruining. consuming. eating, the guazy fabric of her mortal coil, as blackness - like blood-sucking leeches - silently, devours her spirit. when the moon hides behind diaphonous storm-clouds, and a flash of lightening revels from the courtyard, a shifting silvery-veil overwhelms the now too-empty, too-dark church.
outside the windows, the weeping-angels mourn the transient moon from the graveyard. their tears, trapped in stone. stygian gargoyles, looming across the roof-tops; drip of incense and wretched mold from their sable talons. how their rotted marble-wings stretch high above their skulls, like hungry dogs begging for bones. tonight, the church sings with violent hymms of the damned in the deep throes of wilderness. tonight, the angels are resting and it's the demons who sing. tonight, the crowned kings are fast asleep. tucked, within the autumnal valley of shadows. but their queens - o their beautiful, ravenous, malevolent queens - roam the mortal plane, like a pride full of untamed lionesses. ready to hunt. to engorge. to feast. euryale finds solace in the unicorn's deathly promise. euryale finds only peace.
"some gods can bend, too; when the soul tastes irresistible, o, how they bend. hot and heavy, like lovers at dusk. if the soul is worth thirsting after, that is," a soft, famished purr, a silky mumur of feminine guile - something like desire, something like grievance, something like eternal sadness - leaves the witch's blood-stained lips. she feels her hallowed heart being penetrated by rivers of mystic blackness. each sliver of blackness, swallowing each sliver of moonlight, till the ruins of the cathedral echoes with dark bedroom whispers from the grave. from the pit of her stomach, the witch's emptiness slithers outward like primal ruin. scaling, the sides of her waist with all the seductive wickedness of lucifer. euryale's lived too long. her bones ached to sate and carry her soul. nothing else satisfies, so now the dark angel only sought solace in the long-awaited embrace of death. if the unicorn is infinite darkness and destruction, euryale is expansive appetite and beautiful ruin. the hunger that follows this same sad emptiness, stirs violently within euryale; as raw and ancient as beauty and death.
"a son, yes, i had a son," her whisper sounds like a mad thing. a psychotic thing. another drop of blood drips from her scarred cheek, and euryale licks at it with a gilded, feline purr. she feels bits of her blood blooming metallic ribbons, as her ivory flesh slips across the death-unicorn's horn once more. such slender bone-white skin, caught against an exquisitely sharp, caressive blade. each blood that drips is a fevered song. each drop of blood becomes a new world of deathless invitation, as the red liquid holds bits of euryale's soul within its crimson seas. her heart roars beneath her breast. veins part like oceans. the vermillion tears, marring the huntress' porcelain cheek a beautiful shade of red that glows, glows. like ichor glows lively against a faint beam of ethereal moonlight; a color so beautiful, so glorious, so visceral it is better left nameless and therefore, holy.
"my son," she whispers again, remembering fractured memories. almost mad, almost like new religion. always beautifully, euryale. her voice becomes a carnal prayer against the scarlet darkness of the unicorn's flesh. the hunger that spurs within the witch is ancient tragedy, as rotten as death, only hidden by amorous beauty as if made to be the perfect deception. why are the pretty things always first to die? but there is no lies tonight. not before the dark goddess thana. not before this all-consuming blackness and hunger that is the wild red unicorn. this is wilder than sex. hotter than passion. Crueler than religion. this torment feels more like making love under moonlight. more like blood-victories led into battlefields by armies infinity. to be made. then unmade. to be wretched wholly, and to be broken - broken - yet finally, satisfied. to be chiseled by God's teeth and kissed with veneration so holy, that even their angels sing for the promises of death.
euryale lets the other tangle against her with a sensual shyness to rival a doe's. the press of the unicorn's body to her curves only deepens the unspoken ache. she feels submerged in blackness so wicked, even the earth stirred with a raw, passionate hunger. the grave-soil beneath her hooves, becomes a rumble of vulgar carnality that hissed and hissed; forgive us. give us. save us. "what must i...?" what will you do? euryale wants to ask. she wants to press her lips to thana's ear and whisper to her all these sinful, sinful secrets. she wants to leave a string of kisses along thana's slender jaw, till each kiss becomes both a whisper for more, and a dark, silky moan of wild retribution. the unicorn taps her horn upon the flesh of her shoulder - tap, tap, tap like so - and euryale gazes at her beneath a dreary stare. observing the dark ritual. as the unicorn pauses and replaces horn with teeth, euryale feels her heart flutter like a butterfly against those feral lips. her heart feels like a delicate thing, a beating thing, that rests dove-like against wolf's teeth. "how can you bring him back to me?" and her whisper, o how sensous her whisper - dark and softly alluring; nearly mistaken for a broken prayer. nearly a moan.
@Thana
and a riot about to explode into flames
