Flickering shadows conceal a cloaked figure around the corner from a 'well used' tavern. Thirsty eyes watching as patrons shamble drunkenly in ones and threes. Harlots garlanded like the many flocks of exotic birds in reds, blues, and greens. Hired muscle escorting bards in loose tunics and short skirts. Genteel in all of their finery betting amongst themselves on who would be partnered for bedding by the fourth or seventh rounds of drinks for the evening. At last, as the dawn deepens before breaking into the first strands of twilight, one of the harlots notices a patron as yet untended as he emerges from the tavern. She follows him into the deep shadow of the alley, smiling to herself.
The darkness conceals everything at this hour, it always has. His pulse quickens. Maybe today is the day. The girls eyes are hungry as she watches him guiding her further away from the tavern. Her vision drinking only the richness of his cloak, the elegance of his step. He leads her down a final turn before she finds herself inexorably drawn to the length of his staff. The round red tip and coppery-red veins winding along a smooth golden shaft entrance her as he runs its length along the palm of his hand, binding her with unseen sorcery as he has countless others before. He feels himself quivering inside of its length, pulsing and already almost ready to explode.
He brings the red tip of his staff to her lips and the force of it drops her to her knees, lower lip split and bleeding; his own mouth curling into a smile as he remembers all of the lovely faces he's already ruined with his rod. She whimpers and covers her face begging, "Please, please d-"
Her jaw clicks shut and teeth find tongue as he brings her up senseless to her feet with a blow to the chin, his magic holding her motionless. He twists at the unseen flow and the seamless threads of energy binding her in place grows barbs that slowly bite into her. Her eyes grow wide as her corset and skirt fall to the ground in pieces and the magic begins slowly drawing thin lines crying red tears across her bare flesh while her consort sighs, "I suppose none is ever quite as good as the first."
The challenge. The trap springing shut. It's addicting.
Indeed, purrs the dragon.
As the whore smiles at him he feels something warm on his shirt. He looks down and frowns in puzzlement. Why is there a silver rib sticking out of my chest? The silver blade is gone as quickly as it appeared and the lady killer
drops to his knees, beautiful even now in all of his terrible glory. There's a first time for everything, replies the dragon as a new girl runs a finger along his jawline.
Licking the blade clean it flows, a molten mirror, down under her finger nails. Her lips are left a pair of rubies and her eyes sparkle, two snowflakes tinted blue. She kisses his cheek leaving a pair of scarlet lips to mark him as one of her dead and turns, hair as deep and rich as her kiss tumbling gently around her shoulders and down her back.
The dark complexioned whore is standing now, her golden eyes feral and mouth hungry. Claws reach toward- A sharp slap rebukes she-wolf. A pair of stone-gray eyes glare in wordless disapproval. Whimpering, ashamed, the she-wolf retracts her claws, before following her mistress into the gloom.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The Scarlet Kiss: Shadows of Doubt
A pair of silver-blue eyes flash open, red hair stained nearly black with a deep violet hue in the unearthly dawn
light of a blue sun, a signal flare used by one of the militias traversing the swamp. Nestled against her a dark-haired girl moans
softly, nuzzling and nibbling on her ear. The girl is hungry this morning, like she was the first night. The scent of blood on the wind stirs the wolf inside, but there's something else. A hint of fear. "Mistress..." the she-wolf whispers, begging her blue-eyed companion, but they both know what the signal means.
Trees and earth both splintered alike before as the cracking landscape bathes in black and blue shadows; the ground drinking deeply from a violet river. Among the broken limbs and branches black droplets continue to fall in a short summer shower, pooling to feed into that dark stream. A wisp of a boy as slight as any girl wades through the carnage. His knuckles whiten as he clutches a chipped cutlass. His eyes search the slow flowing river. The blue sun blinks out as twilight paints the river red with the dawn of true daylight.
Shaking fingers draw a cross in the air, then he speaks, each word ringing like silver and infusing his being with golden light, growing brighter with each syllable as the incantation nears completion. "May the tide be turned in my favor and your grace protect this hu- humble servant from harm. Grant my f- faith the s- strength t- t- to c-" Drowning out his last words, the ground roils, muddy shadows surrounding the boy as his eyes widen and some emotion chokes out all the fastness of his belief, however silent his prayer may end.
Claws and teeth rake and grasp seeking to part flesh from bone, unable to find purchase upon the boy's golden body. The boy flails his blade around, finding eye and fang and matted fur. Rage fills the river, whipping it into a frothing bloody mess. Again and again, steel meets flesh but claw finds naught but bloodied mud until the ground itself opened its maw to swallow him whole.
The weight of his legs buckle into the soft earth ankle deep. The next step carries him down to his knees. As his pupils constrict in fear his light wavers. May she who dances with wolves protect me and lead me through the dance that is life. May her silver fangs find home in my unworthy hands and the light of the sun be as her fire to extinguish evil. As he lift his foot his legs sink in deeper under the weight. His faith keeps his clothes unsoiled, but the thin cushion of air around him does nothing to ballast the weight of his armor. the mud repelling from him with a cushion of air as he slides deeper still.
