The Raven of Dispersion
Atra'Lamia Darkbane
ᴏᴜʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ɪs sωᴀʏᴇᴅ ʙʏ sᴜɴᴋᴇɴ ᴍᴏᴏɴs
Wanderlust can be just as poisonous as the viper that lay in sand-scorched wait for a thirsting shred of destiny. Between the two lies the great Chasm, an open wound of the real. The idealist's blind-spot, cob-webbed and sold as dangerous confection to blind acolytes that see not their souls in the shallow— it shall become as Hell if allowed to bloom just so. Traversed, loved and nurtured, it attains the most wonderful geometry, sacred and perfect to the savage gardens, the wastelands of chaos.
Perhaps they shouldn’t be so afraid of the beast that springs forth from the salted wounds of nostalgia, for she is your worldly answer to cosmic fear. A romantic ossuary in the unknown dark. Over the walls and webs of a meandering Hell, watching in elegant patience, there stirring only to collect her gentle debt of secrets— ethereal butterflies on the wing. She carries with her the secrets of sorcery, failure, love, delight and sorrow. Each born unto her callous maw and so graceful and silently she feeds. Gilded in throes of writhing, entombed souls, draped across the carcasses of those long spent offerings.
Such an 'acclaimed' passionate "love", despite the seeming grotesquery which many had attributed her toward. Not so versed in the words of war before, speeches usually lacked the grace and flair granted to her tongue these days; one could not expect when sitting in the courts of some of the most influential and powerful empires, and not learn a thing... or two. Most certainly now, she could incite war or bring forth peace with the elegance of intellect and honeyed tones purring twixt those apertures. Not 'just' a woman of word but also the blades that had for long clashed with some of the mightiest lord. Whose gauntlet had 'long' eviscerated many to the tides of the fallen skulls that 'had' piled at her feet, Pandora, Spectre and Ballathor amongst her most prized 'Darkbane' trophies. Were still their souls carried in company, so attuned to primal customs, they failed to see the boredom of its presence in the blackness of her eyes?
Perhaps too, that it had not been by chance that another presence darkened the hues of hyacinthine gloaming and the cool miasma of chilly air. It had been long since she had graced these primal shores with a cruel beauty none could deny, save for those whom had fallen to the gauntlet of high hopes and wishful thinking. However, it was past icons who rose often from the darkness of obscurity, though no longer did a personification given by The Eternal Goddess Pandora rule the face, only that of true appellation. Burnt celestial eyes glimpsed over these lands with a lack for nostalgia that was anything but, impervious to content. No virtue and vice- rising with temptation only to take back into the darkness those poor screaming souls, dragging at the moist earth.
Captured in the captivation of such tormented beauties; paled in comparison to this coquettish 'Imperatrix'. Would she even dare or care to whisper such a thing? It wasn’t like civilization was anything more than what her eyes had already seen a thousand times before. It was all too languid now. Maybe it was more enriching to enjoy even the simplistic of pleasures such as moonlight and glittering stars; of crimson ichor pouring from a delicate incision across the throat, and the anathema of poison, slowly coursing through the veins, while the body convulsed and relieved itself of caustic fluids in emesis?
With a lure of disruption, a calming terror that beauty brings forth from the shadows of the most common myth perpetuated and habituated by man. There was no need to rise from the tide of the swooping darkness as it blanketed the land in its cold silence. A creature of these elements should not have to rise either from earth or crypt like a dirty secret waiting to be scratched out from beneath the surface of societies crust— like a tick burrowing beneath the skin of a giant. To bleed every sin out only to imbibe it with Atra's ravenous tongue, even though the fetish of it was promised upon the rim of the crystalline glass. A single satirical fingernail traced the burnished images casting reflections upon the surface. There Atra sat just as she had so many years before, silently observing the most noted of interactions and arrivals. A slender leg crossing the other... exposing just enough of her translucent flesh to capture the eye, but, also adding to the mystery of her status; or familiarity to these lands and the elegance of her swords.
