Be It May, Be It Not

Not an ounce of sentiment, fear, could negate the graveyard’s vocations; the sun was harsh, baking the coppery earth in a whisk of tawny tenne, golden flasks and blonde sienna. Heavy steps dared to perforate porous rock, but was soon cordoned by a dire –– tousled jacket bristled like wildfire as if to impose a demoniac demeanour, stony and absolute. A robe of ink and sleet, tintless eyes pulled taut beneath the broiling beams. Then end, they ask? My, if it weren’t for the man’s forthright behest and intents to block her fucking path, she may’ve sought otherwise on what she was about to do next. Lebraid’s skin tingled with a woeful, unpredictable intensity, bludgeoned by that stark, impassive profile as she dared to gore their very soul with a hardened glare.

There was no dismay, no angst, no feeling.

Here, reeking from the hellion’s breath, a foul of slaver strung like goo from those wet, velvety lips, head lumbering low in a most devious practice as it crooked to ogle him. “I could ask you the same thing,” It billowed in stannic tones, “Move.” She wouldn’t ask again, and if they decided otherwise, Lebraid had no problem showing them. Churlish, throaty growls ricocheted with pallid intention, muscles tense as the gyves of volatility grew spent. Would they abide?

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