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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 15, 2009 13:20:24 GMT -8
For a long moment, Ceara was worried Emlyn wouldn't asked the question. She saw him give her a confused look and just prayed that he would trust her....but then again, that wish made no sense. He wasn't sure if she was the real her or if she was the changeling. For all he knew, he could be about to trust the changeling. Still, she hoped he would do ask she asked. She wasn't sure if it would work, but she hoped, prayed that it would. If it didn't, this would go on forever. If the evil bitch could see all of her memories, then would was stopping her from convincing Emlyn that she was the real one and making him turn on her, the real Ceara. Still, she just had to hope that the lock she had around that memory was strong enough to keep the bitch out.
She sighed in relief as Emlyn asked the question, and instead just stared at the woman, at herself, trying to judge whether she knew the answer while trying hard to think of anything other than that one memory. She was actually surprised when the other woman hissed, pulled her arm out of Emlyn's grasp and asked why he would ask that. She just stared at her for a moment before a smile came to her lips. "You don't know, do you?" She said quietly, bright grin still in place. "Looks like that's one memory of mine you can't steal!" She said happily. She was about to turn to Emlyn and whisper the answer in his ear before realizing that the bitch might be able to read her mind then and see it. She would easily just be able to cover it up and say that of course she knew the answer. "Care to change out of me, now, please?" She asked, her voice turning hard. If Emlyn really didn't believe that she, herself, knew the answer she would whisper it to him, but she hoped by the other woman's lack of knowledge would convince him that she was the real one. She gave the arm that Emlyn still held a little tug, to see if he would release her, but didn't forcefully break his grip yet._________________________________________ Words: 395 Mood: Goood Notes: *cheers* =D xD [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 15, 2009 18:51:05 GMT -8
It was a long, tense moment in which neither of them responded to his question, and it made him worry that it was the changeling's trick, one of many. Yet again, he wondered if things would have been better if he hadn't showed up. He had come here to face his fears, only to have them realized before his eyes. He did, however, seem to have developed a knack to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Another thing he had realized what that he had happened to be saving Ceara's life quite a bit, and maybe that...maybe that was the reason why she felt that way, if she did feel that way at all, as Aithne had said.
His eyes widened in shock when the one he held in his left hand wrenched out of his grip and...hissed? So he didn't know very much about Ceara, but he was pretty dang sure she didn't hiss. And one thing he did know, was that if she was the real Ceara, even if she didn't want to answer it, she wouldn't pull away. She would say something like she didn't want to re-live it by telling him again, or maybe even break down. She wouldn't get mad at him, because he already knew. She had nothing to hide from him.
"I would ask that because Ceara knows the answer, which means you're not her, doesn't it?" he said with a voice of stone, looking forward hardly but then turning to face the one on his left, which he was now pretty d*** sure was the changeling...it was the one whose shoulder he had wrapped up. All that embarrassment for nothing! All those swimming thoughts without a reason! Now he was angry too. He had actually helped the person he had thought Ceara had been running from. That was how she had gotten injured, wasn't it? Ceara had gotten her but then she had run away and she recognized him from her stolen memories and had known he would help. It burned him from the inside out as the spark of fury that had been growing burst into flames. Even though he wasn't certain, he also was. Oh how she would wish that she had just walked past him.
He quickly let go out of the other, no, the Ceara's arm and turned so he was standing in front of her. If she was the changeling, she could kill him now, so he was really hoping she wasn't. "Sorry," he muttered, but it was all he could think to say to her for believing that someone else was her. He should've known the other was a fake from the beginning. How could he have fallen for such a simple trick like that? He had believed her because she was the one he had first come across and...Treasure had looked at her oddly. He should've known what that meant. Horses always knew better.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 27, 2009 14:02:58 GMT -8
And the hurt remained, d*** it all to fucking hell, it remained there in her chest, a burning ember that had burst into a spasm of guilt, of terror, of an abiding resentment for what was going on in front of her. So easy the script she had known, had always known, would always know -- speak like them, look like them, and the others saw what they wanted to see. It was so easy, so easy sometimes it was boring, this way in which she could slip into their skin, dip her fingers into the deep pool of their thoughts and bathe herself in it. She was herself, but f*** if it didn't feel good to be someone else, to be so sure about that self, to know the reason for that twitch, to be addicted to the flavor of their saliva on their tongue, the taste of their life so perfect on their senses. Her senses. Our senses. She would be one with them, if they would but let her, but there was an inherent darkness in her, a loneliness that isolated her as much as it forced her to shift, to fill the void in her heart, in her heart of stone, in her chasm of a broken, heart. She would be them, be that happy, know that happiness and love it if they would let her, but they wouldn't -- they never did. Always this hatred, this anger, this terrible, terrible disgust.
It was there on his face, that introverted way in which they judged themselves for falling for something so fake. But it wasn't! It wasn't and she wanted to scream it at them, to let them know it wasn't fake, that she was real, that she had been who they were at the basest level, at the level in which they would never descend because they were afraid of what they would see, afraid of what they would become. But she wasn't afraid. Oh no, oh no, this little girl wasn't afraid of anything, and even injured, even cornered, even ostracized from the very thing she had wanted so terribly to become she was not afraid.
She was hurt, heart fracturing off into splintered pieces, even as the darker, smug half of her wanted to know this feeling, to know this pain, and to horde it. This pain was right --- she deserved to be punished, to be shredded into pieces, to let her different selves fall to the floor and scatter around, and around, and around but she couldn't and instead she fell, fell, fell. She fell so hard she was almost knocked senseless by those words, those cruel, brutal words.