Twin Sentient Scimitars suspended from either side of hip, both had been forged and cooled in sacrificial blood. Highly decorative, bound by necromantic rites and tempered to a muttering of lethal runes, and inscribed afterward with primal death spells. Blackheilm- 'true' black silver blade and hilt of ivory and black gold embellishments accompanied by a scabbard of black embossed leather akin to the Obsidian Lords of olde—(Overall length: 91 cm. (35.7 inches); blade length: 76.5 cm. (30 inches). Gaze lost in the opalesque furls of her own hair. Regally poised, aesthetically in an open space of the tavern filled with static, acrid scents and senses that were anything but natural. Stale alcohol, sweat and cheap perfumes, such unnatural smells were the easiest to find in the wilderness.
Both within and without walls; that it made her stomach lurch and crawl as she tried to look away. Looking outside of this strange humanoid little world, and see something beyond the stone and glass, devils and dust, to find one, something familiar to all of creation. It was then that she heard a voice, one husky and deep with intoxication. "How are you this evening?" Not needing to look upon the man's stubble-rugged face to know an artificial smile was planted; a mask of attraction, infatuation or compassion to her glory. She just was not interested, in that of man or over-ride the infection of indifference to anything that fell outside of those imaginary lines that humanity placed between themselves. She could, however, smell something from deeper below the masks which made her smile... only in that those reactions for which he had no control were, indeed, wholly common to all creatures.
"It doesn't really matter, now does it?" a sarcastic voice... cold and empty... head cocking to the side... ravenesque hair parting in a fashion that they might, for the first time, actually see eye to eye. "Little does it matter, to how I may feel, I am sure you shall claim to possess some miracle elixir, to soothe away my woes?" Words dripped with cynic amusement, black magick and sarcasm; even if subtle venom was coveted behind the mellifluous sensuality of dulcet timbre. Honeyed, even angelic in lilt- before he managed to discover a retort in that copious empty skull where usually for most, a brain actually sat. With this one, Atra had many doubts. "I reckon, that I could scratch all your itches, sweet one." A wink demonstrated while his wondering eyes danced over sculptured frame shamelessly depicting every curve, lingering over feminine curves idyllic of Darkness and Aphrodite.
How ludicrous could one morsel of flesh be, jumping from one extreme to another and deserved only the response deemed worthy of his comical performance.
Laughing darkly, tossing her head back and staring up at the marks on the ceiling that had been left by moisture. All things die... eventually. Would it be so shocking here and now... in this nostalgic place?
Stout and heavy in build as the man was, he must have been surprised at the fast riposte of her reaction. Having wounded the beasts pride, for no sooner had the laugh echoed through the tavern his left fist had furled and headed straight towards her right cheek. This was what entertained her the most in a mortal man's displayed wounded pride. Already he was at a disadvantage, inflicted with the effects of a strong days worth of drinking; clumsy and off balance. Another was the fact; he had greatly underestimated his chosen victim for the evening. He was no soldier and certainly no hunter either; but he was fast on his way to becoming the prey— he was not as quick as what he had wished or flying fine as what his intoxication had him believe. No sooner had the strike instigated its flow of motion she had ushered hers.
Waiting for just the precise moment his fist would be only but breath of air, the palm of her right hand instantly coming up to encompass his left. First with the palm of her hand. Elongated fingernails smothering over his clenched fist; fingers of knives perforated deeply into the tight flesh of his beefy hand that had been so hungry with eagerness to strike her. Skin splitting, crimson ribbons trickling over his olive complexion and stunned amazement where he cringed in agony. Doubling over as he was forced to stoop down to the level where her eyes would be the directive in proving her point. No man had yet the skill to strike her, and it certainly would not be this cretin trying to find him a thrill or fancy for the night way out of his league.
