do i still taste of war. can you feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back
Tonight, the scent of the desert bathes Arawn's skin. Tonight, he is far from the cities of Delumine, far from their taiga forests. Arawn roams the desert with his fiendish lips curled into a scythe-smile. A hunger stirs within him, a need—a want. His soul purrs with desire. The damning heat bathes his flesh in grime, blood and sweat—his lean physique ripples with smooth, male muscles as Arawn crosses the desert in a lupine swagger. A wolf's shadow cut rough along the banking dunes; the dying sunlight sliding whiskey-hot against his spine—
He drinks in the desert ambience while his hounds trail his wake. His hounds bristle like a black tide against his feet. They dance and whimper with a hunger, too. Their savage howling sings along a gilded zephyr, as coyotes yip in the distance and run in fear. But tonight they are not hunting, they are not running animals into the earth in a sea of blood, so the coyotes are left to flee. In the parched, Solterran desert, the oasis stirs in nocturne life. In its last breath, the sun weeps crimson tears against Arawn's masculine flesh.
It's last lumen rays flew upon an overture of a hot, dry breeze—coiling and tumbling like amber serpents against his disheveled mane. When he nears the body of water, the oasis, he dives in. The blood on skin is washed away—if only he could wash away his sins, too. Blood swarms against the gilded surface of crystal-blue water. It tinges the pool, red. When he surfaces, when he emerges dripping wet from the water, he steps unto the sand and inhales deeply the night air.
Now, it is moonlight that descends his flesh and not sunlight. Now, it is a silver gleam that kisses his skin in carnal whispers. And when his eyes ensnare an approaching figure, Arawn greets the stranger with a smiling flash of teeth—
@Sid