A smile parted Ceara's face, a glimpse of teeth and it was there the hatred latched itself onto, like a leech seeking the blood pulsing beneath the vivid white skin, she felt it uncoiling from her heart, reaching out, out, out to stroke, to ignite the fires of that passionate disgust, that horrendously hot emotion of hatred. She would hate this girl, would love her, too -- for the taste of her was still a fading memory on her lips. So she smiled instead, her own mischievous little smile, and kept on smiling as the waters of the change seem to lap at her body, to pull away. Smaller, smaller, so much smaller than the knight, so much shorter, so much more petite, fragile, younger -- slanted cat eyes, blazing orange eyes. A changeling! A changeling! --- Dahlia, black flower, black blood flower, lady death, the creature of blood, creature of lusts pouted though she felt anything but the emotion which transformed her face. Hurt burned her, transformed the black ice of her heart and made her more than what she had been before. Where was her pet, her beautiful Black Mamba? Hmm, hmm? But she had left him behind, had left him to curl among the shadows and wait for her, wait for her as no one else ever waited for her. That pretty little pout, that fragile little look though her eyes were blazing, though her hair fell around her face in vicious tangles. "This saddens me." A few steps forward, like dancing, like flowing water over stone and her grace was astonishing, like a cloud taken shape in her form. She smiled, and smiled, the pout falling away like rain, like a storm long gone, like sunshine breaking over the fresher waters.
"I didn't expect anything less from you, Emlyn." and she laughed, a trickling little laugh full of mischief and affection. A few steps more and she was borderline to be sliced in half, for that reach of their weapons was far but she had gauged it well, had known exactly where to stop, where to toe the line of death. Yes death, death, death, she wanted that mortality, to know it on her tongue --- it's why she changed, why she felt that mortality to simmer in her very veins. "I knew you'd figure it out!" and she grinned, winking at Ceara. "Your mind is very boring, you know. You might want to be more spontaneous."
------------- and though her shoulder ached from so much movement, she used it as if it weren't sliced open, as if it wouldn't fold under her weight,but she was a slither, a little waif of a woman, thin where others curved, fresh where others were provocative. Her type of allure was of a different set and she fell against the heat of her own freshness, her own personality and grinned as she flipped backward, ignoring the terrible, terrible sting of the wound opening, of the shoulder giving out, giving out --- but she swung her legs to the side, caught herself and grinned, bowing. "I'll be going now!" and that infectious laugh, that terrible, sinister laugh, so strange in such a childlike face. "It was so much fun talking to you all!"
word count;; 993 tags;; Em, Ceara OOC;; hai ^^
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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 27, 2009 15:40:16 GMT -8
Ceara took in a deep breath and held it in without even realizing it, turned her emerald gaze away from the woman who had stolen her form and turned her head to stare at Emlyn, trying to judge what he was thinking, fear running through her that for whatever the reason he wouldn't believe her, or that he'd think the other woman had just messed up and that that didn't mean she was the changling. She just stared at him, her eyes taking in his features, the soft curves of his face. She sighed in relief as Emlyn accused the changling of actually being what she was, a changling, and released her. She was a little thrown off by the way he stepped in front of her and frowned slightly before pushing it away and moving around him to stand beside him. If he took this as a sign that she was questioning him, or didn't think what he was doing was good enough for her...then it would just be too bad for her.
Of course, that wasn't what she was doing, not at all. She just had problems being protected, just as she had problems being in a position where she had to be saved. Emlyn had already had to save her a few times...most of them from minor things, not life-threatening things, but still. She had a small fear that he would think that she was weak, that she couldn't protect herself, and she wanted to prove that she could defend herself and that she wasn't defenseless. Se didn't want to rely on him to always be there for her, either. She didn't trust him enough to think he would always be there. Of course, she was well aware that he couldn't always be there with her whenever she needed him, she'd discovered that just a few nights ago when she had needed him- or at least someone, and he hadn't been there. That wasn't his fault. She couldn't rely on a person like that, if she did she'd just be let down. She knew that. Honestly, no amount of trust someone earned from her would be enough to change that way of thinking. She had to be able to save herself, because even if Emlyn was there now...he wouldn't always be there for her.
She mentally snarled at her thinking. Of course he won't always be there, moron, he doesn't love you! Get it through your thick head! she thought, shaking her head slightly before turning her gaze back on the woman, glaring angrily. She didn't move forward to attack the woman, not even as she changed back into her own form and stepped towards them, but she was burning to. She clenched her fists and glared at the woman, though ultimately she was relieved that the woman was no longer in her form. She also said nothing as Emlyn apologized to her, though she did smile at him. Sure, she'd felt a little betrayed at first, but she knew it wasn't his fault. The woman was almost an exact replica of her, with the same looks and memories. She was just glad that she'd been able to show that she woman wasn't her.
As the woman winked as her, her eyes narrowed in disgust, remembering the kiss, the way the woman's lips had felt against her own, even in that quick second. That memory was going to haunt her, wasn't it? She'd never forget it. She glared at the woman, and then reeled backwards as the woman said her mind was boring, her face twisting in a look of fury once again. Never before had she wanted someone to die so badly. She braced, raising her sword, and launched herself at the woman, rushing forward in what felt like a blur of movement, though she was certain that she wasn't that fast.
It wasn't even just because the woman had called her boring that made her want to kill her. She'd wanted to kill her for a little while now. She could have forgiven the woman for transforming into her at first, but the second she'd transformed into Emlyn and played with her mind the way she had...Ceara would never forgive her for that. She hated having her feelings exploited, and the woman had done just that, and had had the nerve to change back into herself before kissing her. Ceara wanted this woman's head on a stick. Or, at least her heart....maybe she'd just settle for killing the woman less gruesomely, but she definitely wanted this woman dead. She let out an angry half-scream as she flew at the woman, trying to close the large distance between them and stab her sword into the woman's chest before she could get away. If she managed to do this she'd thrust her sword forward towards the woman's chest._________________________________________ Words: 872 Mood: Still amazingly good Notes: Boy, she's ANGRY! =O xD [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 27, 2009 17:17:43 GMT -8
His eyes widened as her body changed before his eyes, rolling up and back and shrinking, becoming so much smaller than Ceara. He almost wished she had stayed in her stolen form, for it was just so sickening to see that body become something so entirely different and alien. His mind hurt and blinked his eyes slowly. It felt like iron balls were being dropped onto his head, it just wasn't fair that he had to watch it, like she was some messed up puppeteer who was just throwing Ceara away. even though he knew the real her was standing right beside him, a part of him just couldn't believe that she was being tossed aside in front of him.
