Author Topic: A Death Artist  (Read 646 times)

Iridni Ren

  • L'injustice à la fin produit l'indépendance.
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A Death Artist
« on: November 05, 2019, 09:15:07 PM »

In her slender hand, the rapier created art, its exhilirating stroke across the smooth, white skin of her foe imitating the skilled drawing of a bow across a violin's strings: the screams that accompanied her deft motion, the most expressive of singing. Now her grunts of pleasure joined her victims' moans in a macabre duet.

How she enjoyed penning note after note on sheet after sheet of human skin in a symphony of blood!

Even so, when her stylish boots were covered to their ankles in crimson, when her exertions had reached their crescendo and subsided into deathly calm, Daethyra felt hollow, frustrated, and unfulfilled. Her instrument was the weak vessel of womanhood, and her tribe was known for its frail health. Though her kind were nevertheless long-lived, she knew that in time her skill would grow decrepit and fail her. Just as her physical beauty would fade like the flowers of last spring, her talent and mastery would fall away, no matter her practice and how great her devotion to her craft.

Although she might defeat every mortal enemy, age would defeat her. If only...if only, she ached. I would give my soul to slow the grinding of time's merciless mill. Everything...to not diminish until a better warrior best me.

Who can say how many times the beautiful but murderous maiden gave voice to this unholy lament? At last, however, something dark and evil heard her prayer.



« Last Edit: November 05, 2019, 09:25:09 PM by Iridni Ren »

My windows cracked, but they can be replaced.
Your arm will tire throwing stones my way.