this will never end cause i want more

The moon is a jewel cast on molten sands - each rind of particle a glimmer in the night, a star plucked from the midnight canvas. and the breeze; a gasping clasp of fettered cold that washes from the east - a promise of a storm, the breath of rain like a haze. it peppers, sprawling across the sky, the moon languished in her seat of stratus. beneath we are but worms, uprooted from the tomb. the shallows of the eastern sound are timid as the waves of a lake. they rush against the cresting bed of blackened sand one after another, each a roll of a hiss and a dull clap.

the rain, silvery in momentary treads of soft moonlight, falls light as a mist. it is comfort to the weary bones of a hard traveller wrought with the restlessness of a long journey.

gauthier passes beneath the brief lapses of moonlight and the shadows of the swaying palms, painted in silver, a ghost along the volcanic shores. he does not belong here, this place of solitude, this holy place of secrets, of whispers, of dreams lost to the night. he is a rolling, roving creature of desolate divination; a thing of hunger, of want and need possessed in blood-slaked yearning. primordial beast; a wretch of violent whim! his eyes are cold, fret not for the daze of the oncoming storm nor the road left behind, but hollow things bored to the winter heart of him. the only heat is borne of his core. the darkness of the backset shore spits him from its teeth: he rises from the jagged ruins of charcoal towers, all male, all fiend, bronzed and brazen.

Were a sight so cruel – so would it be man, apathetic and awful, beautiful and monstrous in all the ways that should never be. It is the chiseled cut of high-rise cheeks and a princely brow, the length of dark lips which curve unevenly, sharp, mottled. the net of broad shoulders, toned waist, the languid strokes of a sweeping gait ere: The prowl of a heathen prince. Of a dark god, as one descends into the bowels of the frozen earth, as hell confined. When a gale tousles the dusky fibers of his thick mane, it is not unlike the semblance of a crown, its disheveled appearance shewn, more of thorns than valiance.

@Esmerée

Esmerée Calantha
you should see me in a crown
Her wanderlust is eternal.  Her taste for adventure as delicious as sinning. An evening laced in lies, in deception, beneath the glooming darkness, and the ever-soft downpour of rain, it is nightfall when the maiden finally arrives upon the tidepools.  The moonlight tastes of sin when she licks her lips and rainwater drips along her curves, a silver aria laced in nocturnal music. All around her are sheets of mist, sheets of soft-water that descend with abandon from the storm-grey clouds up above.  It is not the weather she prefers, but it is welcome reprieve to the sweltering heat that often ravages the savannah. And she is not expecting to see any company, not with her life as a rogue, and certainly not beneath a deluge, but that is until her lilac eyes ensnares the image of a large male, virile and toned. She blinks away the rainwater, ebon lashes long and silken against her coral cheekbone. "I did not expect to see anyone," Her voice is smokey, low, when she approaches the other male.  Her black talons flex against the wet earth, her tail swaying in wicked bemusement. As she nears him, her eyes eat up his scars, his size, drinking in his swarthy features with viperine intrigue as a smirk ghosts her inky lips. "You don't seem to be enjoying the damp weather."

@Gauthier

art by euryalee

this will never end cause i want more

her entrance is quieted by the white noise of rain - but the trickle of obsidian and the clack of a claw prickles his senses. before she speaks he is turning, an eye locked on her form in the mist. he stopped then, black sands crunching beneath him, tail curled. in a long look he chews her up, savors the taste. down, a slow up. the corner of his lips twitched, the scar widening with the movement, a small gesture of contented acknowledgement. "I did not expect to see anyone," she says, and he drinks her voice with the rain on his lips, her lavender sweetness through the petrichor, the soft gather of supple flesh and bodacious curve. he says nothing yet, watching only, the rove of his eyes cold and unyielding. "you don't seem to be enjoying the damp weather." on the contrary, he thinks, the drizzle turning steam against his dark flesh. but instead, one edge of his rough mouth lifts cruelly, the blackness of it swallowing half his handsome features in its horror. a slip of fang, a black hole smile. "i am now."

Esmerée Calantha
you should see me in a crown
The water feels cool, caressive against her skin.  Cascades of rainwater wash down her supple form, drawing a misty veil over her graceful shoulderblades and hips.  When he turns toward her, she does not smile outwardly, but her lips do curve into a ghostly smirk. It is not often that she enjoys another's company, but she thinks, in a moment of intrigue, with all his feral allure - she thinks she could enjoy his. "Oh," Esmerée sighs in response, her voice both soft and dark; a delicious cloud of violet blush, wrapped seductively around silk fangs. Her voice is almost too tart, too sweet, but there is a hint of sharpness in the vanilla tone, knife-like with a side of bitch.  "I wonder how long that will last," Not very long I think, not if you knew all of me. She feels him watching her, eating away at her likeness like wolves ushering prey across an open field. But Esmerée' is the moon, the forest, the field - and the only delicate thing about her is her curves, soft, inviting - compared the fire in her dragon-heart. The feeling of being watched is almost unsettling, although, she is no withering flower.  Yet there is something sharp about his eyes, something devilish.  Perhaps it is those smouldering red rims against the frigid teal, or the narrow, almond-shape of his penetrative stare.  Esmerée' blinks away the droplets of rain, long-lashes tapering against peach-skin.  "I could think of other ways to enjoy such grim weather." Her fangs flash in the darkness, tail wrapping against her thighs, her tone subtle yet taunting. But it would be too revealing. Even for you.