His stomach rolled as she smiled, for it was like a poison that made his insides curl up and want to throw up, only he couldn't throw up a memory of such a twisted grin. Oh, but if he could he would erase it from his mind without a second thought. It was not sweet or soft or good-natured, it was a vile little turning of the corners of her lips, like she was amused on how the play that had emerged from her puppetry was turning out. And he was part of it. He was one of the actors that had showed up because it was his duty only to find that he was supposed to ab-lib the character of the leading man. Oh, and she loved it, didn't she? She just loved to feed on the confusion and emotions. What was he? The main course? Or was he just dessert? Well he refused to be the exquisite wine that would just fuel her sick needs and desires.
And when she spoke to him, he just had to close his eyes. It was such a nauseous feeling, to have been her plaything without even knowing it. So what if he was the lone wolf? He was still used to be the predator and that was that. Without even knowing it, he had done exactly what she had expected him to do. Was he really so predictable? Or had she crawled into his brain and had a good poke around, leaving a faint scent but no fingerprints? Was she just doing this to test her skills and see how much havoc she could reek in the process? It was disgusting the way she said it like a compliment. He wanted no part of her, and he especially didn't want her knowing anything about him. It was just plain dangerous to have someone he didn't trust under any circumstance waltzing around with those memories at her fingertips. She could do anything. She could even take on his form later and do...all sorts of things. What if she just wouldn't leave him and Ceara alone? What could he do? What could they do to ever trust anyone again?
"You're not going anywhere," said in a hard, cold voice, allowing his eyes to flash angrily for just a moment before they resumed a clear, icy glare. He swung his bow off his shoulder and had a long, black arrow fitted on it's wood in the space of five seconds. It was a practiced art that complimented his fast reflexes and coordination of his arms. He couldn't expect any less of him and if he had done it just a millisecond too slow, he would've had to punish himself for it later. It was aimed directly at the changeling, though where didn't matter. if he let it go and it killed her, he would kill her, and if he let go and it just wounded her, he would wound her, but he would not miss, if he so desired to let that arrow fly at all. She would not leave without receiving something to remember him by, something other than the imprint he would leave. He wanted her to remember the look in his eye as he caused her pain for what she had done.
It was then that Ceara launched herself at the changeling, and Emlyn really couldn't blame her. after all, it was her body that had been stolen, even if the false memories of tended her wound had been implanted in his head. Whether he liked it or not, that short little scene would be apart of what he knew Ceara, even if he knew it was fake, and she would never know exactly what it was. She would never know the memory that he and the fake Ceara had shared, when it should have rightfully belonged to her. It used to be she just couldn't control what he thought of her because of her actions, now she couldn't even control those actions, because someone else was doing them for her. She had every right to want to kill this girl, and so Emlyn would let her try all she wanted, and he would hunt her down if she failed.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 27, 2009 18:18:01 GMT -8
She saw it there, that wince, that disgust, that horrid, unmistakable disgust changing the lines of Ceara's face as if their touch had been wrong, as if that unity that been blasphemous. Eyes narrowed -- a quick, sly look but she was being consumed by her own laughter, her own little sliver of insanity and she couldn't help but keep lips stretched the way they were, as if the line between their words and hers were but a quick step, a touch of a finger, a key on a piano. It was music, notes, beautiful, perfect symmetry and it was magical. She knew their emotions, could feel it spiking on her magical radar, could read it like a book, and she knew, oh how she just knew those impulses, those doubts, those wondering glances they'd give each other. She didn't pout, oh, no, no -- she didn't pout but the hurt that spiked through her, hooked her in the gills like a fish was sharp indeed. She had caught the look, the wondering -- the closed eyes as if she were a dirty thing that couldn't be looked at.
A snarl rumbled in her gut, aching to be let loose, to choose a sharper shape, another monstrous shape but this one would do, this one was the one she would make herself, and she had chosen it as she had chosen the others - for it's imperfection. So she kept the donned mask of what she knew to be herself, this self among many, this mask looking back at herself from a thousand reflected images and she held the rest at her fingertips. Do you think she confused herself? Early on perhaps, but for a long time now, she has had the knack, the ability to part her mind like a curtain, to fill the empty smog there with reality, with hard truths, with the world's experiences. In this, she could survive, in this sea of emotion, she knew her way around blind, feeling around with the tips of her fingers, like a snowflake on the tongue. Melting, melting -- she would melt away in a euphoric bliss if she could. Oh yes, she would, she would. But that was a boring fate and if there was anything that Dahlia hated, it was boredom.
So instead of snarling and hissing, and throwing a right fit as was her wont she kept her mouth shut in the face of that disbelief, the face of that anger, that self-righteousness. Jaw clenched though she kept herself balanced on the balls of her feet, a perfect little dancer ready for the stage, the main player, always the main player. So many roles, so many costumes and they were all right there, crowding her eyes, pulsing in her temples and she could only smile at the repertoire of wit she had ready to use, to sharpen against the will of others, but these, these men, these women did not want such things. "So plain, so boring!" she murmurs, even as the other, the knight, the other Ceara (for she was never real in Dahlia's mind) lunged at her. So predictable, she tisked, she jumped, she ducked. She laughed. Oh yes, she was laughing -- what a game this has become! What a game indeed, what happiness this provokes from her still heart, lets it beat, lets it thrum, bleed red, bleed true and the adrenaline surges through her.
She reaches and reaches though there is nothing in her that reaches out physically and she connects -- oh how delicious that connection is. Emlyn's notched arrow is a far away thing, unnoticed, unbothered, for she is arrogant and easily coerced into action. She is immortal, her youth a weapon on which the others may use, to tease her into battle, to coax her into recklessness. Her flesh is mortal for all that her will is not. And she laughs, a disgustingly joyful laugh. "One, two, three-four-five!" and she dodges the strike though it's suddenness has made another slice of her clothing so that another sleeve must fall to the floor. Oh what a pity! More flesh to be bared! Hah, hah. And flesh is bared, no doubt, no doubt, but it's flushed and creamy, a full sheen of beauty as she writhes and ducks, fingers sliding through hilt to get to her weapon, Sweet Requiem. "Once I caught a fish alive!" and flushed, she smiles, notices the arrow, the coldness and her body stills, a momentary pause of disbelief, of incredible hurt crumbling the corners of her expression as she stares at Emlyn, stares as if she would let herself be killed if he would but forgive her, if he would but accept her --- but the pause is brief, though emotional and she is off again, bouncing from foot to foot, her eyes flashing in challenge, in a glorious tease as if this was exactly what she had planned.
