11-10-2018, 07:31 PM
[div style="width: 200px; overflow: auto; width: overflow: auto; font-family: timesnewroman; text-align: justify; max-height: 400px; "]the tongue of another language, though foreign, cannot be ignored or mistaken even as it's intricacies sit weaved upon a familiar tongue. a language fresher than the litanies her own brutish, warbling chirps.
miniscule is mother's wrath. so rarely, has it been seen-- at least, to exodus, who has only ever known the eldritch being's tender, all enveloping love. a love that is velvety silk, something soft and comforting to the touch, and as precious as gold, if not more so, and timeless.
exodus has never seen lucifer like this. with a fury scalding and yet not. teased between pallid, wan ice that can burn to the touch.
exodus is terribly intimate with wrath and it's shades of ugly, rotten red. it runs deeper than she cares for. she knows it well like the curdling fire in her heart that churns and bubbles. a furious, furious dancing rage that chokes and builds, climbing up the throat with wicked claws. claws sharp enough to sting.
exodus was not there for the fire. she was not there, but she had smelt it. smelt it's lingering, choking ash that clung to her tongue. heavy and distasteful like a bad taste one could not get rid of. The dust had rested, it had settled, and made a home in her keen senses, coating her nostrils, sharp like winterfrost and thick like honey but nowhere as sweet.
but she does not know that the creatures behind the flame are the reason for mother's ire.
mother's wrath is cold. painted in frigid slates of black and unfeeling ice blue consumed by a bottomless depth. not a vicious hue of red and bold, brazen crimson like exodus's own rage. a rage that glows like the sun, aflame with passion.
she and her mother are tied. tied with the finest strings of fate and duty. for exodus, it is an insurmountable bound. luciferus validates her. the deity is the teacher and protector, and exodus knows well how to take after the likeness of her guardian. after all, mother has been so good and kept her so far. instinct tells her what is good for mother, is good for exodus. what is bad for mother, is bad for exodus.
when mother is upset, she is upset as well.
it is simple as that.
and the knowledge that something could get invoke the furious vexation of her mother?
it is more than enough to incite exodus's curiosity and superficial displeasure.
the rhythm of a war drum is an old tune that her body knows instinctually well, and it is a tune that lucifer's heart beats. a symphony that promises death.
exodus knows this. she knows this orchestra, because she has leaned in close to mother, to that wide, dark chest, and has aided comfort in the form of herself.
the raptor rubs against the towering beast, instilling her scent onto mother with her cloak of flesh and feathers, and in turn soaking in the incalescent bloodshed beating right just underneath the intricate boundaries of lucifer's skin. it is a border-- a dam holding bursting, overflowing power and lethality. she feeds off of it, absorbs it's oozing toxicity like she is a sponge herself.
she feeds off of it, glowing in return, and comes away basked with fiendish monstrosity that breathes curiously along her spine in anticipation. her eyes, bright like hellfire, and glowing like insatiable embers, beg for a fight. for trouble.
"what has you upset mother?" her croon is winsome. "tell me, so i may destroy it," and she would do it with glee.
mother did not deserve to expend his glorious energy on things beneath hin, after all. but the promise of retribution to whoever inspired the ebony mother's wrath is thick and it excites her primal, beating heart.
[align=right][glow=black,2,300]You got to see the artistry
In tearing the place apart with me, baby ★[/glow]
miniscule is mother's wrath. so rarely, has it been seen-- at least, to exodus, who has only ever known the eldritch being's tender, all enveloping love. a love that is velvety silk, something soft and comforting to the touch, and as precious as gold, if not more so, and timeless.
exodus has never seen lucifer like this. with a fury scalding and yet not. teased between pallid, wan ice that can burn to the touch.
exodus is terribly intimate with wrath and it's shades of ugly, rotten red. it runs deeper than she cares for. she knows it well like the curdling fire in her heart that churns and bubbles. a furious, furious dancing rage that chokes and builds, climbing up the throat with wicked claws. claws sharp enough to sting.
exodus was not there for the fire. she was not there, but she had smelt it. smelt it's lingering, choking ash that clung to her tongue. heavy and distasteful like a bad taste one could not get rid of. The dust had rested, it had settled, and made a home in her keen senses, coating her nostrils, sharp like winterfrost and thick like honey but nowhere as sweet.
but she does not know that the creatures behind the flame are the reason for mother's ire.
mother's wrath is cold. painted in frigid slates of black and unfeeling ice blue consumed by a bottomless depth. not a vicious hue of red and bold, brazen crimson like exodus's own rage. a rage that glows like the sun, aflame with passion.
she and her mother are tied. tied with the finest strings of fate and duty. for exodus, it is an insurmountable bound. luciferus validates her. the deity is the teacher and protector, and exodus knows well how to take after the likeness of her guardian. after all, mother has been so good and kept her so far. instinct tells her what is good for mother, is good for exodus. what is bad for mother, is bad for exodus.
when mother is upset, she is upset as well.
it is simple as that.
and the knowledge that something could get invoke the furious vexation of her mother?
it is more than enough to incite exodus's curiosity and superficial displeasure.
the rhythm of a war drum is an old tune that her body knows instinctually well, and it is a tune that lucifer's heart beats. a symphony that promises death.
exodus knows this. she knows this orchestra, because she has leaned in close to mother, to that wide, dark chest, and has aided comfort in the form of herself.
the raptor rubs against the towering beast, instilling her scent onto mother with her cloak of flesh and feathers, and in turn soaking in the incalescent bloodshed beating right just underneath the intricate boundaries of lucifer's skin. it is a border-- a dam holding bursting, overflowing power and lethality. she feeds off of it, absorbs it's oozing toxicity like she is a sponge herself.
she feeds off of it, glowing in return, and comes away basked with fiendish monstrosity that breathes curiously along her spine in anticipation. her eyes, bright like hellfire, and glowing like insatiable embers, beg for a fight. for trouble.
"what has you upset mother?" her croon is winsome. "tell me, so i may destroy it," and she would do it with glee.
mother did not deserve to expend his glorious energy on things beneath hin, after all. but the promise of retribution to whoever inspired the ebony mother's wrath is thick and it excites her primal, beating heart.
[align=right][glow=black,2,300]You got to see the artistry
In tearing the place apart with me, baby ★[/glow]
im like a bull in a china shop
knocking off a knock off .
"cause i got no culture of mine" — exodus — typhoon — feathered raptor — info