like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
All it has taken is a single conversation, or the dregs of what might be considered one, for her to name him an unimpressive and unimportant bit of flesh. She does not find his words clever or his responses full of anything but an ignorance that would have killed him already in the pits. Had she taken the time to remember him in the tribe, she would not have been surprised to remember how she had not thought of him at all when she learned of a stallion leaving.
Her lips follow his ear as he bows and her feathers trace the curl of his knees where they fold into the ground as they should have the moment he approached her. She does not smile at his supplication, or purr, but silently considers it as something right in this twisted, monstrous world. And if she knew, as she dragged her teeth along the long of his ear, of the throne waiting in the middle of the castle she would not have lingered with him.
But she does not know and her teeth do not pause for long on the shell of his ear before they move to grab onto it. Between her violence she purrs, “I would make you stay there until your knees bled.” Her teeth almost lament the loss of him when she steps back to consider him with her regal neck curled with all the promise of a desert cobra. Amaunet is still above him (as she should be) when she promises with all the sultry and ember-warm heat of the night that he will never have, “and then I would break you.”
The eyes, blinking and hunger bright, follow her as she steps from him towards the door. Somewhere in the castle a weapon purrs again at the feel of her chaos magic reaching out to meet it. Amaunet’s heart leaps in a way that he had not made it at the promise of the blade. And when she turns away from him, and steps into the belly of the castle, she does not turn to remember him.
History, as always, repeats itself.
@Malik
Her lips follow his ear as he bows and her feathers trace the curl of his knees where they fold into the ground as they should have the moment he approached her. She does not smile at his supplication, or purr, but silently considers it as something right in this twisted, monstrous world. And if she knew, as she dragged her teeth along the long of his ear, of the throne waiting in the middle of the castle she would not have lingered with him.
But she does not know and her teeth do not pause for long on the shell of his ear before they move to grab onto it. Between her violence she purrs, “I would make you stay there until your knees bled.” Her teeth almost lament the loss of him when she steps back to consider him with her regal neck curled with all the promise of a desert cobra. Amaunet is still above him (as she should be) when she promises with all the sultry and ember-warm heat of the night that he will never have, “and then I would break you.”
The eyes, blinking and hunger bright, follow her as she steps from him towards the door. Somewhere in the castle a weapon purrs again at the feel of her chaos magic reaching out to meet it. Amaunet’s heart leaps in a way that he had not made it at the promise of the blade. And when she turns away from him, and steps into the belly of the castle, she does not turn to remember him.
History, as always, repeats itself.
@Malik
