do i still taste of war. can you feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back
A feral man, Arawn loves his freedom. His wilderness. His war. Somewhere in the taiga forests, in her endless beauty, the immortal moon embraces Arawn with a lusty whisper of primordial need. Beneath the breathless whispers of dusk, by grotesque eve, Arawn dances into the night like a wild, ravening animal. Arawn is a godless man – a heathen king, a pagan prince. In the dead of night, by the baying, fog-chill and purring want of the sickle moon that shines low with silver lust and hellish sanctuary – Arawn laughs, Arawn howls. Arawn begs his blood to spill. His voice croons like infernal flames viciously crackling against deadwood. His laughter is so devilish, so empty, it all but echoes like siren-songs in the deep, crying woods.
With the raw taste of whiskey on his breath, with blood running down his mouth, and the caress of fire and ash, still clinging possessively against his reptilian skin, he feels so unholy – so wanted. So reborn. With divine blood coursing his veins, he can feel the heat of thunder crashing like God's wrath in his heart. Still, even with all this twisted joy coiling like bile in his throat, he can taste the memory of the flames consuming him alive. He can feel the iron shackles, that bound his wrists and locked him in a kingdom made of the wretched Underworld. Arawn embraces his new-found freedom with a twisted, devilish smile. With a ragged breath of passion, of desire, of criminal need, Arawn breathes in the raw moonlight with unadulterated ecstasy.
His heart bellows with rage. His breath falls thick with sin and avarice. He wants to consume worlds. He wants to devour the universe. With darkness so unholy, it pours like black oil through Arawn. When the moonlight falls upon his masculine form, he can feel his every nerve being set on fire. His body coils like a python against his kill. Purring and reptilian by the effervescent whispers of moonlight. His rugged form dances like a predator dances around it's kill, hackles raised and fangs bared with instinctive hunger. When he finally spears the wild boar with his horn – delivering its heart to the slaughter house – a hunger snarls through him, too. He licks the blood from his lips. He whispers. He laughs. He smiles, inviting the stranger with a husky purr. Dark and impossibily sinful, handsome and arrogantly male. "Won't you join me in this feast?"
@Obsidian
