ABSENT PILLOW TALK
09-22-2013, 09:47 AM
Time was a cruel, sickened beast - something that the behemoth of a man usually had the taste for. However, it was not to be in this particular instance. A split from the lands that had previously been considered a home - had been considered his - and a loss of the white angel had only served to cause some type of mental break within. Never the most stable of beings, a bastard addled with blood lust and chaotic desires, Morte had indeed only grown more mercurial as time had ebbed and flowed and left him to waste away, to recede into the twisted caverns of his mind. The sweet siren?s song of his angel had never departed, plaguing him day in and day out. The gentle perfume coasted gently on the breeze as he followed, yet never close enough to find her, never close enough to taste her. Yet, as he had learned as a mere whelp, his persistence was often met with reward sooner or later. With exact precision the behemoth moved, strained muscles quivering beneath that obsidian pelage as he navigated oh so carefully across the snow laden ground.
Ebonite nostrils flared and quivered as the icy air entered and exited, breathe rising up in misty tendrils. Cruel, crimson eyes scanned the area meticulously. She was here, he could feel her, could nearly taste her perfume dancing upon the frigid air. A sort of pain tore through his chest and burrowed its way into his bones - an aching desire to see his angel once more. Oh, how he had missed her so. Yet, it was not in the way a man misses his lover. No, it was in the way a hostage misses his prisoner. From that first encounter, she had become just that to him just as he had become a prisoner for her. As Morte moved, large mitts sinking into the powdery substance, the gentle whispers of a fractured psyche echoed around him, a sound only he could hear. Rumbling deep in his chest, the booming growl of irritation sounded and were the earth able, it would have shaken with fear and retreated to a safer arena. However, it was the earth he inhabited and so long as he stalked the grounds of it, it would never truly be safe.
Midst the velvety darkness of a moonless night he crept, the only signal of his existence those shining evil eyes and the white mask. Morte was a phantom, a being of illusions and nightmares. The type of thing that pervaded the dreams of children and adults alike and turned them into something putrid and terrifying. Stalking, closer he drew, the smell of the woman drawing him on. He was a true nightmare, he was her nightmare. Morte never wondered if she would remember him or think him a figment of her imagination. He knew that Caede would not forget his name, his face - he was forever to be ingrained in her mind. Poisoned her he had, forever tainted her and the thought of such brought a sick simper to twist his already twisted lips. Silently, he glided. The tantalizing scent grew stronger with each motion, and he knew he was close. Confirmation was soon provided as hardened eyes caught the motion of the babe, that pallid form almost unnoticeable amongst the pure grains of show that littered the earthen floor. Supple movements awoke something deep within the pit of the beast and that entire, monstrous frame shuddered with perverse delight.
From a safe distance, the devil watched the angel seek refuge in a darkened cavern. Position would not allow her to see with a simple scan. No, she would have to look with extreme care if she wished to see him and since the woman was unaware of his presence, she would have no need to do such a thing. Kissers pulled back, revealing pearly weaponry before jaws unhinged, strings of saliva connecting top and bottom as a chilling, disturbed and resonating laugh bellowed forth from him. It was an eerie sound, something from the pits of hell surely and it filled the silent air, riding upon it to the perfect ears of the babe. Taking a step back, he removed himself from total sight and crept forth, crown hung low as malicious intent filled his eyes. Nares flared to draw in the precious perfume of his angel until he was certain he was precisely center to where she was. Forward he stepped, careful to maintain the perfect distance, just far enough away to lure her into thinking he was a trick of the fragile mind. Morte stood, stoic as though he were carved from stone, reddened eyes blazing in the darkness. The vision of him remained blurred by the flurry of falling snow, only serving to create a more haunting apparition out of him.
Moments of silence passed as he watched her, the hunger welling within until his jaws unhinged once more. Deep baritones sounded, worming their way into the frigid air and carrying to the angel he had sought for for so long. The sound of the word as it reached her was eerie, terrifying and real - at least for Morte. The nomenclature had rolled sweetly from his lips, a murmur of unbridled desire, one that would certainly strike the woman?s heart and send a chill of recognition and fear down that perfect spine, through the gossamer body. It was just one word, and it was all he needed to remind her that she could not escape him, ?Caede.?
"speech!"
Ebonite nostrils flared and quivered as the icy air entered and exited, breathe rising up in misty tendrils. Cruel, crimson eyes scanned the area meticulously. She was here, he could feel her, could nearly taste her perfume dancing upon the frigid air. A sort of pain tore through his chest and burrowed its way into his bones - an aching desire to see his angel once more. Oh, how he had missed her so. Yet, it was not in the way a man misses his lover. No, it was in the way a hostage misses his prisoner. From that first encounter, she had become just that to him just as he had become a prisoner for her. As Morte moved, large mitts sinking into the powdery substance, the gentle whispers of a fractured psyche echoed around him, a sound only he could hear. Rumbling deep in his chest, the booming growl of irritation sounded and were the earth able, it would have shaken with fear and retreated to a safer arena. However, it was the earth he inhabited and so long as he stalked the grounds of it, it would never truly be safe.
Midst the velvety darkness of a moonless night he crept, the only signal of his existence those shining evil eyes and the white mask. Morte was a phantom, a being of illusions and nightmares. The type of thing that pervaded the dreams of children and adults alike and turned them into something putrid and terrifying. Stalking, closer he drew, the smell of the woman drawing him on. He was a true nightmare, he was her nightmare. Morte never wondered if she would remember him or think him a figment of her imagination. He knew that Caede would not forget his name, his face - he was forever to be ingrained in her mind. Poisoned her he had, forever tainted her and the thought of such brought a sick simper to twist his already twisted lips. Silently, he glided. The tantalizing scent grew stronger with each motion, and he knew he was close. Confirmation was soon provided as hardened eyes caught the motion of the babe, that pallid form almost unnoticeable amongst the pure grains of show that littered the earthen floor. Supple movements awoke something deep within the pit of the beast and that entire, monstrous frame shuddered with perverse delight.
From a safe distance, the devil watched the angel seek refuge in a darkened cavern. Position would not allow her to see with a simple scan. No, she would have to look with extreme care if she wished to see him and since the woman was unaware of his presence, she would have no need to do such a thing. Kissers pulled back, revealing pearly weaponry before jaws unhinged, strings of saliva connecting top and bottom as a chilling, disturbed and resonating laugh bellowed forth from him. It was an eerie sound, something from the pits of hell surely and it filled the silent air, riding upon it to the perfect ears of the babe. Taking a step back, he removed himself from total sight and crept forth, crown hung low as malicious intent filled his eyes. Nares flared to draw in the precious perfume of his angel until he was certain he was precisely center to where she was. Forward he stepped, careful to maintain the perfect distance, just far enough away to lure her into thinking he was a trick of the fragile mind. Morte stood, stoic as though he were carved from stone, reddened eyes blazing in the darkness. The vision of him remained blurred by the flurry of falling snow, only serving to create a more haunting apparition out of him.
Moments of silence passed as he watched her, the hunger welling within until his jaws unhinged once more. Deep baritones sounded, worming their way into the frigid air and carrying to the angel he had sought for for so long. The sound of the word as it reached her was eerie, terrifying and real - at least for Morte. The nomenclature had rolled sweetly from his lips, a murmur of unbridled desire, one that would certainly strike the woman?s heart and send a chill of recognition and fear down that perfect spine, through the gossamer body. It was just one word, and it was all he needed to remind her that she could not escape him, ?Caede.?
"speech!"
table copyright argent 2013