☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The trek to the Oasis seems longer than usual these days – she remembers how free she had felt before the Davke, running across the sands of the Mors. Now, her caution tastes more like apprehension, even anticipation. A week of hunting has left her war-torn all over again, tense and terse as a predator ready to leap at any movement.
At least, she thinks, the Davke seem to have disappeared like sand in the wind, back into the desert from which they came; any that still prowl the streets of the capitol have gone into hiding, and, unless they pay mind to their fellows and leave quickly, she can’t imagine that it will be long until she feeds them to the flames, like all the others. She hoped that the smell of burning flesh would recede when she left the city, but she wonders if the smoke hasn’t coated her frame in the scent. Either way, it seems to follow her.
Seraphina brushes through lines of prickly scrub; they catch in her tail and coat, tugging out strands of white and leaving lines. Nearby, she hears something akin to splashing, distinct from the waterfall – something is moving through the oasis. She slows her step as she moves through the palm trees that line the shore, her eyes narrowing to slits as they scan the pristine blue surface, coming to a halt on a warlike man. Her gaze catches on the scars that mar his forelegs, and she takes careful account of his build; sculpted for brute force and violence, this one, though she imagines she is quicker than him, should he be one of the Davke. As she takes in his scent, faint against the stark clarity of the water, she decides that he probably isn’t one of the desert ghosts, but, as she steps out of the palm trees and out onto the bank, her stance does not slacken an inch.
Iron-wound tension runs the length of her frame like livewires. She stares him down through red-rimmed eyes, her lips tugged into a firm, defensive line. “Identify yourself.” If this is another one of the Davke, she is content in the knowledge that she will be quick to sink her teeth into his throat, and watches him in stiff, predatory silence.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The trek to the Oasis seems longer than usual these days – she remembers how free she had felt before the Davke, running across the sands of the Mors. Now, her caution tastes more like apprehension, even anticipation. A week of hunting has left her war-torn all over again, tense and terse as a predator ready to leap at any movement.
At least, she thinks, the Davke seem to have disappeared like sand in the wind, back into the desert from which they came; any that still prowl the streets of the capitol have gone into hiding, and, unless they pay mind to their fellows and leave quickly, she can’t imagine that it will be long until she feeds them to the flames, like all the others. She hoped that the smell of burning flesh would recede when she left the city, but she wonders if the smoke hasn’t coated her frame in the scent. Either way, it seems to follow her.
Seraphina brushes through lines of prickly scrub; they catch in her tail and coat, tugging out strands of white and leaving lines. Nearby, she hears something akin to splashing, distinct from the waterfall – something is moving through the oasis. She slows her step as she moves through the palm trees that line the shore, her eyes narrowing to slits as they scan the pristine blue surface, coming to a halt on a warlike man. Her gaze catches on the scars that mar his forelegs, and she takes careful account of his build; sculpted for brute force and violence, this one, though she imagines she is quicker than him, should he be one of the Davke. As she takes in his scent, faint against the stark clarity of the water, she decides that he probably isn’t one of the desert ghosts, but, as she steps out of the palm trees and out onto the bank, her stance does not slacken an inch.
Iron-wound tension runs the length of her frame like livewires. She stares him down through red-rimmed eyes, her lips tugged into a firm, defensive line. “Identify yourself.” If this is another one of the Davke, she is content in the knowledge that she will be quick to sink her teeth into his throat, and watches him in stiff, predatory silence.
@Dracarys - apologies, she's a bit crabby atm <3
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
