This hurricane's chasing us all underground
I think to myself, we both might be similar. That we both might be irresistibly drawn to beautiful things, people, places. This woman is grace - beauty - incarnate. She moves like poetry in motion. I admire the way she so gracefully, moves. I admire the artistry in her lavender-touched body. I admire her softness. Her skin and hair were pale, like fine-spun treads of silver moonlight. Her curves - shifting like a dancer's - moves, with ghostly caresses and azure jewels, before me.
I can taste the scent of jasmine upon the air. I can hear the rustle of her chains, that slip effortlessly around her. All around us, how the snow falls like a bridal veil. Like soft velvet against cold, winter skin. The snow wanes like ash amidst a flawless, porcelain canvas. I can hear her breathing, like I hear the murmur of feathers. How their rise and fall echoes like silk. It is a silent evening. One full of ice and shadows. One full of darkness and intimacy. Yet still, my eyes flood with the image of her. Still, my senses become drunk, with the scent of jasmine and lilac.
"An image of blood and silk, no doubt," The witch's voice is whiskey-dark, dripping off a silken tongue. Euryale can feel the come-hither snows, ruffling her too-long lilac hair. Tendrils drift along her brow. Cloying lashes, bat delicately over her porcelain cheekbones; soft laughter almost spilling from Euryale's lips. If she is amused, it only shows in the depths of her crimson gaze. In their seas of vermillion, that swim with sensuous mystique and endless appetite. Euryale is a sensual creature; but still, never has she tasted female companionship. Sometimes, she wonders, however; she wonders what it would be like to indulge in feminine curves - to surrender against their holy tenderness. Euryale relinquishes a red rose, and gives it to Mesnyi. "Nor have I," A devilish smirk curls Euryale's lips; "You'd have to show me."
@Mesnyi
and a riot about to explode into flames
