Dahlia is the movement to Dorian's stillness, the vibration in the air after his pluck of a string, the heat to his cold, cold nature. And when she does enter the room it's through a door she shoves open, sending it slamming against the wall on its hinges before swinging shut once more, scored with deep gouges from claws that the Reaper does not bother to sheath. Dressed in a dark catsuit that hugs her every curve and with her waterfall of curls fastened in a high ponytail, she stalks across the room and snuffs the candle on her desk out with a closed fist.
The Oerwoud - gone. The Feverlands and the Greatwood - gone.
Sunjata and Hotaru? Healed.
And even Torchline's little queen and her beau hadn't had the good grace to stay dead.
"I tire of this world and its impudence," she hisses, declining to take the seat on the other side of the desk and continuing to prowl about the room instead, cerulean eyes overbright with a thirst for violence and reprimand.
The Oerwoud - gone. The Feverlands and the Greatwood - gone.
Sunjata and Hotaru? Healed.
And even Torchline's little queen and her beau hadn't had the good grace to stay dead.
"I tire of this world and its impudence," she hisses, declining to take the seat on the other side of the desk and continuing to prowl about the room instead, cerulean eyes overbright with a thirst for violence and reprimand.
let me put my lips to something
let me wrap my teeth around the world
let me wrap my teeth around the world
