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Played by Online aurora [PM] Posts: 33 — Threads: 7
Signos: 75
Dawn Court Entertainer
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 5 [Year 499 Winter] // 16.1 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 12 // Active Magic: Aerokinesis // Bonded: Lilith (Timber Wolf)
#1

you should see me in a crown

This hour is her hour.  She does not feel the sun, that dips low, like silk along her flesh.  Nor the call of songbirds, that beckon nightfall amongst the sudden-evening breeze. Her blood is cold like the moon, and their pulse feathers as winter might. Her immortality, sighing, just barely beneath her cheek; glowing, with pearls and wine. The taste of autumn lingers against her skin. the perfume of dried leaves and coffin soil, twined in her wild, gypsy's hair.  every part of her is made for the supernatural.  every curve laced in beauty, and sin.  how its bewitchment breathes down her spine, now.  fore is she not made for spellbound lovers? is she not worth the sacrifice?

euryale calantha dances towards the shadows.  she disappears within the caves. in her wake trails a seductive hurricane. the kiss of rot and death, the scent of femininity and vampiric grace, the eyes of hunger and endless thirst, they are all her.  in the darkness she uncoils with snake-like fury. moving SILENTLY along the earth,  a haunting laugh falling from her lips.  SHADOWS of azure shall ACCOMPANY THE PALE-HAIRED mistress, trailing vestiges of smoke against her flesh.  trailing over the scales, tattooed across her hips.  sweeping her in a mangled gown, that reveals every aching sin, but the sins she keeps secret in her heart.  when the eVENING FALLS around her, at last, it is with a final breath of gunmetal smoke. A VELVET WHISPER, as darkness slides over her body in a possessive embrace.

SHE FEELS ITS’ WET EARTH, CRAWLING AGAINST HER back.  SHE CAN TASTE IT’S RANK FRAGRANCE, LINGERING as DECAY UPON HER LIPS.  IT’S THE DECADENT TASTE OF NIGHTFALL, THAT BRINGS NOCTURNAL LIFE AND THE PROMISE OF BLOOD TO HER JAWS.  THE LAST TRACE OF SUNLIGHT, BRUSHING ITS FINAL KISS ALONG HER SIREN CURVES; DESCENDING, INTO A SEA OF IMMACULATE LILAC CURLS, AS they tumble down her shoulders with songs of the damned.  she glows as wildfire, bathed in red moonlight. to touch her, is to sleep in the flame.  THROUGH THe caves, THe  witch PROWLS IN feral ABANDON.  HER CURVES, were made BRIGHT AGAINST THEIR ANCIENT surfaces. THE DEEP SCARLET OF HER complexiom, AND THE PORCELAIN OF HER figure, DANCING INBETWEEN THE TORN FABRIC OF REALITY AND MADNESS. HER HEART IS A WILD ANIMAL, as it pants in her chest. a lawless predator that knows no softness. only passion.  only death.

for a moment she is still.  for a moment, there is but silence. her heartbeat, the only ritual, breathed in the endless dark.  her breath spills like mist, unfurling.  A hush ENVELOPES THE CAVERNS. A LAMENTATION, USHERED FROM THE DEEP BLACK hell, as it trembles with promise.  purring, so wickedly beneath her. SHE CAN FEEL ITS’ RANCID BREATH, SPLITTING FROM THE ETERNAL BLACKNESS.  ITS’ SIGHS, THAT LIFT WITH INSECTS AND MAGGOTS.  SHE CAN TASTE THE PAPER-THIN LEAVES, cAKED IN DAMP AMBER. THEIR DECAYING EDGES, SLITHERING AGAINST HER BARE SKIN, AS DEAD FERNS GRASP HER FRAME ALONGSIDE AN AUTUMNAL BREEZE.  FOR A MOMENT, SHE CLOSES HER EYES.  EMBRACE THIS MOMENT.  IT’S THE DELICIOUS WHISPER OF MOONLIGHT.  THE SMELL OF THE EARTH.  THE TASTE OF SOIL AND BLOOD AND BONES, SO COLD AND WET BENEATH HER.  THEse are ALL THINGS THAT MAKE HER FEEL, ALIVE.  these are all things that make her want.

i'm gonna run this nothing town






─ she pins you to hotel doors, not a goddess anymore ─
but she still looks like religion in high heels; she kisses you, godless
whispers, we dress like princesses to go out and kill kings.




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Played by Offline Griffin [PM] Posts: 439 — Threads: 47
Signos: 2,258
Vagabond Citizen
Male [He/Him/His] // Immortal [Year 496 Winter] // 16 hh // Hth: 52 — Atk: 48 — Exp: 102 // Active Magic: Water Manipulation // Bonded: Cirrus (Pallas's Gull)
#2

in sunshine and in shadow
It is not his head that leads him, up and up so that the plain sprawls away beneath him like a map, so that the ocean is a distant shimmer on the far horizon, so that the air grows thinner and cooler and the clouds tear themselves ragged on the mountain tops. It is not his heart that leads him, either.

Asterion doesn’t know what he’s following, as he winds further into the mountains, paying attention to nothing more than birdsong and the next place to set his foot as he climbs. Maybe he will continue all the way to the quiet, sparse peak where the gods’ altars lie, and pass the questions he can’t answer on to them. But he has been there, before, and neither time left him impressed or reassured.

He is more in a mood to go where he hasn’t before, and that is what leads him to the caves.

It is clear why they hold the reputation they do; there is nothing welcoming about the gaping, stalactite-toothed maw that greets him, nor the scent of it, iron like old blood and wet earth like a graveyard. It smells a little like the days after the flooding in Terrastella, when everything went to rot - only it is somehow cleaner, at least at the mouth of the cave. There the dying autumn leaves give the air enough normalcy to make it seem not so unreasonable, stepping inside.

The once-king does not hesitate before giving all his star-shine to the darkness.

Within it is cool, and still, and quiet save for a trickle of water that comes somewhere out of sight. Asterion turns away from the cave’s mouth at once, and bites his lip as he wonders just how far the caverns go, how branching their tunnels. He doesn’t know if the cave system is a tap-root or the endless tangle of an oak’s; he can only guess at what waits in the dark. But it has been a long time since anything true scared him (lately he frets only over feelings, and loss), and he is sure that there is nothing worse ahead than any of the rotten heartaches behind him.

With a last breath of above-ground air, he begins to walk. For a while his only companion is the sound of his hooves, ringing against the stone, but there is a scent - a feeling - a whisper of blue ahead of him - a memory of mangroves and salt and dark promise and an ache far sweeter than the guilt he is used to.

Eventually, his head and his heart both tell him he is not alone. And there, in the dark, with the velvet of ferns along one wall and the echo of cold wet stone from the other, he stops.

“Hello,” he says, as much greeting as question, just as he had the last time they met.



@Euryale








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