A smirk conversed over opulent rubicund apertures, both devious and infectious ."Foolish child!" Atra mocked. "You have only seen the first shore, and already it leaves you weak and tired; a longing for some other place that you know must be very far away from here. One that you shall never find, an eternity you shall never know!!" Statement boldly spoken while arching her back, forcing him down upon his knees provoked by the painful grasp of her assault. Temperate air from her lungs plumed hot over his creeping canvas, trembling with a fear it had never experienced, until now. "The poison hurts, but pain will soon abate, and fear will pass away, so choose!" Perfectly honed heel rising then impressing towards the center of his forehead, the lure of enchantment hidden behind her tones enticing euphoria as if sympathetic to his dilemma.
"I can take this away from you... but, what would you ever give me in exchange for such a... service of... kindness?" Subservient begging was all the body language required to perceive, she did not need or desire his words, for that was all his words were; empty and soulless poetry. Did he want the pain to be vanquished so soon? One should always be dubious of what they wish for, no sooner had his eyes pleaded for mercy, her left hand had delved beneath the matricide of raven lace and leather. In the tourniquet of mesh of hilt, her beloved 'Umbra-Mucro'|Shadow Dagger producing it out and in the same motion of retrieval an angular slash was directed against the surface of his throat. Splitting his Adam's Apple like a cherry twixt the teeth, while tongue delved deep to just how sweet its flavour would be. He wanted that pain gone, and now he had been given what he craved most, liberation. Something she knew, she would never have.
Right hand releasing the slumping arch of his limb, as his body melted to the hardness of the dirty floor beneath her stiletto crowned feet, submissive like any slave or puppet should be. Smouldering dusky eyes glancing over the patrons who may have witnessed the events of her favourite hobby; a playful, yet also cruel, sort of expression made her face seem to exceptionally beautiful... seduction of all evils. Coy with a hint of feigned innocence glinting in the devilish pits of those persuasive orbs as cadmium sienna apertures pursed to speak to those still watching her and the body now lifeless. Interrupting their drunken banters of sordid tales, myth and wonders betwixt hushed fears...."Now, now, boys... do not think ill of me. I only did what you were all thinking, and yet could not pluck the courage, even from the rum-infused warmth of your bellies or the wenches that await you in their perfumed beds." A chuckle escaping past those pursed lips designed for death before attentions re-examined the empty glass inquisitively. "I used to think of the glass somewhat half empty... now indeed I see the glass half full... "
Contemplating something refined, something like absinthe and belladonna... the phantasms of dreams. Listening to these lecherous tales of yore, it was rather sacrilegious to hear various things uttered from common lips of treachery, glories and loves so bravely spoken, yet none seemed true. At least not how SHE had remembered them. Speaking through the tiers of ivories, where their fine points sat barely covered on the orchid blooms of apertures, "Charming..." spoken in dissonance with raspy unsympathetic tones. Enough of wistfulness had been seen this evening, and yet, to return here where it all began... with a dead body on the floor at her feet, boot heel rising to rest on the pinnacle of forehead while the blood flowed like Phlegethon.
Even as patrons scuffled to move chairs away from the svelte woman... midnight eyes froze in their silent reverie, toward deeper reflection. Glib-tongue licking across the lower arch of strawberry hued pillow, plump and voluptuous as perfect ivories can to pinch the sweet flesh between them, meditatively. Something of arrogant inattentiveness. Chin rising with that famous notorious haughty fashion well acclaimed for; lambency bejeweled by ophidian jet slithers beaming heinously from behind lustrous lashes, malevolence... so unspeakable. A score of a few hundred years and even though Ayenee had seen war after war through the eons, this tavern of old hadn't seen many changes despite the build up of metallic giants surrounding it. A sly and confident smirk rising over moist lips of wine, enshadowed with intricate artistry by the lustre of the amber glow provided from the flickering overtures dancing in ascendance like serpents upon the tavern walls.
Energies extending, beloved vines of necrotic rapture 'weaving' their unseen webs. Exuberant in the horror of a body crushed of all life, its soul struggling for liberation. Each tainted tendril coiling around their aura's, indeed traveling with those who scrambled away quickly into the night. Thinking that refuge in the darkness would be discovered, and sweet solace found there in the bitterest of today’s and tomorrows. Atra wouldn't tally here for any length of time, but certainly long enough to share one last drink with 'old friends' or 'old foes'.