@Gauthier

art by euryalee

this will never end cause i want more

There are worlds between them, meters apart; the cold air splits and pirouettes, the heat of their flesh caught in the moonlight twirling. He does not move more than a twitch of the shoulder, the languid, slow unfurling of his tail, the impatient rattle of it, a click of his claw against the black stone. “I wonder how long that will last,” she sighs, the sound of it ripe, saccharine, bitter. He nods in agreement to the unspoken between them, hardly the gentleman. Regardless, he does not move on, though his nephilim bones sway that way - onward, onward, to the next den, the next reaping, the next appetite. The wind too takes him, tousles the bur-caught thickness of his mane, the length of his hackles up his spine, pulls his shadows spindling across the wickedry of his features. “I could think of other ways to enjoy such grim weather.” He is wolven then, crown lowered, eyes narrowed, lines bristling the bridge of his nose. The shadow of his face pulls - a smirk? A grin? A snarl? His laughter is not unlike a growl, low and unkind. Moonlight catches her, rose and amethyst, cream-smooth nakedness in the dark, all sharp, all woman. “I could too.” he says flatly as if through the gauze of a scowl, but the grin is there, dividing traces of his derision. He stretches then, long and indolent as a hound, arrogant as a drake, and drags his claws across the obsidian sheet with a yawn. “Name one,” he dares, her reflection throttled in the bloody undertow of his gaze. “Or should I?”

Tell me, would you kill to save a life?
Tell me, would you kill to prove you're right?
Crash, crash, Burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground

It is not the reply she expects, but her features remain apathetic.  His response is flat, capricious. Esmerée is somewhat amused, yet laced with boredom she now finds herself glancing away. She looks at the storm-grey horizon, the rolling clouds, the brief flashes of lightning forming in the distance. Her violet eyes flicks to one side to rest upon a scuttling crab, dashing too close too her toes.  Her ears are pinned upon him, however; her lashes, thick and unfurling, a glittering cascade of black diamonds upon her pale cheek. Perhaps, under normal circumstances, she would have left - but that would be rude. No, maybe she should stay. Entertain him. "Salty crab," It is all she says, before her toes curl, talons twitching, sending the little creature hurtling towards him. If she's lucky, it might hit him in the face. Maybe pluck a whisker, or two. How's this for entertainment? Meanwhile, Esmerée swiftly resumes a defensive position, skull bowed above her neck, ears flat and tail lashing aggressively. She expects the male to be unpredictable, and she's not taking any chances.  Rude.

art by aurora

this will never end cause i want more

The grating feist of her is tangible, delicious. He works the art of her insurmountable rage, her hellish scorn, all the while plastered with the sardonic mien of a smug fiend. No, it isn’t for a lack of beauty; he has drank in the supple delineation of her hourglass curves, the rosé blush of her, the hunger of her spirit. He is insatiable. He savors the festering rise of her fury now. It is the truth, raw, unblemished by cordial restraints of morals, of expectations. The least of his anticipation is the seemingly simple utterance, salty crab. His expression twisted for a moment, a confused heh? before the crustacean is whipped for his head. Gauthier ducked as the thing clipped for the hairs of his mane! And it skittered to the ground, clacking and retreating into the sands. “Thoughtful, coeur brutale.” he sighs, the sound of it a false swoon hanging on the edge of cruelty; a breath of winter, emanating through the cracks of his sickle smile. No, I am not hungry for crab. His fangs carve the angles of his lips, boldly boyish.

He rounds her when she is pulled into herself like a viper, all teeth, all claws ready, all fire and brimstone and hellmouth. A chuckle escapes him, low and warning. But his gestures move to assuage her imminent angst, their gait smooth, rolling. He dares move closer with the tsking drawl of his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, the hiss of it nestling behind the curve of his teeth. Gauthier is the sweeping likeness of a reclaimed angel, brazen and bronzed, the lines of his gaunt face smoothed, beautified. Beside her, he looks to the tidepools just beyond her, the wash of the waves crashing against the pocked black stone. Arrogant, he dares the proximity - he cranes his neck, the princely facet of his features, to the softness of her ear. And his tongue, twisted (what a forked thing, silvered only by moonlight) venom’d, ushers from the rind of his teeth, their sharpness glinting: “I do think you look delightful, wet.” he whispers, purrs, and reaches to push her into the water.