Shoulder rotates, "Six, seven, eight-nine-ten." she purrs, burning eyes meeting Ceara's as her fingers wrap around her weapon, her beautiful fangs, fitted perfectly into the soft curves of her hand. So puny in comparison to the sword but sharp, wickedly designed. Yes, yes, yes, this is what she wanted, oh yes, this is exactly what she craved to boil her blood, to make her sing, "Then I let it go again." She cocked her head, hair tumbling down, down, down, a tangled mess as her body tenses and she throws a glance at Emlyn, winks so cheekily, "Why did you let it go? -- Because it bit my finger so." then she pounced, throwing her weight forward, to flip from foot to hand, to hand to foot, jabbing upward with Sweet Requiem though she was in a crouching position, aiming for Ceara's knee to break the joint there.
It was Dahlia's strength as it were, "Which finger did it bite?" this ability to move fast, as she was so slight that any weapon other than the ones she has which were designed for ripping, tearing and crippling, did little damage. But she was fast, oh, was she fast! A twist of her body and she would be flying free of that flying sword if came to her. "Why, this little pinky on the right." and she waggled that little pinky, ignoring the intense pain of her shoulder which she ignored, though it pinched her fiercely.
[/color][/size] word count;; 1070 tags;; Em, Cea OOC;; In case it's confusing, she ducked and moved out of the way of Ceara's sword thrust, bounced around a little, then flipped forward to land in a crouch near Ceara's feet aiming to hit her knee. If she goes for her head or something, she'll probably bounce away, though definitely not unscathed. Oh, and yay for old rhymes!
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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 28, 2009 9:11:30 GMT -8
Ceara snarled as the woman ducked, moving out of the way of her sword thrust. Her eyes, currently clouded over with fury and hatred followed the woman's movements, even as she pulled her sword back close to her body. The lack of fear from the woman was only infuriating her more, and she did her best to rein in her anger, knowing anger makes people reckless and stupid. She couldn't afford to be stupid right now, not only because it might mean that the woman might get away, but also because Emlyn was watching. She was so desperate for his approval, to show him that she wasn't as helpless as most noble women, no where near. She didn't want him thinking he had to protect her all the time. She knew how to use a sword, she knew how to dodge, so dammit she'd do both and hopefully manage to end this woman's life.
She noticed the woman pull out a knife and her eyes narrowed. As the woman pounced and aimed to bring her knife up into her knee, she twisted and spun away from her, though the knife cut a slash in her trouser leg, though it didn't touch any skin. She kicked up with her foot, aiming to slam her foot into the side of the woman's head and hopefully knock her out, or at least disorient her long enough for Ceara to end her life. She did her best to ignore Emlyn, though she could feel his eyes on her and the woman, knowing that he would only distract her. She had, however, noticed how the woman had winked at Emlyn right before attempting to drive her knife into her knee, and it annoyed her. This woman didn't have a right to look at Emlyn, or to wink at him. She'd already probably done something to him before she'd gotten there, when the bitch had still been in her form and Emlyn had still thought that the woman was her. She wanted this woman to die, to make sure she could never play with someone's mind the way she had to her, and so that she could never even look at Emlyn again. She didn't have that right._________________________________________ Words: 388 Mood: Eh. Notes: Blockage, slightly. [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 28, 2009 10:27:34 GMT -8
It was hard to not let go of the bowstring that was pulled so taut, but he had to keep telling himself that his arrow would just a last resort if she got away, for he could see the need in Ceara's eyes to get this changeling, and he just wouldn't be able to bring himself to do a two-on-one, as much as she deserved it. He would just be there to remind her that, no matter what, she wasn't going to be getting away, not while he had an arrow at his disposal, and many more where it had come from in his quiver.
His eyes widened and he unconsciously took a step backwards when she winked at him. What the hell was she playing at? That was a symbol of trust, of which he owed her anything but. She thought this was all a game, but Ceara's sword was very real, and he knew that they could hurt her, he had seen that with her shoulder wound. Dammit, he had helped her, so eventually...it would probably heal. But he just wasn't naturally suspicious around Ceara, so...could he really blame himself? Whatever the case, he would redeem himself now. He would show her that he was not someone to be meddled with, one way or another.
His insides jumped with each attack she drove at Ceara. Hell to chivalry, if she wounded Ceara he would show her no mercy. A deep growl rumbled in the back of his throat. If she was smart, she would leave Ceara alone and just attack him, or just let herself be killed, otherwise her death would be a lot more painful than he perceived she would like it. He even played with the thought of shooting anyway, even if Ceara did manage to wound her to the point of her not being able to get away. The corner of his lip raised only slightly at that, the thought of making her feel pain, pain that he would lay on her for trying to mess with not only his mind, but Ceara's as well. But he kept his grip tight on the bowstring...for now.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 28, 2009 11:14:36 GMT -8
She was an acrobat, an artist, a woman of the trapeze -- with a swivel of her hips she could force herself to fly through the air, to tumble from one swinging edge to the next, looking inhuman in her flight, in her spinning, in her beautiful arcs and curves; her body is slim, a little reed meant for bending, for contorting, for slicing through the air. She's a dagger, a weapon honed from birth, left alone and forgotten, but a weapon nonetheless. If no one had come and picked her up, well it was their loss and the world's doom for she was here now, and she wasn't going to leave any time soon. So the blood flower smiled, a cheeky thing where her hand slid up, caressed the woman's leg where she had missed with her twin-bladed fang dagger, empty palm, dusty palm sliding up, up, up a quick caress of her hand against her flesh, against her knee, her thigh and she grinned, a cheeky thing, a disturbing sight as she laughed -- yes, that same trickling little laugh and ducked the kick aimed for her head, biting her lip to hide the grimace of pain as it hit her shoulder, her injured shoulder.
