Desreal: the savage

There is a feminine sort of beauty in the way she turns her head, soil and vines falling from her body in heaps of blackened and lifeless mess. The way the muscles tense ad relax when she moves—and yet savagery and ferocity linger within the mismatched eyes. ‘Mother,’ it speaks, the hypnotic voice curdled with vulgarity as it sighs, ‘I hunger, you hunger…’ deep beneath her skin it burns and digs, shaking and cutting flesh as she looks upon him with madness and some unknown grin. She chuckles in prelude to voice, considering her words before humming and speaking (her voice strangely carried with an involuntary rasp and an accent familiar only to Parisian ghettos); “Alcatraz,” she pauses, “Savage.” She smiles, her mismatched eyes glean and she situates herself by easing to left side, her tongue passes over her lips in an almost feline manner. “Nothing is ever silent, not even death,” she breathes, “and who gives a damn about the neighbors, let them wake up—“she chuckles maliciously narrowing her eyes and lazily taking a step forward. “Makes it easier for me to tell when they’ve stopped breathing.”

She contains herself to some extent, the storm grey mare’s body easing forward in a slovenly and lackadaisical manner, barely a thought given as she places her breast against his, the earth beneath her blackening and withering. Strange thorny vines crawl up her legs and pull against the flesh; mild shocks of his element suppressed by her own elemental prowess. She embraces him in a manner, stepping back and looking at him with those same reptilian eyes, hungry and devoid of anything. “It seems we have a problem,” her tongue clicks against her teeth, the shards hunger rolling across her it pangs of sheer burning and painful sensations, she shivers for a moment, glancing at him, “I want Solira to burn to the ground, and no on interested in setting it aflame.” She rolls her lip in between her teeth, shifting her weight and swaying her tail once, the furious earth beneath her is rotted and ancient plant life has begun to sprout.

At her side a small strange creature flitters and barks, it’s scaled and feathered flash flashing once as it’s bloodied jaws snap wildly. Ayela, the raptor, stands, her claws poised and ready—the Primordium breathes; toxins and spores invisible to him seeping from the earth around her form strange clouds. The scent of poppies and marshland hover in the air, she has unclear intentions, but her words are blunt. “Saphira must be destroyed, I don’t give a damn about that peaceable sea lover the Blithe, but Solira’s damned queen has lived long enough. Give me what I need Alcatraz and when she falls one of those shards is yours.” She realizes what she says, and the bizarre consequences, but alas, she hungers for blood… and she needs to be satiated.