(some french/italian conglamerate: "brutal heart.")

+5 Wrestle with another character for fun or sport

@Esmerée

Tell me, would you kill to save a life?
Tell me, would you kill to prove you're right?
Crash, crash, Burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground

He moves so quickly, so suddenly. His breath feels ragged against her ear;  the caress is unexpected, her own breath hitching warmly against her porcelain breast at the masculine nearness of him. Esmerée suddenly feels hungry, for his warmth, for his touch - for his violence.  When he dodges the crab and pushes her roughly into the ocean (where she drinks a fistful of disgusting salt-water), she is taken aback - her eyelashes blinking rapidly, a startled hiss escaping her lips as though she were about to cry in bitter anguish. How dare he! "You fiend!" She gasps, sputtering, feeling the tide rush coldly against her svelte bodice; forcing a shiver down her spine.

She stumbles, sodden and wet, her curves moist with oceanic brine, the salt bitter in her mouth.

"C'mere, big boy!" She snarls, her paw swinging at him, talons flexing outward, hoping to hook into the side of his shoulder and drag him into the water with her. Slants of moonlight caress her figure, her wrath climbing higher, another flippant hiss aggressively escaping her throat.  Her fangs glint bright against the diamond-moonlight, flashing eagerly, hungry to taste his flesh and rip him asunder. Although Esmerée finds his gaze piercing, beautiful - the cool teal against the devouring crimson, a vampiric glare - in this moment, she wants nothing more than to rip his eyes out and feed it to him.

@Gauthier

this will never end cause i want more

Success. His laughter is belting thunder as she lashes back with a 'you fiend!', the sound of it full, cruel, contented. "Yes." he purrs with the crooked grin, the shadows pulling deftly at his scar, the roughness of his expression. A dark prince of thorns, of great hellish hollows beneath. He takes a step back to admire his work - she drenched, jeweled in brine and dripping sea, so alight with animosity. She is painted in moonlight and ocean waves, and in his mind's eye: red soaking wet, a canvas of bloody sanguine and the storm of rage, in this moment only some contemptuous patron of fire, death, its turbulent sea. An artist's touch. He does not care for the softness of coquetry, the sensual lies of cherubic swooning and girlish wanton. No, in this stunning moment she is predatory and entirely woman, and he revels in the grim promise flashing in her eyes.

C'mere big boy, she snarls but he is already leaning into the swing of her arm, catching her curling claws as they snag the swell of his shoulder. It is laughter again that fills the cold air as he obliges her pull - and then the pull of the water as he rolls into it, then into her, bathing in the icy chill of the tide and the warmth of her body. The bitterness of the sea fills his mouth and he dreams of the taste of iron and meat instead, the salt of sweat and vigor, and imagines - were she carved open, would she taste of gardenia and lavender, of softness, of moonlight treading through a midnight forest? Would she taste of furious oceans thrust against black granite, a tempest, ancient bloody altars owed to a goddess of chaos?

He drags himself from the tow of the tide pool and moves to grab her with both his arms, to tug her into his muscular embrace, to wrestle her back into the shallows of wet black sands and rolling froth. His jaws are eager to clasp at her scruff - not to maim or to kill, but perhaps, perchance: to pinch ever slightly, a small taste to savor. A single drop of blood, maybe; a cutlet, an iota of rushing ichor from that golden vein of fury.

Such is the carnal prayer of a heathen.

@Esmerée

+5 Wrestle with another character for fun or sport

CRASH, CRASH, BURN, LET IT ALL BURN, THIS HURRICANE'S CHASING US ALL UNDERGROUND
Esmerée coils like a serpent, her curves writhing against his frame, her fangs violently bared and seeking for the promise of his flesh. Enraged, Esmerée seeks to flay the man alive, to hook her claws into his burly shoulder and throw him into the ocean; but instead of getting the desired outcome, she now finds herself beneath him as he attempts to scruff her (and succeeds). His bite is not painful however, a tickle of fangs against the fur of her neck, persuading her to stiffle the laughter from her throat. No, she will not laugh. She will not humor him!  His own laughter is deep and husky, murderous and taunting, further aggravating her with its sadistic glee, but Esmerée is not phased by his snarky, capricious arrogance.  Let the cruel bastard laugh! She'd rip out his tongue!

"Get off me!" Growls bubble deep within her silken throat, taunting, dangerous, all feline and impossibly female; her fangs clicking together in their own sadistic warning.  For awhile she stills, calming down a little if only because of the shivering ice-water that laps hungrily at her breast, allowing his warmth to be some kind of comfort. "The water is cold,"  She mutters under breath, feeling the ocean heaving against her, her fur damp and clinging, all salty, all wet. She feels his own breath fanning against her neck and she leans into its hot warmth, involuntarily. 

@Gauthier