"Nothing surpasses... a little magick!" Uttered just as the mace struck with metallic triumph.
Wanderlust can be just as poisonous as the viper that lay in sand-scorched wait for a thirsting shred of destiny. Between the two lies the great Chasm, an open wound of the real. The idealist's blind-spot, cob-webbed and sold as dangerous confection to blind acolytes that see not their souls in the shallow— it shall become as Hell if allowed to bloom just so. Traversed, loved and nurtured, it attains the most wonderful geometry, sacred and perfect to the savage gardens, the wastelands of chaos.
Perhaps they shouldn’t be so afraid of the beast that springs forth from the salted wounds of nostalgia, for she is your worldly answer to cosmic fear. A romantic ossuary in the unknown dark. Over the walls and webs of a meandering Hell, watching in elegant patience, there stirring only to collect her gentle debt of secrets— ethereal butterflies on the wing. She carries with her the secrets of sorcery, failure, love, delight and sorrow. Each born unto her callous maw and so graceful and silently she feeds. Gilded in throes of writhing, entombed souls, draped across the carcasses of those long spent offerings.
Such an 'acclaimed' passionate "love", despite the seeming grotesquery which many had attributed her toward. Not so versed in the words of war before, speeches usually lacked the grace and flair granted to her tongue these days; one could not expect when sitting in the courts of some of the most influential and powerful empires, and not learn a thing... or two. Most certainly now, she could incite war or bring forth peace with the elegance of intellect and honeyed tones purring twixt those apertures. Not 'just' a woman of word but also the blades that had for long clashed with some of the mightiest lord. Whose gauntlet had 'long' eviscerated many to the tides of the fallen skulls that 'had' piled at her feet, Pandora, Spectre and Ballathor amongst her most prized 'Darkbane' trophies. Were still their souls carried in company, so attuned to primal customs, they failed to see the boredom of its presence in the blackness of her eyes?
Perhaps too, that it had not been by chance that another presence darkened the hues of hyacinthine gloaming and the cool miasma of chilly air. It had been long since she had graced these primal shores with a cruel beauty none could deny, save for those whom had fallen to the gauntlet of high hopes and wishful thinking. However, it was past icons who rose often from the darkness of obscurity, though no longer did a personification given by The Eternal Goddess Pandora rule the face, only that of true appellation. Burnt celestial eyes glimpsed over these lands with a lack for nostalgia that was anything but, impervious to content. No virtue and vice- rising with temptation only to take back into the darkness those poor screaming souls, dragging at the moist earth.
Captured in the captivation of such tormented beauties; paled in comparison to this coquettish 'Imperatrix'. Would she even dare or care to whisper such a thing? It wasn’t like civilization was anything more than what her eyes had already seen a thousand times before. It was all too languid now. Maybe it was more enriching to enjoy even the simplistic of pleasures such as moonlight and glittering stars; of crimson ichor pouring from a delicate incision across the throat, and the anathema of poison, slowly coursing through the veins, while the body convulsed and relieved itself of caustic fluids in emesis?
With a lure of disruption, a calming terror that beauty brings forth from the shadows of the most common myth perpetuated and habituated by man. There was no need to rise from the tide of the swooping darkness as it blanketed the land in its cold silence. A creature of these elements should not have to rise either from earth or crypt like a dirty secret waiting to be scratched out from beneath the surface of societies crust— like a tick burrowing beneath the skin of a giant. To bleed every sin out only to imbibe it with Atra's ravenous tongue, even though the fetish of it was promised upon the rim of the crystalline glass. A single satirical fingernail traced the burnished images casting reflections upon the surface. There Atra sat just as she had so many years before, silently observing the most noted of interactions and arrivals. A slender leg crossing the other... exposing just enough of her translucent flesh to capture the eye, but, also adding to the mystery of her status; or familiarity to these lands and the elegance of her swords.
