A game of cat and mouse

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? weary. this world is wrought by an insipid { and seemingly perpetual } decay, its premises festering with the placid, the apprehensive, and the mundane. yet even the monotony of her surroundings does not quite quell the vehement passion for chaos lurking beneath her calmed exterior -- it only brews, blossoms as her impatience swells. perhaps it is the calm before the storm, the fleeting moment before ultimate obliteration { and the carnage queen can only hope }; though her doubt is present and fervent. regardless of the dull circumstances, it is still her world -- whether it rots in the predictability of peace or thrives within the decadent chasms of sheer PANDEMONIUM -- and with or without her golden throne and prestigious titles to boot.



she has been lethargic, restrained by the shackles of her own boredom as she obsessively haunts the confines of her domain in pursuit of any who dared yet invade without the consent of her carmine beauty. the metaphorical crown she had twice seized still halos her temples, yet it is purposely set awry -- crookedly placed atop the slopes of her skull for she had intentionally discarded her tyrannical authority in favor of independence. though her prominence is evident in the immaculacy of her carriage and the irrefutable power of her gait -- she is still the white witch, the pale tyrant queen! and her malevolent presence will not be ridded from this land with such ease. she has bled for the forest and she will retain it as its justified sovereign, and not even fiamette can deny her this right.



but it is SHE { lowly adversary! } who contrives such d i s a r r a y in her daily routine, and immediately the phantom deity is immersed in palpable intrigue and utter amusement as she responds to the summons with dutiful persistence. { for who would she be to deny the opportunity for mayhem? } it is the devious gleam to her mismatched gaze that regards the negligent silver wraith with obvious arrogance as she emerges from her misted crypt; and yet, her scarred countenance portrays none of the ramifications of her internal pleasure, contentedly apathetic as her pupils trail every inch of the coward, her gaze heavy with disdain. ?how fitting,? is the saccharine croon that cascades from the elysius? sinful jaws as she halts mere feet away from the apparent ?queen,? shoulders rolling back in their sockets nonchalantly in a physical display of her impassive mindset. ?you?ve another crown you haven?t bled for? the phantom states pointedly, surpassing the increasing urge to sneer. ?but your crown won't hide the fact that you are no queen.? the elysius is bold -- fearless -- and yet she is not wrong to assume of the woman?s repetitive negligence; if there was a challenge, she would have flocked to it to watch this woman c r u m b l e. alas, she had never been presented with such an alluring opportunity -- not yet.