A kingdom of blood and past [amenti/tor/newwolves]

Beauty was a fleeting things, something that was not contained, and something that the king had come to play little demand to. His nose would wrinkle, his skin would crawl, and powerful muscles would lurch forward in defiance when they should have been stilled. The wrinkled proboscis of the man would be the first to careen over the liquored green hills, and his dominance raised tail would be the last to follow. Green eyes devoured, deliciously, the landscape as it deteriorated, as it became more and more infested with lifelessness and broken divinity. The mountains, the winding hills, they belonged to a new monarchess, and how he came forth to meet her.

Acid. Acid. Acid. She breathed vehemence and he curled his lips into a wicked smile as he neared the isabelline woman, Morphine. His head moving to touch her back haunch, curling over her minuscule physique, daring to touch her poisonous existence, "You're a pretty little spitfire," his words were cloaked in lightning and complete emotionless guise encumbered him, "But listening to the new maman may be best," the curl of his sneer was without flaw, the danger that he surmised was beautiful, and it was with couth control that he turned his virulent gaze onto her; Newt, "Ma ch?re, might I be of service?"