Twin Sentient Scimitars suspended from either side of hip, both had been forged and cooled in sacrificial blood. Highly decorative, bound by necromantic rites and tempered to a muttering of lethal runes, and inscribed afterward with primal death spells. Blackheilm- 'true' black silver blade and hilt of ivory and black gold embellishments accompanied by a scabbard of black embossed leather akin to the Obsidian Lords of olde—(Overall length: 91 cm. (35.7 inches); blade length: 76.5 cm. (30 inches). Gaze lost in the opalesque furls of her own hair. Regally poised, aesthetically in an open space of the tavern filled with static, acrid scents and senses that were anything but natural. Stale alcohol, sweat and cheap perfumes, such unnatural smells were the easiest to find in the wilderness.
Both within and without walls; that it made her stomach lurch and crawl as she tried to look away. Looking outside of this strange humanoid little world, and see something beyond the stone and glass, devils and dust, to find one, something familiar to all of creation. It was then that she heard a voice, one husky and deep with intoxication. "How are you this evening?" Not needing to look upon the man's stubble-rugged face to know an artificial smile was planted; a mask of attraction, infatuation or compassion to her glory. She just was not interested, in that of man or over-ride the infection of indifference to anything that fell outside of those imaginary lines that humanity placed between themselves. She could, however, smell something from deeper below the masks which made her smile... only in that those reactions for which he had no control were, indeed, wholly common to all creatures.
"It doesn't really matter, now does it?" a sarcastic voice... cold and empty... head cocking to the side... ravenesque hair parting in a fashion that they might, for the first time, actually see eye to eye. "Little does it matter, to how I may feel, I am sure you shall claim to possess some miracle elixir, to soothe away my woes?" Words dripped with cynic amusement, black magick and sarcasm; even if subtle venom was coveted behind the mellifluous sensuality of dulcet timbre. Honeyed, even angelic in lilt- before he managed to discover a retort in that copious empty skull where usually for most, a brain actually sat. With this one, Atra had many doubts. "I reckon, that I could scratch all your itches, sweet one." A wink demonstrated while his wondering eyes danced over sculptured frame shamelessly depicting every curve, lingering over feminine curves idyllic of Darkness and Aphrodite.
How ludicrous could one morsel of flesh be, jumping from one extreme to another and deserved only the response deemed worthy of his comical performance.
Laughing darkly, tossing her head back and staring up at the marks on the ceiling that had been left by moisture. All things die... eventually. Would it be so shocking here and now... in this nostalgic place?
Stout and heavy in build as the man was, he must have been surprised at the fast riposte of her reaction. Having wounded the beasts pride, for no sooner had the laugh echoed through the tavern his left fist had furled and headed straight towards her right cheek. This was what entertained her the most in a mortal man's displayed wounded pride. Already he was at a disadvantage, inflicted with the effects of a strong days worth of drinking; clumsy and off balance. Another was the fact; he had greatly underestimated his chosen victim for the evening. He was no soldier and certainly no hunter either; but he was fast on his way to becoming the prey— he was not as quick as what he had wished or flying fine as what his intoxication had him believe. No sooner had the strike instigated its flow of motion she had ushered hers.
Waiting for just the precise moment his fist would be only but breath of air, the palm of her right hand instantly coming up to encompass his left. First with the palm of her hand. Elongated fingernails smothering over his clenched fist; fingers of knives perforated deeply into the tight flesh of his beefy hand that had been so hungry with eagerness to strike her. Skin splitting, crimson ribbons trickling over his olive complexion and stunned amazement where he cringed in agony. Doubling over as he was forced to stoop down to the level where her eyes would be the directive in proving her point. No man had yet the skill to strike her, and it certainly would not be this cretin trying to find him a thrill or fancy for the night way out of his league.
A smirk conversed over opulent rubicund apertures, both devious and infectious ."Foolish child!" Atra mocked. "You have only seen the first shore, and already it leaves you weak and tired; a longing for some other place that you know must be very far away from here. One that you shall never find, an eternity you shall never know!!" Statement boldly spoken while arching her back, forcing him down upon his knees provoked by the painful grasp of her assault. Temperate air from her lungs plumed hot over his creeping canvas, trembling with a fear it had never experienced, until now. "The poison hurts, but pain will soon abate, and fear will pass away, so choose!" Perfectly honed heel rising then impressing towards the center of his forehead, the lure of enchantment hidden behind her tones enticing euphoria as if sympathetic to his dilemma.
