“I did not expect to see you here, Freya.”
The words slink to her from the darkness, crawling their way across her sea-deep skin. Moonlight twirls about her limbs, fading cream to silver light.
About her the altars lie, ancient and ethereal, evangelizing in whispers she refuses to hear. Caligo’s stands out with shadows breathing, tendrils of night reaching to chase away the moonlight upon her limbs. He wonders if she sees it, if she feels Caligo there, upon her skin...
Within the darkness he moves, and he is little more than shadows shifting, swirling and contorting. He moves past her dancer’s body and as he goes electric blue eyes find the silver glass of hers, gleaming, shining, drowning.
Caligo’s altar calls to him, shrouded in a darkness as thick and luxurious as velvet. Her night was the cloak he wore, it adorned him, pulled him into shadow and concealed his silver skin from prying eyes.
From around a spiraling pillar he comes, passing Freya with little more than a sigh of air as moonlight dances between them. At the shrine of shadows Raum lays a black flower, delicate and ornate, so lavish in its black beauty. It lies beside Freya’s glittering gold. Black and gold, black and gold; they were his colours now, rising to consume him.
His prayer is a murmur, a chant that dances upon the walls. It splits into voices: two, three, four, until it sounds like a whole congregation worshipping around the duo, hidden in the darkness.
Silence descends, thick and spiritual. It hangs, easing, soothing fingers over his body and hers. It slips into the corners of the temple and smothers sound from even the winds outside.
In reverence the Crow turns from his goddess’s shrine and finds the girl still stood. He can feel her religiously apathetic heart from where he stands, sees the gleam of rejection in her eye. He smiles, small but uncaring – her rejection of the gods were not his problem.
“You do not have to offer her gold you know.” He murmurs, slipping closer, quicksilver pouring across the stone floor, “It is only we who treasure gold.” Raum offers, he knows the money she gives away. The girl has lived more years than he, arriving, older wiser and for four years he grew beside her, watching her, watching their brethren Crows. Raum saw her dance beside their fires, with gold and silver clinking upon her torso. Maybe that is all she knows.
@Freya
The words slink to her from the darkness, crawling their way across her sea-deep skin. Moonlight twirls about her limbs, fading cream to silver light.
About her the altars lie, ancient and ethereal, evangelizing in whispers she refuses to hear. Caligo’s stands out with shadows breathing, tendrils of night reaching to chase away the moonlight upon her limbs. He wonders if she sees it, if she feels Caligo there, upon her skin...
Within the darkness he moves, and he is little more than shadows shifting, swirling and contorting. He moves past her dancer’s body and as he goes electric blue eyes find the silver glass of hers, gleaming, shining, drowning.
Caligo’s altar calls to him, shrouded in a darkness as thick and luxurious as velvet. Her night was the cloak he wore, it adorned him, pulled him into shadow and concealed his silver skin from prying eyes.
From around a spiraling pillar he comes, passing Freya with little more than a sigh of air as moonlight dances between them. At the shrine of shadows Raum lays a black flower, delicate and ornate, so lavish in its black beauty. It lies beside Freya’s glittering gold. Black and gold, black and gold; they were his colours now, rising to consume him.
His prayer is a murmur, a chant that dances upon the walls. It splits into voices: two, three, four, until it sounds like a whole congregation worshipping around the duo, hidden in the darkness.
Silence descends, thick and spiritual. It hangs, easing, soothing fingers over his body and hers. It slips into the corners of the temple and smothers sound from even the winds outside.
In reverence the Crow turns from his goddess’s shrine and finds the girl still stood. He can feel her religiously apathetic heart from where he stands, sees the gleam of rejection in her eye. He smiles, small but uncaring – her rejection of the gods were not his problem.
“You do not have to offer her gold you know.” He murmurs, slipping closer, quicksilver pouring across the stone floor, “It is only we who treasure gold.” Raum offers, he knows the money she gives away. The girl has lived more years than he, arriving, older wiser and for four years he grew beside her, watching her, watching their brethren Crows. Raum saw her dance beside their fires, with gold and silver clinking upon her torso. Maybe that is all she knows.
@Freya
![[Image: x341oLX.png]](https://i.imgur.com/x341oLX.png)
You're one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan
in his catastrophic plan