A roll to the side, she kicked down against the ground and forced herself up but not far, through -- yes, through and used her good hand to get out of the crouch, pushing off the ground with her feet and doing a single-handstand, a joke, yes Emlyn named this right. A joke, a real fucking joke to her as she pranced around, pushed off of her palm, landed on her feet. A smile, a goading, taunting thing. "Well, well, well, is that frustration I see, hmm, hmm?" and she backed up, moved away from the sword, from the trembling, angry knight. "Would you prefer to fight someone else? I can do that for you if you ask nicely."
But even as she said it, she was changing, altering, her body becoming bulkier, muscular, larger, heavier. She was so slight it was a surprise to watch her change, to see her pulling her magic hard around her, like the heavy, lazy coils of a snake,to dress herself in another's skin, in another's thoughts. Yes, yes, and she was shifting again, oh god this felt so good to her, to sate her curiosity. "I never did get this right the first time," and her smile was tender, sweet, everything that was not in this body she was changing into, stealing, using, abusing, and her hair shortened, grew thicker, silkier, bluer, face panning out, thickening around the jaw, and yes, yes, you've guessed it right. Male, so male it was a powerful high to know herself more than this one, to know that she was closer to him than Ceara would ever be, because she knew him, while Ceara could only guess, could only find out from the tidbits that he gave her.
Dahlia, dearest darling dead, darling child of the darkness, why, why, why did you do this thing? This thing you knew would provoke, would dwindle the chances of your survival? But you did, you did and that's all that remains, for the shoulders that thickened, grew straighter, for the scars that embedded themselves in her back. And the knowledge -- it was a quiet mind, a silent mind for he was an introverted male, a private person who's thoughts were secrets, little drops of knowledge given as gifts of pearls but she knew enough, the general and it was enough to turn that gaze to him, to meet fierce glacial to fierce glacial to pull the bow, the draw the string, to fit the arrow, to notch it, to ready it as the excitement pulsed through her muscles, his muscles, their muscles. She was him, and he was him, and they... they were each other. A shared thing as she pulled and sucked at him mind, his personality, became him as only very few could become. A groan of delight, a parting of her male lips, a flicker of her eyes and then stillness, a peek in the direction of Ceara. "This is so much truer than what you know about him Ceara. So much better. Real. Not that fake man you know."
And she laughed, his laugh, his rarely, if ever heard laugh. Low, rumbling, and she exalted in it, her eyes peeking out from between blue locks of hair, staring, staring, poised on the verge of letting loose the arrow, aimed straight for between his eyes.
[/color][/size] word count;; 766 tags;; Cea, Em OOC;; I couldn't resist. Hope you don't mind. I also don't have time to proof-read so ignore the typos please <3
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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 28, 2009 11:45:50 GMT -8
Ceara snarled once more at the woman, but it died away in her throat as she felt the woman's hand on her leg, caressing her skin. Her eyes widened in alarm and she froze, every muscle in her body stiffening as her hands clenched tight, turning the knuckles in her hands white with the tension. She was disappointed that her kick to the woman's head missed, but she was pleased that it hit the woman's injured shoulder at the very least. Plus it got the woman away from her, got her to stop caressing her leg. The anger seemed to have died from her eyes in that moment and she shuddered, rubbing at her leg where the woman had touched it while the anger slowly came back to her and she snarled at the woman. "Don't fucking touch me!!" She snapped furiously. This woman was still playing with her, and it was creeping her out! She could handle fighting with her, or exchanging words with her. Heck, she could even handle the woman turning into her and messing with her mind, but it just freaked her out to have the woman touch her after the kiss. Alright, maybe she was being a little homophobic, but still. She didn't want this woman touching her, especially not in the way a lover might touch her.
She was about to launch herself at the woman once again, but the woman's words stopped her. It was almost as though she knew what was coming when the woman asked if she'd prefer to fight someone else. "Don't!" She yelled, recalling how it had effected her last time the woman had changed into Emlyn. She was terrified it would happen again, yet this time with Emlyn actually watching. She didn't want to scare him away more than she already had. Still, it was too late, the woman was growing taller, becoming more muscular and her breath caught in her throat as she watched. Still, all she had to do was look behind her, at who she knew to be Emlyn and she was fine. She took a step back from the fake Emlyn, distancing herself from...her, and she lowered her sword, looking back at the real Emlyn helplessly. She wouldn't attack the woman now in Emlyn's form while she had an arrow pointing between his eyes. She wouldn't endanger Emlyn that way, more than he already was in danger, anyways.
Her whole body had gone stiff and she just stood there, a few feet away from the fake Emlyn and even farther from the real one. She felt helpless now, and had no idea how they were going to get out of this. She just looked between the two, wondering what she should do. Still, at the woman's words she snarled and glared at the fake Emlyn. "Shut up! If you hurt him, I'll hunt you down and cut out your eyes before I kill you." She snarled quietly. Gruesome and morbid, yes. It surprised even herself to know that she meant every word, also. She hadn't known that she had such a dark side. Apparently she did, though. She didn't even care about what Emlyn thought over what she said, because it was true. She loved him- or was starting to, and she didn't care if he knew it or not. She'd do her best not to put him in awkward positions, as she knew they made her uncomfortable...but she seemed to be a bit of a danger magnet, and she couldn't guarantee something like this wouldn't happen._________________________________________ Words: 630 Mood: Not too bad => Notes: Lawllll xD [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 28, 2009 13:08:54 GMT -8
His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he wondered what she meant. Why would they want to fight someone else? An image flashed in his mind of her turning into a gigantic monster that would swallow them whole or just put them in a cage to watch for entertainment. Oh god, even if it was him and Ceara against her it wouldn't be a fair fight, not if she could just change into anything on a whim. And she knew their weaknesses...his thoughts about causing her pain had been assuming that she stayed in her true form, or, what he thought was her true form...
But as she morphed, it turned out to be something much, much worse. She was...she was him! She had stolen his body and his brain, the things he thought that were forever his and could be his sanctuary. How dare she! he had no memories to hide, or at least, none that she hadn't probably already been able to get from Ceara, but he didn't want her skipping around his thoughts like a kid in a candy store, finding out what made him tick and what would really get to him. Those were things that no one in the world knew, things that he would only want to share with someone who could understand...but now that idea was ruined. How could he be him anymore while this person, this girl was walking around with a file in her back of her head clearly and neatly marked, 'Emlyn.' He wasn't cocky, but he knew he was different, and he somewhat liked that even though he hated standing out from the crowd, though that was more to do with his hair and his height.