"I can take this away from you... but, what would you ever give me in exchange for such a... service of... kindness?" Subservient begging was all the body language required to perceive, she did not need or desire his words, for that was all his words were; empty and soulless poetry. Did he want the pain to be vanquished so soon? One should always be dubious of what they wish for, no sooner had his eyes pleaded for mercy, her left hand had delved beneath the matricide of raven lace and leather. In the tourniquet of mesh of hilt, her beloved 'Umbra-Mucro'|Shadow Dagger producing it out and in the same motion of retrieval an angular slash was directed against the surface of his throat. Splitting his Adam's Apple like a cherry twixt the teeth, while tongue delved deep to just how sweet its flavour would be. He wanted that pain gone, and now he had been given what he craved most, liberation. Something she knew, she would never have.
Right hand releasing the slumping arch of his limb, as his body melted to the hardness of the dirty floor beneath her stiletto crowned feet, submissive like any slave or puppet should be. Smouldering dusky eyes glancing over the patrons who may have witnessed the events of her favourite hobby; a playful, yet also cruel, sort of expression made her face seem to exceptionally beautiful... seduction of all evils. Coy with a hint of feigned innocence glinting in the devilish pits of those persuasive orbs as cadmium sienna apertures pursed to speak to those still watching her and the body now lifeless. Interrupting their drunken banters of sordid tales, myth and wonders betwixt hushed fears...."Now, now, boys... do not think ill of me. I only did what you were all thinking, and yet could not pluck the courage, even from the rum-infused warmth of your bellies or the wenches that await you in their perfumed beds." A chuckle escaping past those pursed lips designed for death before attentions re-examined the empty glass inquisitively. "I used to think of the glass somewhat half empty... now indeed I see the glass half full... "
Contemplating something refined, something like absinthe and belladonna... the phantasms of dreams. Listening to these lecherous tales of yore, it was rather sacrilegious to hear various things uttered from common lips of treachery, glories and loves so bravely spoken, yet none seemed true. At least not how SHE had remembered them. Speaking through the tiers of ivories, where their fine points sat barely covered on the orchid blooms of apertures, "Charming..." spoken in dissonance with raspy unsympathetic tones. Enough of wistfulness had been seen this evening, and yet, to return here where it all began... with a dead body on the floor at her feet, boot heel rising to rest on the pinnacle of forehead while the blood flowed like Phlegethon.
Even as patrons scuffled to move chairs away from the svelte woman... midnight eyes froze in their silent reverie, toward deeper reflection. Glib-tongue licking across the lower arch of strawberry hued pillow, plump and voluptuous as perfect ivories can to pinch the sweet flesh between them, meditatively. Something of arrogant inattentiveness. Chin rising with that famous notorious haughty fashion well acclaimed for; lambency bejeweled by ophidian jet slithers beaming heinously from behind lustrous lashes, malevolence... so unspeakable. A score of a few hundred years and even though Ayenee had seen war after war through the eons, this tavern of old hadn't seen many changes despite the build up of metallic giants surrounding it. A sly and confident smirk rising over moist lips of wine, enshadowed with intricate artistry by the lustre of the amber glow provided from the flickering overtures dancing in ascendance like serpents upon the tavern walls.
Energies extending, beloved vines of necrotic rapture 'weaving' their unseen webs. Exuberant in the horror of a body crushed of all life, its soul struggling for liberation. Each tainted tendril coiling around their aura's, indeed traveling with those who scrambled away quickly into the night. Thinking that refuge in the darkness would be discovered, and sweet solace found there in the bitterest of today’s and tomorrows. Atra wouldn't tally here for any length of time, but certainly long enough to share one last drink with 'old friends' or 'old foes'.
"Nothing surpasses... a little magick!" Uttered just as the mace struck with metallic triumph.
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