Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
DARLING, I MYSELF AM A LIE!
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
( Poison dipped in sugar, I lay in disguise. Bite into me, for your throat will be met with my smothering venom. Death by asphyxiate. )
SHE COULD TASTE THE acrid tang of metallic running down her nose, blood meeting chapped lips: a reminder of plaguing mortality. Though with the way she moved ( elegant, proficient, entirely fey ), one could only assume she held a gift. Not the type a little girl receives as a present — a dainty ballerina box, or a pair of blushed shoes. No, something generational, passed down from soul to soul, an elite skill only the supernatural could possess, and only the average could witness.
Wand outstretched, she didn't tremble, moving through the white room with wits. Circe knew this area like the back of her hand, infact she could likely trace it to finer detail, for she had spent countless moments in here, and whilst the bruises were gone from both her skin and the walls, she could still feel them. They were everywhere, like minuscule beetles burrowing through a victims flesh, sucking away at the meat on their bones, they could only drain someone into total submission.
Circe didn't cave, instead she welcomed the feeling. For if you can't destroy your enemies, it's better to make friends with them.
That mantra would come back to bite her.
"Stabit!" a large man, pouncing from behind the corner, yelled hoarsely. From his raucous voice, scratched like a broken vinyl, the Einar could assume he was one of the last subjects standing — vocal cords ready to keel with exhaustion.
What a shame, she thought, blocking the spell without a flinch. How very, very sad. Strands of dark hair stuck to the sides of her profile, clinging to the layer of flesh her face held. They'd been in there for five hours, and under constant attack, she'd found herself breathless. Nothing she couldn't handle. There was nothing out there she couldn't handle. "Nunc moriatur." she responded; abruptly, letting it spill from her lips like lethal poison.
