Amaunet is a wildfire in the forest of wealth. She is a cracked open sky with blood-red peeking through the golden billows of clouds. In her gaze, as she walks through the crowd like a beast with a hollow hunger cut loose from the chain, there is a howl hanging moon-dark in her smile. And when she turns her head towards the music, and the dancers, and the gluttonous beasts of men, there is a warning that begs caution as much as it begs for lust.
The bangles on her neck sound the whisper of swords as she curls her neck coquettishly and snaps her wings as if she is nothing more than a thing unprepared for the glory of gold around her. Satin whispers behind her with edges of fur stained with black ink from the touch of paint, and lust, and wanting. And she does not try to hide the smear of it curling across her hip where art has been marred by lip and tooth. Eyes linger on the marks, of course they linger, but she tries not to snarl a warning when they mark her as something eager for a drucken touch (and it would be their last touch if they dared).
She does not dance in the crowd as she pushes through it as a dagger pushes through the chamber of the heart. She does not pause to drink at the bar as she passes that too. Her wing snaps out to strip the glasses from the table and send them to the floor. And she does not pause to linger in the chaos of her destruction as rage sparks and smolders the wake of her.
Amaunet only smiles, like a dangerous girl is oft to smile, and turns the golden glow of her form to Locae as he stands at the end of the bar. And when her smile turns wicked and she snaps out both her wings every inch of her begs him to pray for salvation of his own drink. It’ll take more than whiskey and blood to soothe the awoken thing in her skin.
It always takes everything.
@Locae
