Bells & Burial

As if cinnabar, salmon and coral breaths bedevilled what clouds lay above, its binds of leaden, feverish underglows bred an ecstasy like no other; it burned and balled in the pits of the graveyard’s stomach, almost acerbic in taste as she inhaled deeply.

It correlated a grimace, belied and grisly.

Was this a rendition of purgatory, perhaps, or an abstract countenance of what helhiem could be? Be it may, something felt execrably real about this felicitously barren, pinnacled landscape. Eyes of an undead, monochromous nebula slaughtered against every cut and chink, vaguely noticing olden tales carved at the plinth of a spire — they seemed, well, weathered — albeit the foreign suggestions that slaved from them seemingly promised alarum. It was quite a story, that’s for sure. However, temptuous gazes soon fell upon that of another; a tintless, palish canid, ordained by maya-blue, orchid and heliotrope tones. In antecedent times, the gods plighted her with goliath forms, yet here, she was but a mere corporal, an ordinary wolf. Did it matter, though? Their approach constituted bellicosity, predation, a profile in which Lebraid was quick to replicate, despite their polarity in size. She was volatile at best, wetted canines parting as drivel spooled over soot-black lips, hackles brutishly aflare like fuel vermined wildfires.

She’d made her odium quite clear, “That depends--” Low, grungy words spat in response, “-- Tell me where I am.” It wasn’t so much an insistence as it was a necessity, yet expressions did not dither, did not impugn, showing little to no patency of what she may do.

Denuded, emotionless, druid.

Action. | “Speech.” | Skill.
“Wrong me once, I’ll kill you twice.”