Post by Kesterel on Apr 15, 2008 12:43:02 GMT -5
Oh, that was a shame. He was dull, after all. Spouting the nonsense he had been taught as a parrot imitates its master. Indoctrination was a terrible thing; it destroyed potential, cut off choices, stifled that beautiful primal thing known as instinct. Religious indoctrination was worse. Why, this puny gnat of a creature actually thought he was better than she! Preferred in the eyes of his lord he may have been, but he was mortal. Weak.
She could spend her time corrupting him, of course, but in the end it would be all too easy. No, there were more interesting characters in this clearing for her to play with. Nevertheless, those probing talons continued to toy with Exvind's wrappings, subtle tug after subtle tug, curling the strands around her pale digits but slowly, delighting in the thought of undressing him totally. How long that must take! Piece by piece, ribbon by ribbon... she could do it for him, make him beg to hurry. His yelling at the boy did not rouse her ire in any fashion; the trance upon him was complete. It was always easier with the ones who came willingly to begin with, but there was something else with this one. She could taste something on him... familiar blood, perhaps.
Another sound, the scream of riven fabric, filled the air for the briefest of moments and then gently, fluttering like a dying moth, a single crimson binding shivered gracefully to the ground and landed, a ragged strip of flesh torn to pieces by long fingered hands. The shimmering face of the Nephilim curved elegantly into a knowing glance, feline and alien, more wondrous to behold than all the muses of the poets combined. Still, she did not repeat the action – there were noises at her back; the girl was attempting to escape. Tilting her golden head to one side, the sheet of her hair reflecting the poor forest light more efficiently than a mirror, and with far more flair, she closed her eyes and listened, a sleeping beauty, a slumbering huntress; all was – for a moment – quiescent repose.
But this was merely the calm before an inevitable storm. Her eyes opened, translucent gems in a face of starlight, but this was the last movement which could be accurately described, for she moved as fire, leaping and quivering and devouring. The man in red was inexplicably thrown backward, the lose ribbons at his head streaming out in his wake, rivulets of blood in the air, and the solar flare that Kesterel had become blazed a road, faster than the eye could trace, until she was directly in the path of the slow moving girl. Once there, she resumed her usual form, arms folded across her gently rising and falling breast, a slightly reproving expression upon her radiant features.
“I asked you to stay,” she said simply, almost as if she were offended by the girl’s attempt to save herself; yet this creature felt no such thing. True human emotion had been burned from her, scorched and warped by the searing sun within her; she could not know joy, or fear, she could only approximate it, yet still she smiled, a beacon of light in the gloaming wood. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear.” Quick as a striking snake she knocked the makeshift crutch from beneath the girl’s arm but before she could fall the Nephilim once again seized her by the throat, dragging her back to her feet without effort. Eyes narrowed a little, thoughtful, assessing.
“You want the lycans to come, child?” she stated gently, for it was not a question which required an answer. “You know what lures them?” A slight pause, daring the girl to answer and knowing that she could not. “They are beasts, really,” she continued, her voice little more than a purr. “They like the simple things – the simplest things. Food. Sleep. Sex. I don’t think I need to tell you which you represent, hmm?” Each and every syllable was spoken with the utmost civility, her powerful voice, so reminiscent of glimmering fjords and ice fields, almost enough to hide the deadliness of her words. Almost. Another smile, and the girl was lowered briefly as the Nephilim bent to scoop some likely looking branches from the floor, snapping them underfoot – beautiful bare foot – until a they were a good size. She was then spun so that her back was to a pair of trees, the rough trunks of which were barely half a metre apart. Her left arm was raised first, delicate wrist held firmly against the living wood, coarse and chafing, and with disturbing precision one branch – around half an inch in diameter – was forced into the small space between four of the carpals and subsequently into the tree behind, holding the entire arm fast. With all the detached artistry of a joiner assembling a fine table Kesterel proceeded to lift the right arm and repeated the process with deft, bloodless elegance. This done, she stood back to admire her work. The girl would be fine – her feet were off the floor but there were plenty of nooks upon the trees if she was desperate for a standing place. It was also a fitting show for the man in red; his faith used this as its symbol; an instrument of death so revered that people forgot the brutality of truth.
