do i still taste of war. can you feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back
Arawn laughs in the darkness. His voice echoes with cruelty and criminal want. Beneath the hazy moonlight he smiles like a heathen prince. His muscles are drenched with moist crimson. His body glistening red, so visceral and unholy. It is not his blood that he washes off his saturated physique; his muscles rippling by the darkly, laughing rivers of a black, Delumine stream. The water feels cold beneath his touch – it darkens with all that vermillion blood, washing down his frame. It swims against his muscles like forbidden silk. He can hear it whispering to him. Darkness is a drug he swallows, greedily. Darkness falls against his toned frame and he drinks the nocturnal ambience with a low growl of want and ravenous need. It is always the darkness he finds beautiful. A siren call for his devilish heart.
Arawn closes his eyes and remembers the taste of a soul between his lips. How it skims his fangs like ambrosia, and slides down his throat like sin, like suffering. When Arawn finally wakes from his reverie, he wakes to whisper of dusk kissing his flesh – to the evening chill of nightfall, that beg his violence to crawl; like curses wound from his ancient, wolven lineage. Somewhere songs are sung in ode to Spring. Fire crawls through the starving earth and midnight skies are charged with witchcraft, ecstasy and laughter. Arawn is the dark, brooding gentleman against the cut of tangled, dancing bodies. Tonight, he is drenched in moonlight and not blood. Tonight, Arawn watches the flames rise higher, higher; as the smoke spirals up and up. Thirsting like arms thrown in intimate prayer against the nightsky. On his breath is the taste of whiskey. He watches the world partying around him through the rich haze of alcohol.
The clearning is obscured by sable canopies – candlelights, swaying to the overture of wind. A zephyr catches in the flickering of a silver moon-haze. The breeze that washes along his form feels chilly – a sinful caress, that lingers with forgotten need. He will see her then, amid the throes of dancing bodies. In the shadows of fire and smoke, she is a porcelain face, with slender features. How the lunar light descends upon the body of a young maiden, with moon-touched curves. "Do you enjoy their music?" Arawn grins, downing another shot of whiskey. "Will you dance with them?"
@Aster
