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angels seperate the wicked from the righteous

@[Euryale] 10-29-2019 @ 06:21 AM (This post was last modified: 11-01-2019 @ 08:06 PM by Euryale.)
#1

Euryale

RankPathfinder
LevelOne
ClassSorcerer
Gender & HeightMare, 16.1hh
Age & Season3 Winter ❅
Crystals 100  ✦
WriterIvy, 12 posts
my lover's got humour
she's the giggle at a funeral

their great masts billow across the midnight sky.  their colossal ships sail forth, drawing over the ocean like dark leviathans.  the oceans tug for their engrossment, yet onward the ships, traverse; navigating, through uncharted waters with each mighty rumble of the deep, blue sea.  closer towards the edge of the beach, where white sand glints beneath diamond moonlight, a red maiden slips among their azuline shallows. the tide draws in, pulling against her lilac hair and bathing her curves like a holy sacrifice.

SHE LIES IN SHADOW. SHE BATHES IN RUIN. OUR DARK ANGEL, SLEEPS ON SABLE FUR MADE FROM THE BONES OF A TORTURED ( BROKEN ) HEAVEN. THE LUXURIOUS OCEAN LIT LIKE AZURE GRANITE, AND STREAMING COLD AND RAMPANT; AS WET LIQUID ENVELOPES THAT CURVACEOUS BODICE, LIKE SOME CARNAL SACRIFICE WHISPERED AMONG  EVIL. IT IS IN HER SENSUAL IMAGE. IN THE SOFT CURVE OF HER LIPS AND DEADLY, ALLURING BODY.  A VIOLENT BEAUTY, SWATHED IN THE DELICIOUS LANGUAGE OF BLOOD-STAINED HUNGER; I AM THEIR WILD ROSE; I AM THEIR SALVATION - THROUGH ME, WILL THEY FIND THEIR EDEN.

O, THE CADAVEROUS, PHANTOM SHRINE OF TERMINUS SEA, STIRS BENEATH THE ETHEREAL SUMMITS OF THEIR MOUNTAIN LIKE A TEMPLE. THE SOFT, CARNAL RUMBLE OF WATER, RUNS DEEP AND WET; GLISSADING, THROUGH MOUNTAINOUS CORRIDOR, IN THE DAMP TRICKLE OF BLACK, BIO-LUMINESCENT STREAM. HOW COLD, HER SKIN; TO TOUCH FLESH AS THOUGH CARVED FROM ICE AND MARBLE. AND HER MURDEROUS BEAUTY; HER PALE FACE; WITH ALL ITS FEMININE EXOTICISM, TO RIVAL EVEN THAT OF THE MOON'S ALLUREMENT. OUR DARK ANGEL, IN HER MOMENTS OF SECRECY, OF TRANQUILLITY; EMITS A POISONED SWEETNESS, UNLIKE ANY OTHER ROSE. AND HOW SHE REVEALS IN THE POWER OF HER SEDUCTION.

BATHED IN MOONLIGHT, INCENSE WANES AND SHADOWS DESCEND THE SEAS. CARESS, AFTER COLLECTIVE CARESS. A FERVENT DISPLAY OF RITUALISTIC HUNGER AND ALMOST UNNATURAL (FRIGHTENING) ENCHANTMENT; THE NEEDS OF A SOUL, TO BE SATED BY THIRST AND WRATHFUL INCLINATION. O, HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE SHE LAST ESCAPED HELL?  TO FEEL THE BITTER HUNGER OF ITS FLAME? OR TO TASTE THAT VIOLENT KISS OF ALL-CONSUMING FIRE?  SHE IS THAT WRATHFUL FALLEN ANGEL; OUR SLENDER, SUN-KISSED EURYALE BATHED OF BLACK WATERS. SUBMERGED. KNEELING IN SUBORDINATION BY ITS WATERY ALTAR; WICKED AND ENSLAVED TO THE DESIRES OF A DARK GOD. AND SO, IN THE AZULINE GLOW OF BARELY-THERE MOONLIGHT, DOES SHE PRAY, PRAY, PRAY.