Then silence as the fury stills and the red mist settles to the ground. Around the boy circle a pair of wolf-headed hydra, claws cracked and severed, each nursing two or three heads with bleeding cuts and severed claws as the wounds slowly close shut, each watching him hungrily with several grinning faces as yet unmarred. The boy's eyes grow wide and his faith pops like a bubble. The mud rushing in hungrily around his body holding his shivering form in a tight vice, staining his garments even as warmth trickles down his thigh to join the soiled mess, his face speckled red with blood. As the boy opens his mouth and empties his lungs, gnashing teeth silence his screams with bloody gurgles.
The voice echos across the swamp. A whirlwind of fur and flesh replies in kind as, the she-wolf strikes. The hydra is reluctant to release its prize, even in the face of such fury. Nine heads hiss as the tenth, clutches the boy closer. At least one lung has been pierced and his life is ebbing away. She hesitates glancing back, and meets the stone-eyed glare of her Mistress, gleaming silver blade in hand as she erupts forward, each step a measure through the dance that is life, fire, and so much more. The she-wolf watches in awe as the blood-haired beauty dispatches the first hydra with one slash and eleven perfectly placed penetrations, and utters a now familiar incantation, "Vegeo."
The hydra bursts into flames as tendrils of magic wrapping around it ignite, excited by the final word of the incantation that lives in the silvery blade of blood that the blood-haired girl wields. With a flick of her wrist she splits the head open that's holding the boy, freeing him, then frowns at her vulpine companion. "The other is yours. Now to it."
Trees and earth both splintered alike before as the cracking landscape bathes in black and blue shadows; the ground drinking deeply from a violet river. Among the broken limbs and branches black droplets continue to fall in a short summer shower, pooling to feed into that dark stream. A wisp of a boy as slight as any girl wades through the carnage. His knuckles whiten as he clutches a chipped cutlass. His eyes search the slow flowing river. The blue sun blinks out as twilight paints the river red with the dawn of true daylight.
Shaking fingers draw a cross in the air, then he speaks, each word ringing like silver and infusing his being with golden light, growing brighter with each syllable as the incantation nears completion. "May the tide be turned in my favor and your grace protect this hu- humble servant from harm. Grant my f- faith the s- strength t- t- to c-" Drowning out his last words, the ground roils, muddy shadows surrounding the boy as his eyes widen and some emotion chokes out all the fastness of his belief, however silent his prayer may end.
Claws and teeth rake and grasp seeking to part flesh from bone, unable to find purchase upon the boy's golden body. The boy flails his blade around, finding eye and fang and matted fur. Rage fills the river, whipping it into a frothing bloody mess. Again and again, steel meets flesh but claw finds naught but bloodied mud until the ground itself opened its maw to swallow him whole.
The weight of his legs buckle into the soft earth ankle deep. The next step carries him down to his knees. As his pupils constrict in fear his light wavers. May she who dances with wolves protect me and lead me through the dance that is life. May her silver fangs find home in my unworthy hands and the light of the sun be as her fire to extinguish evil. As he lift his foot his legs sink in deeper under the weight. His faith keeps his clothes unsoiled, but the thin cushion of air around him does nothing to ballast the weight of his armor. the mud repelling from him with a cushion of air as he slides deeper still.
Then silence as the fury stills and the red mist settles to the ground. Around the boy circle a pair of wolf-headed hydra, claws cracked and severed, each nursing two or three heads with bleeding cuts and severed claws as the wounds slowly close shut, each watching him hungrily with several grinning faces as yet unmarred. The boy's eyes grow wide and his faith pops like a bubble. The mud rushing in hungrily around his body holding his shivering form in a tight vice, staining his garments even as warmth trickles down his thigh to join the soiled mess, his face speckled red with blood. As the boy opens his mouth and empties his lungs, gnashing teeth silence his screams with bloody gurgles.
The voice echos across the swamp. A whirlwind of fur and flesh replies in kind as, the she-wolf strikes. The hydra is reluctant to release its prize, even in the face of such fury. Nine heads hiss as the tenth, clutches the boy closer. At least one lung has been pierced and his life is ebbing away. She hesitates glancing back, and meets the stone-eyed glare of her Mistress, gleaming silver blade in hand as she erupts forward, each step a measure through the dance that is life, fire, and so much more. The she-wolf watches in awe as the blood-haired beauty dispatches the first hydra with one slash and eleven perfectly placed penetrations, and utters a now familiar incantation, "Vegeo."
The hydra bursts into flames as tendrils of magic wrapping around it ignite, excited by the final word of the incantation that lives in the silvery blade of blood that the blood-haired girl wields. With a flick of her wrist she splits the head open that's holding the boy, freeing him, then frowns at her vulpine companion. "The other is yours. Now to it."
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