Sometimes There Is Honor In Revenge
Along the cinnamon mistress vertebrae there lies a voluptuous hip, rolling with each step she took over the hills and unes, a lethal tango wrapped in sensuality. Each curve and indent brimmed with femininity that stems so far as the feathered plummage, dancing as the ember flames of hell would. Unrivaled was her beauty yet all the while, masked in an air of mystery. Her dove-like mask deceptive of the turmoils within and her liquid finesse a farce to the wounds engraved soul-deep. She was still recovering from the battle with her own creatore yet fiery orange lenses fell upon an obsidian figude in the distance; the beast was not hard to distinguish upon the pale sand, specially with the golden engraved markings be possessed. The Mortuary Godess descended upon the swelling pools of water below the hills, her presence was a vengeful asphyxiation, a building acclimation of passionate execution that one could feel. There was no love left to her but that of her family, no guilt in the filthy desecration driven by her innermost desires. Abandoned by all conscience, there remains only passion, hatred, and an unfathomable affinity for revenge over her elders. The cinnamon mistress lessened her pace, opticss roaming over the male figure, absorbing everything she could before she came to a halt at a mere six tail distance of him. Her tail curled high upon her slender, feline spine, radiating dominance and elegance over those that she encountered. I did not expect to encounter another. her sultry purrs resonated from ebon, succulent lips. These terrains are not appreciated by the inhabitants of Boreas. she offered with a roll of her voluptous hips as she came to sit on her haunches. Bring her front tea-cup paws together to her side, straightening her posture as her shoulder blades rolled backwards in order to fluff the fur surrounding her neck and nape. (just like the image above of her table) |