SHE WANTS TO WASH AWAY ALL THE BLOOD.  SHE WANTS TO WASH AWAY ALL HER SINS.  THE WATER HISSES UPON HER BODY.  SHE IS OBSCURED BY THE LAVENDER CURLS THAT LATHER HER BREASTBONE AND GATHER UPON HER GRACEFUL NECKLINE.  SOFTENING, THE SMOOTH LINES OF IVORY CONTOURS.  HER SIRENIC FEATURES WERE BLURRED BENEATH THE AMOROUS FABRIC OF CASCADING WATER. THE BLUE CHIFFON SILK WEAVES IN AND OUT LIKE A DRESS, A SULTRY TRANSLUCENCY, AKIN TO THE FRIGID GRASP OF UNDEAD HANDS. FOR HOURS SHE LAYS IN THE BLACK LIQUID. THE WATER HUMS, AS THOUGH MOMENTARILY ALIVE. BEFORE SLIPPING INTO COMATOSE SILENCE, FOREVER. EURYALE RISES THEN. SHE STANDS IN CHEST-DEEP WATER, WITH THE OCEAN'S THRUM, CRASHING LIGHTLY UPON HER BREAST.  WATER TRICKLES DOWN HER BROW AND CURLS BENEATH HER CHIN.  THE FADED MEMORY OF A DREAM WERE STILL LINGERING UPON HER LIPS LIKE A LOVER'S KISS. OR WAS IT, CURSE? WAS IT NIGHTMARE?

euryale closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.  she embraces the icy sensation that travels like fevered whispers across her spine.  o, how the ocean washes over her body. smoothing down her hips with gilded hands, as liquid seperates lilac curls like floating tendrils upon black oil.  behind her, upon the shore, lies the carcass of a dead stag she has killed this evening. a fire, bright and hungry, lights across the bloodied sand; their embers, rising with smoke and heat towards the blackness and the moon.

~Erasmus

the only heaven i'll be sent to
is when i'm alone with you



─ 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.

@[Erasmus] 11-01-2019 @ 12:46 AM
#2

Erasmus

RankPathfinder
LevelOne
ClassBattle Magus
Gender & HeightStallion, 18hh
Age & Season3 Autumn ☁
Crystals 180  ✦
Writerraum, 7 posts
What's a mob to a king
What's a king to a god

some fates are written in our bones – slick white testaments to a higher purpose; we are celestial, we are eternal. two wolves reaching for the sun, the moon. in our jaws, in our eyes, lapped over our tongues with blithering ecstasy the hot press of immortality; each more certain than the next. a dream confined. night plucks over the remnants in our hallowed grave ; our tomb is sacred, sanctified unholy – risen from a midnight heat, hushed beneath a pregnant moon. skin is a cage, and oh how cold; our altar is the pale salt spires of a wicked sea, our offering is the outpour of a dying sun. eclipsed – ours are grecian tales wrapped in betrayal and unending misery, ours is a lust that has forgotten the sting of sin. we are made from godless starfire, carved from the spines of back-broken empires – our names are the whispers kissed to the lips of vagrant priests. our blood pulses with the worship of bloodied palms, night-stricken cries echoed from the pyre embers of babylonian rites. we rise then, bathed in ash and blood and victory. fore we are things older than the twilight traces of happiness and love. we are things deeper than the trenches of the ocean where the light dare not touch. we are things darker than the limits of the starlit skies. they will know, they will know ; for all devils recall one another, outside of hell.

a blood trail cascades down the winding paths of a sea-facing cliff ; and oh, what hunger crawls in the belly of a heathen prince – its pulsings punctuated by each hinted droplet, gleaming in the moonlight like precious ruby shard. its flecks mark the granite, smear the disheveled road that leads down, down. beyond the paths roar the siege of a frantic sea, each rivulet of frothing league flashing with veining foam, aglow azure, pearlescent rinds of crashing waves. the smell is sweet – incensed with the seabreeze and the coniferous sap of wayladen pines; so he hunts. and the night is young, fervent, silence falls between each measure of sea that beats against the rocks and in it, there is only the arduous press of adrenaline and need, desperate ravening slaked along the smoothness of a trail. yet he is not smooth – all vicious angle and seething shadow, all cracked starlight of eclipsed suns and the barbaric likeness of pagan gods – his outline rushes the pallor of the mountain, and it is austere symmetry, feral art. down, down. erasmus is the material of dusky miasma, dripping hot shadows thrown abreast in the wild rampants of whipping winds; phantom night, something virile and vicious, black mamba venom webbed on gold fangs.