From what Ceara said, he could figure out that this was not this first time she had done this, for Ceara knew who she was going to change into, because she had done it before. Oh, what had she done? How had she abused his form when it was just her and Ceara? So badly he wanted to know, yet at the same time he feared it so greatly, and not just of what she had done, but how Ceara had reacted...he knew, or at least, he thought he knew what Ceara thought of him, had she, the changeling, taken advantage of that?
And hoe dare she say that she knew him better than Ceara. As far as he was concerned, Ceara knew him better than anyone else in the world because she found out more and more about him over time, giving herself enough of a chance to let it sink in, rather than cheating like her and overloading herself with a whole person in the matter of moments. She couldn't know hi, but not even he knew himself every second of every day. There were always little parts he ignored, choices he could have and would have made if the circumstances had been different...she have to go down every road to truly know who he was.
He noticed that Ceara had just stopped, not even attempting to fight her as she was in his form. At first he was angry, but then...could he really blame her? Would he have been able to shoot the arrow at her if she had been in Ceara's form? Well, he probably would have, but he would have had to close his eyes as he did so, and hold on to the real one to make sure that she was there. He gave her a confused looks at her other words and then, remembering, quickly turned away and turned ever so slightly pink. He didn't need her revenge if he got hurt...
He kept his arrow focused on the changeling, not caring if it was in his shape or not. He would injure it, he would even kill it if he got the chance, as strange as that would be. He knew that he was him and that this was a faking, intruding bitch. she would find that he was not so easily muddled by what only his eyes told him. He trusted his knowledge even more than his senses. "Get...out...of...me," he seethed, voice sounding like black obsidian, cutting into the flesh of whoever could hear it.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 29, 2009 12:05:34 GMT -8
She was he, and now he snickered, his lip curling over his teeth, a snarky smile full of ill fore-boding. Male, full of that particular flavor of maleness that Dahlia had always enjoyed, had always known was denied a woman. Except for her, always the exception, Dahlia knew where to weasel in, where to squeeze herself into places that didn't need her, didn't want her, couldn't care less about her, and still found a way to enjoy herself. She was alone, very, very alone and that isolation should have been poignant now with her male body wedged between two people, a couple, two halves of a whole that would tear her apart. Didn't they understand? No, never, and that anger, that exact reaction fueled her on, made that expression alter, creasing forming along the lines of his eye, the tightness around his bows, a snarl of outrage knotting the insides of her stomach.
Dahlia imagined and in that imagining the body shifted, tensed, her fingers almost loosening on the arrow, almost letting fly the arrow that would bury itself between his eyes, would trigger the reaction that would cut the arrow through her own body, pierce her, possibly kill her. This excitement, this tension was nothing to them, an irritation, an evil they must overcome. A frown touched her mouth, color swam in the colors of her eyes. It had nothing to do with Emlyn, nothing at all to do with his interference. She just wanted to know, to be accepted, to be liked as she adored, as she was cherishing, to horde it close and ignore the knight. She didn't want the girl here, didn't want the golden haired knight to see anything. Let it all be a mystery, but first, but first she had to get out of here -- she could always come back, always come back and be herself again, be who she wanted to be, to be close to that coldness that stared at her with such repulsion, with such disgust. He didn't like her, it was obvious -- hatred seemed to sizzle out from those dark eyes, from the depths of water that pulled at her with it's hard, fierce current.
He would kill her if she had the chance. And yet, and yet -- she could always shift, always rely on a different shape, a different strength and destroy them, swallow them up and leave them for dead, but she couldn't, she knew it, looking at the line of Emlyn's stare. She needed to prove herself, to show him she was equal, was more than equal and it was he that had to catch up to her and not the other way around, but the girl kept talking, and talking, and annoying her like a fly in your ear that wouldn't go away no matter how many times you swatted at it. A snicker, a rolling laugh full of Dahlia's voice, Dahlia's arrogance, Dahlia's pride. "Ceara, dear. You misjudge me. And him, but that's alright, that's quite alright. You'll find out soon enough, yes, yes you will." and though the body's arms didn't tremble and the notched arrow didn't quaver, she tossed the body's head a little, the blue locks moving away from the eyes, from the eyes of male, of silence. That silence was precious, for it meant she had to work for it, to jostle emotion from him to taste each sweet memory. Oh gods, she would do this for hours if she could, but her shoulder was weighing her down, more than she would ever show them. Fingers clenched around the handle of the bow, and muscles tightened, a steadiness seeming to radiate strength that she might not have anymore.
The arm hurt, long, piercing aches that cut her deep, deeper than the blade had ever gone. Would ever go. Never again, she wouldn't be hurt by the girl, but to see that she thought she'd hurt Emlyn was amusing as it was annoying. Not true, not true at all - he was special, he was different and in that difference she wanted to protect it, to keep it alive for her to run her fingers over. So she purred, in her rough lilting voice though the lips that moved and sang out her tune were male, and stiff. "I like you Emlyn, a lot." a petered out laugh, a moment's distraction of the burning intensity of her eyes, even as the blow of his words cut her, incinerated her. "Between you and Ceara, I'd kill the girl, but we're talking about me and no matter what a darling you might be, there's nothing stopping me from burying this arrow through your pretty, silent head if its between my life and yours. So we're at a standoff aren't we?" a rolling shrug, a bad choice, but natural and she felt the pulling of her wound biting at the edges of her bones.
"Still. Something must be done. If there's a way that'll keep both of us alive, I'm all ears, so talk, talk, talk before I grow very bored and my fingers slip."
word count;; 854 tags;; Cea, Em OOC;; my muse is being flaky so sorreh for the weird turn it took.