“You are now ready to receive those you seek,” she purred to the prone girl, pacing back and forth before her, muscles rippling beneath her perfect skin. “They just need the lure of scent; lycanthropes do prefer the internal organs, after all. Now... a flint should suffice...”
She could spend her time corrupting him, of course, but in the end it would be all too easy. No, there were more interesting characters in this clearing for her to play with. Nevertheless, those probing talons continued to toy with Exvind's wrappings, subtle tug after subtle tug, curling the strands around her pale digits but slowly, delighting in the thought of undressing him totally. How long that must take! Piece by piece, ribbon by ribbon... she could do it for him, make him beg to hurry. His yelling at the boy did not rouse her ire in any fashion; the trance upon him was complete. It was always easier with the ones who came willingly to begin with, but there was something else with this one. She could taste something on him... familiar blood, perhaps.
Another sound, the scream of riven fabric, filled the air for the briefest of moments and then gently, fluttering like a dying moth, a single crimson binding shivered gracefully to the ground and landed, a ragged strip of flesh torn to pieces by long fingered hands. The shimmering face of the Nephilim curved elegantly into a knowing glance, feline and alien, more wondrous to behold than all the muses of the poets combined. Still, she did not repeat the action – there were noises at her back; the girl was attempting to escape. Tilting her golden head to one side, the sheet of her hair reflecting the poor forest light more efficiently than a mirror, and with far more flair, she closed her eyes and listened, a sleeping beauty, a slumbering huntress; all was – for a moment – quiescent repose.
But this was merely the calm before an inevitable storm. Her eyes opened, translucent gems in a face of starlight, but this was the last movement which could be accurately described, for she moved as fire, leaping and quivering and devouring. The man in red was inexplicably thrown backward, the lose ribbons at his head streaming out in his wake, rivulets of blood in the air, and the solar flare that Kesterel had become blazed a road, faster than the eye could trace, until she was directly in the path of the slow moving girl. Once there, she resumed her usual form, arms folded across her gently rising and falling breast, a slightly reproving expression upon her radiant features.
“I asked you to stay,” she said simply, almost as if she were offended by the girl’s attempt to save herself; yet this creature felt no such thing. True human emotion had been burned from her, scorched and warped by the searing sun within her; she could not know joy, or fear, she could only approximate it, yet still she smiled, a beacon of light in the gloaming wood. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear.” Quick as a striking snake she knocked the makeshift crutch from beneath the girl’s arm but before she could fall the Nephilim once again seized her by the throat, dragging her back to her feet without effort. Eyes narrowed a little, thoughtful, assessing.
“You want the lycans to come, child?” she stated gently, for it was not a question which required an answer. “You know what lures them?” A slight pause, daring the girl to answer and knowing that she could not. “They are beasts, really,” she continued, her voice little more than a purr. “They like the simple things – the simplest things. Food. Sleep. Sex. I don’t think I need to tell you which you represent, hmm?” Each and every syllable was spoken with the utmost civility, her powerful voice, so reminiscent of glimmering fjords and ice fields, almost enough to hide the deadliness of her words. Almost. Another smile, and the girl was lowered briefly as the Nephilim bent to scoop some likely looking branches from the floor, snapping them underfoot – beautiful bare foot – until a they were a good size. She was then spun so that her back was to a pair of trees, the rough trunks of which were barely half a metre apart. Her left arm was raised first, delicate wrist held firmly against the living wood, coarse and chafing, and with disturbing precision one branch – around half an inch in diameter – was forced into the small space between four of the carpals and subsequently into the tree behind, holding the entire arm fast. With all the detached artistry of a joiner assembling a fine table Kesterel proceeded to lift the right arm and repeated the process with deft, bloodless elegance. This done, she stood back to admire her work. The girl would be fine – her feet were off the floor but there were plenty of nooks upon the trees if she was desperate for a standing place. It was also a fitting show for the man in red; his faith used this as its symbol; an instrument of death so revered that people forgot the brutality of truth.
“You are now ready to receive those you seek,” she purred to the prone girl, pacing back and forth before her, muscles rippling beneath her perfect skin. “They just need the lure of scent; lycanthropes do prefer the internal organs, after all. Now... a flint should suffice...”