when he breaks the cypress gate of hill-twisted brush there is only the shore, a stretch of pale sands aglow beneath the tapestry of night – its berth is wide and crowned by the black peaks that surround it, in them the shallow caverns leading into the atlantean halls he dares not trespass. the moon looms above, near outshined by each pinprick of unwavering starlight, and beneath it the waves are sea-fire, frothing with lunar spray. there are sandpipers that gather in small droves, but their beady eyes narrowly counter a glow that emanates from farther down the dark lit surf – they wait warily, though sometimes pluck beneath their feet a misfortunate ghost crab nestled like a pearl. erasmus follows their gaze – and there, the blood trail leads, but it is not the peppering of deep saccharine that feeds the shoreline. there is a rut carried through the sand, and beside it the lilting dance of hoofprints lightly pressed and glistening in the evening light. it is too much a trap and too much a lure, but oh his core lurches like a feeble thing, and from it an unearthly growl that unsettles his pulse with want. it is unending, the avaricious cravings that teem wildly, insufferably, and he is lost to the machinations of primal instinct. 

his arrival is not without its grace, but his shadow is a disheveled spectre consumed of matting shadows, blotted against the moonlit backdrop. he is all jagged edges, hot rage, and a curious hunger that prickles along his skin like rising hackles. each curve is marked with a ragged hollow that speaks in brawn the virility of a young hunter, but the coldness of his eyes are piercing, sharp as a blade. they wander greedily over the carcass of a stag, its crumpled form washed in brine and feathered with seabreeze sand; each point a jeweled blade in the caress of light. is it an offering that pleases him, this nestle of warm meat and stunted arteries? this altar of blood and sand, bathed in the wash of nightly radiance. from its neck he divines the steam, fresh, and he cannot help but graze its flesh with kneading fangs, the scent of musk and salt and slick iron decadent, prosperous. but beyond a shadow quivers in the wind, and he catches another sight as a chiffon ribbon rears like a writhing serpent. erasmus raised his crown, predator gaze swept over the buxom delineation that rises from the glistening sea – venusian grandeur in sweeping curves and svelte lush; and he thinks, he thinks he has seen her before, in a time deeper than the embryonic dreams of corporeality. so he approaches her while the firelight licks at the sharpness of his features, their angles deepened as shadows pull along their edges, drip down the length of his broad shoulders.

and oh, how she looks like want. how, when she breathes, it is like the intimate lacings of a lover's gasps – the rise and fall is rhythmic, tantalizing, a hypnotic notion of impassioned grace. oh, how she smells of wolfsbane and lilac forests emerged from eldritch seas. how she smells of arduous exotics and fresh leather, luxury and agony; how the ocean reaches, frothing fingers rushed for warmth – and can you blame the sea, to mourn her mortality, to beg her to stay, to sleep forever in its embrace? as it rakes across her flesh, remiss and yearning, tugging softly at lavender mats of plush mane. brine crystallized like starlight on the salt-sweat gleam of blood, bloody red. she drips like wine, dry sanguor clinging to her hips as the moonlight dotes; and oh, does she taste like heaven? or is it the sharpness of hell that would meet you like a rival, like the deep, prickling tension of desperation? she stands like the effigy of a grecian heroine carved of glistening agate, and oh, does it feel like drowning, to kiss her? her curves are ethereal softness, and he is lost to muse the cream-like smoothness of her neck. “who are you?” he breathes, and his voice is hot against the cool air that carries it - it tangles on a web of sea-dream, viperous and otherworldly cruel. in the solitary silence, it is almost a sin. but if it is sin to lust after fallen angels with famished eyes and delphic beauty, then he would bathe in the sacrilege.

What's a god to a non-believer
Who don't believe in anything




Euryale

Current time: 11-13-2019, 12:34 AM.
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