Double, Double Toil And Trouble
02-09-2019, 09:34 PM
Disheveled tendrils curl against her smoooth nape; a slender neckline, shadowed by obsidian boas. Her hair, were matted silk; glossy, luxurious curls, layered in their heavy and feathered decadence. The spider-witch unruled pelt, drapped the slenderness of her toned shoulderblades; creeping sinsiterly, the stars being her only witnesses. Her slender bodice oozed with a deliciously, feral grace. Svelte, and shuddering with the renewed groans of hunger. She wanted it, wanted blood. In the half-light of midnight the swamps were eerie. It wasn't just that it was night and mist and fog that could not be cut with a knife if one tried; the air simply didn't move. The land was bereft of noise, as if every murmur and rustle was stolen away in the night. The sky was empty, not just of birds, but of clouds also. There was no weather at all; even the moonlight felt cold. The stillness of the air seemed to suck even the sound of her massive pads into the nothingness of the graveyard. Her lips curve in yearning; her gaze, reflecting the coldness of moonlight as the predatorix stalks for her next meal. She needed blood, she was a walking skeleton at best. The spider-witch was about to take a left when from the distance came a series of tinny clangs. It was like the sound of an old can bouncing down the road after a wedding car, but without the engine rumbling or the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. It grew louder, then softer, then louder again. At first it appeared to come from in front, then from behind, then from the front.. In only moments the noise was coming from every direction, getting closer, then further, louder, then softer, then more frantic... Sso clossse. Her eyes were soft, and dark yet her voice was anything but. Gliacial, ice cold with heavy tints of malica, her timbre was more of a hissing snake than wolf and she creeped through the night. I can ssmell it. They are here, Where are they? she snapped her skull to her right. Here. Here. Here. she snapped it to the left. A glacial chill, against the stark beauty of her face. The black eyelashes unfurling over wintry azure. It was the witching hout, when ghosts and ghouls came out to play. Her expression were shadowed by a cheshire smile, ear to ear, all fangs and gums, yet her demeanour remained, cold, apathetic as she started to creep forward again. One, two, I am coming for you. You will never sleep again.
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Heed, and listen closely. |