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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 29, 2009 17:06:40 GMT -8
Ceara did her best to ignore the confused looks she was receiving from Emlyn, instead keeping her glare fixed on the fake Emlyn, though of course she could see the real one out of the corner of her eyes. Was he really confused that she was backing off, was doing nothing to try attack the bitch that had stolen his form? It wasn't even really that she looked like Emlyn now. Ceara still would have continued to attack her, though it would have hurt her slightly, and she only would have been able to if she was one hundred percent sure that it wasn't the real one, but the woman had an arrow pointing between his eyes. Did he think she'd put him in danger that way, attacking the bitch when she could easily just let the arrow fly and hurt, or even kill, Emlyn? She wouldn't do that. She'd either wait until the woman's attention was completely on Emlyn and she wouldn't notice Ceara edging forward to attack, or she'd just have to let what was going to happen happen.
"What's that supposed to mean?" She snarled quietly as the fake Emlyn told her that she misjudged the real Emlyn, but that she'd find out eventually. She couldn't help but wonder what more of Emlyn the woman knew then she did, what would make her say something like that. Still, the woman could very easily just be trying to freak her out, or even just be lying, so she was not about to believe a word the woman said. Or she'd do her best not to. Ceara was practically trembling with barely suppressed anger, but now she was reining it in. She couldn't afford to lose her anger and do something reckless while Emlyn's life was at stake. If it were her own life it would be different, but that was only because she didn't have a very large sense of self-worth. But it wasn't her life, it was Emlyn's, and Emlyn's life meant so much more to her than her own did.
Now Emlyn knew how it felt to have his body stolen, to know that his memories were no longer safe, and she would have done anything to spare him from that. He shouldn't know what it was like. She should have killed the bitch when she had the chance, when she'd had the dagger pressed up to her throat...Emlyn's throat. The bitch had confused her senses and she hadn't been able to kill her, not when she'd been in Emlyn's form. She should have, though. Then all this would be over, she wouldn't have had to worry about what had happened between her and Emlyn while she was in her stolen body, and Emlyn's life wouldn't be in danger right now. God, if only she hadn't been so weak that way.
A small smile came to Ceara's lips as the woman said she'd much rather kill her than Emlyn. It wasn't a friendly smile, and she bared her teeth slightly, like an animal would, but still. So they agreed on one thing. She'd rather the bitch kill her other than Emlyn as well. However, she decided not to say that aloud. It didn't usually go over well with the people she considered her friends when she said something like that, and Emlyn was her friend. Still Ceara didn't move and she stayed silent, just glaring at the woman and hoping that maybe she'd be able to catch the woman off guard while her attention was completely on Emlyn. She edged forward the slightly bit, barely noticeable unless you were looking right at her, and paused, waiting to see if the woman had noticed before she'd edge forward more, closer to her, so that she could suddenly thrust her sword into her chest and end her life before she could hurt Emlyn. She knew Emlyn could handle himself, but she still felt a fierce need to protect him, especially when she'd unintentionally brought this on him, as the woman had gotten him out of her memories._________________________________________ Words: 725 Mood: Content Notes: Nada [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 30, 2009 12:09:11 GMT -8
Tense thoughts swarmed through his head, like the buzzing of bees that would not leave him alone. This was what he was born to do, handle situations in which others would panic. The pressure was nothing to him, in fact, it only added fuel to the spinning, concocting wheels. He could do this. He was formatted to this specific duty. options were flowing like a river, and he had to only throw out his line and bring back the exact right fish, but that was simple enough. He was already weighing pros and cons like he had a built-in balance. Unfortunately, it possibly meant that she was doing the same thing. Maybe she was borrowing his skills to find the perfect way to kill him, to find out where he would slip, but he would not slip and he knew that. He never had before, therefore it was an impossible course of action and it would be foolish of her to rely on that. She should know him well enough to know that he performed best under pressure, when lives were in his hands and just the slightest movement could affect them. The situation was ideal.
He shuddered slightly when she said that she liked him, and it was especially weird to hear it in his own voice. What was with this girl? What could she possibly want from him? What could she get from him that she couldn't get from some other unfortunate male? Or was it just that he had been unlucky enough to cross her path? Whatever she was thinking, he did not want to know. He couldn't let anything distract him from his train of thought. If she wanted to say odd things, there wasn't anything he could do about it. He'd have to deal.
The last thing he needed was for her to call him a darling and call him pretty, really. He let himself close his eyes in disbelief, now knowing that she wouldn't kill him if she could help it. What she needed to know was that he wouldn't kill her, and if it was a choice between both of them being killed or both of them living, he would choose the latter, every soldier knew that. Only if you killed more than you lost would a sacrifice be considered. Otherwise, it was just plain stupid.
But something struck him. If she was him, then she would have his skills, and if she had his skills, she would use them in the same way he would. There was just no point if they both kept on doing what Emlyn would do, therefore...he had to do something un-Emlyn-ish. He glared at her, "If you're me, then you're aiming precisely the way I would aim and if you let go it will hit the exact same way I would, therefore, if we both let our arrows fly, then they will hit each other and you will use that chance to get away."
He saw that Ceara was beginning to sneak around, that was good, and she needed to be out of the line of fire if his plan did not succeed, for he was certain if it didn't, she would shoot Ceara and not him. At least, that was what she had said, and he had a feeling she was telling the truth. But it made it difficult. He would much rather have himself killed than Ceara, but...the way she acted, it wasn't even an option. So his plan had to work with no casualties.
It wasn't much of a plan, it was incredibly simple. All he did was lower his bow, take the arrow out, put it back in his quiver, and then swing it back up onto his shoulder. He wouldn't be able to get her with his bow, not if she was him, therefore, it was useless. Now. Now it was Ceara's chance, and he put a handle on his own sword just in case. But if she got away now, she would get away for good because he would not be able to get his bow back into preparation fast enough. Everything was left to chance now.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 30, 2009 12:49:28 GMT -8
Tension thrilled through her body, holding her in it's embrace like some distant lover proclaiming it's ownership, it's dominion over her body and hers alone. It was a beautiful sensation, this tension which unraveled her muscles, made her putty where others tightened up to impossible degrees. So good, so right, and Dahlia was in the center of it, Dahlia was the focal in the swarming, circling, predatory tension draining toward her, always toward her. The main player on the stage, the trapeze artist that dictated all -- that brought the crowds, brought in the tickets, the money to roll at your feet. She was the ringmaster, the puppeteer from which your frail little bones draped from her fingers, and she knew it, grew intoxicated and indolent on this self-destructive medication she fed herself. A pause, a flicker of emotion and silence spilled out from her borrowed mind, from her borrowed body. So quiet, so peaceful -- so cold.
