Foot of The Cross

A coy simper would finally make its way onto the face of the man and he would stare at she with the voraciousness of a thousand armies at war. The vivid imagery to see blood stain her, to the wanton desire to bother her with his violent eroticism. He would show her destruction, "I do not judge you for your presence. I judge you for what came before," the serpent mumbled eyes falling down slowly, tail twisting in anticipation and eagerness. For the first time, in so long, he felt bent to do something. Felt compelled to look at the bigger picture, for it actually mattered in the single moment, "Whores don't do well under pressure," she was like whiskey in his veins, powerful, dreadfully intoxicating.

Oh, but he would be informed of his falsities and failure before her. A Queen? Such a provocative leader though? How would that settle well? "So it is not the sultry and carnality of a modern prostitute you thrive on, but that of a power whore? Ma reine, you seek to purge this world of it's impurities?" he had his own goals. The weak did not deserve to live, and he only dreamed of breaking them down, of tearing their kingdoms apart and ravaging their bones in the most hazardous of ways. He was making his bed, and once made, he would slumber like an anesthetic had been pumped into his blood.

Did she deserve to be a Queen? Namely his? Time would tell and he would hunt, ravage, and prepare the ways for himself to lead, to become a self made warlord and tyrant. It was time and it was coming quickly.