There was a calculative flavor of this silence, of a predator waiting, watching, judging that made her smile, smile so strangely with her man-lips, with her man-visage. There should be long tangled hair, slanted fiery eyes, pixy little expression, mischief, mischief! But there wasn't and it was her art, her passion, her creed that kept the very stolen flesh molded about her impossibly smaller frame. Dahlia didn't snicker this time, but her attention was elsewhere, star struck by the coldness, the insidious snake coiling around her body as if by mere words he would unman her with his logic. And she loved it! This power she held in the palm of her hands, with each sensitive node that struck her flesh, she could shift, alter, become, become, and in that becoming, she knew the weakness, the craziness, the madness, and she played it like an instrument that you knew. She loved it like the passion which kept her warm at night when her bed was so cold, so empty.
Empty of body, empty of meaning, empty of anything warm, so cold, so cold, and even Tezca's borrowed heat did not help, only reminded her that his heat was hers and hers was dying, dying, dying. Embers lowered at night when there were none around as if the masks she wore with just joy, with such fiery desire, fell and broke, broke and eroded, died, died, died. She was in the vortex now, her mind spinning from one random thought to the next, then the other, bouncing in the way that madness has, in the way that the truly insane could boast -- and it was alright because she was in her element, in this strife she had created. Chaos run supreme! Her tongue -- his tongue -- darted out, wet the lower curve of her lip as she stared, as she watched and analyzed; she knew what he would do, knew he would point the arrow in the most damaging of places, let it fly, let it bury itself in her flesh, hopefully kill, hopefully destroy her evilness.
But her arrow was ready, her fingers aching, twitching to let it go though she herself would regret his death, would mourn it with a vicious tenacity that could only be comforted by another's uniqueness, by another target. An addict to the game, to the hunt, Dahlia was already grieving the loss of this man's life, of his soul going up in flames in the hell she would send him to. Oh yes, hell, very much hell - he looked the Catholic sort and their God was all-seeing, all-powerful and even Dahlia, who had made of herself an earth-bound God, stepped back in the face of that punishment. Evil creature, dark creature, silence predator of the night -- Emlyn was all these things, these harder currents she would provoke, she would nurture and she knew the path he would lead after death. That long, lonely path he would lead. Yes, yes, and though it pained her, her fingers twitched, the arrow quivered with suppressed tension -- yes that tension, that very same tension which thrilled through her heart, made of her a creature at once at grief and in the throes of the deepest of passions.
If she had been other than what she was, she might've groaned, but she knew the groan that would part her lips would be of pain, and that, that very thing she must ignore, she must not let pass. She has bluffed them well, so far, and herself, in thinking the injury to her shoulder was no so crippling, not so terrible. But oh how it burned her! How it cut at her, sent aches through every muscle that came into contact with it. Dahlia had half the mind to cut it off, but she knew her greatest strength lay in keeping her body full, in keeping everything intact, for it has been made obvious has it not? -- Scars can be covered, altered, changed, but a thing that does not exist cannot shift. Without an arm, she would forever be imperfect. Without an arm, every skin she donned would be armless, and what a terrible thing that would be! She would prefer death over such a calamity -- and so she is now, half-bluffing her way through this problematic equation she has drawn in the docks, in the hard wood and bright skies.
Early January and the bitter cold bit at her skin. It refreshed her, bounced her thoughts from that, to the distant dislike that furrowed Emlyn's expression when he heard her speak her attraction. A momentary pause as if her coils withdrew, recoiled from that instinctive reaction of his. Oh, he would know her soon! He must, he must! But then the words, and the confusion, but do not forget Dahlia, darling Dahlia was a master, a mistress, a creature of disguise, of the stage and no matter where she put her foot, so the stage followed. No mask fell from her, but the cold, hard stare, bone brushing bone. Confusion reigned supreme inside, but she would not let it show, could not possibly let it show, and so the mind reworked itself, folded over itself and found a different path, a different stroke of luck that would hold itself supreme.
A twitch of her lip as if she were reacting of instinct, though so much thought into which way her lips should move, which way her body should stand, react. So much thought, so instinctive, intuitive to the way the frequencies bent and contracted, the way it danced to the tune that the soul played - and he! -- he has altered his tune, had forced himself away, knowing, knowing her strength. How sweet this game! How cunning this man. She cooed, a thrumming little purr of pleasure. "It is true what they say then, Emlyn." she murmurs as her voice becomes her own again, though the body remains the same: hard stone unswayed by the decision he had made, the action he has taken. Fingers adjust themselves, and the arrow steadies as a dog would at the mere command of it's master. "One truly does know their enemy far more keenly than they do the lover."
She was backed off from the edge of delight, of delicious, absolute climax when those arrows would have flown -- but she was thoughtful, and her mind was racing. Which way to run, which way to take this game, or should it end? Should she finish it and continue it again? Shoulder ached, a heavy reminder of the cost of dallying and she made her decision -- "I do hope you remember the name of Dahlia Cruorem, for she will not be forgetting you, my love." and she mimicked him, lowering the bow, taking out the arrow, placing in the quiver and swinging it around -- but then she bowed, a quick bow where all the magic unraveled in an instant, a blink of an eye and you knew, you knew she drew out the shift to intimidate, to disturb for all it took was a wish, a thoughtful desire and she could be that person, could run in their flesh, sleep in their beds and be them, replace them. A quick thing, Emlyn one moment, and a wave seemed to wash over her and then next heart beat there was nothing of the man, nothing of the silence and it was all Dahlia, all smokey-eyed mischief, thrilling, sensual smile and she was rising, rising, standing upright as her hand reached for the blade, for the poisonous beauty she kept in her thigh sheath.
Belle Mort withdraw, with black edged blade and she saluted the other, her eyes on Emlyn and only Emlyn. Could she have truly forgotten Ceara? Completely dismissed her? Well and so, Dahlia never claimed to be modest and her arrogance was impregnable. a
word count;; 1482 tags;; Em, Ceara OOC;; skidoosh! Dahlia-muse is going wild xD
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