sound the bugle now

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind The demon (but it isn't a demon. is it?) looks alive, born instead of built, a far cry from the monstrosity she was raised to hate and fear. Amalia wants to reach out, to speak to it, but the only sound that leaves her lips is a moan as Frey's touch comes again, wrapping around her in a lover's embrace and leaving her eyesight blurry with desire. The loreseeker leans into the caress, momentarily distracted away from the wealth of knowledge, drawn back into the well of lust. When she surfaces again the demon has changed, twisted into something broken, a haunted version of the living creature the girl once saw. Through tear-filled eyes she witness its corruption, too empathetic and broken to look away, too shaken by her orgasm to interfere. The air around them seems to shimmer, and the creature shudders alongside, corrupting, cloying, plummeting to the ground. Amalia gasps, half pleasure, half fear, as she and Frey descend after the creature, their languid drifting a mocking contrast to the ruined being's fall. The empathy she might have experienced is buried again by lust as Frey's deft fingers dance across her once more, distracting her body and mind from the heart-wrenching scene. Later she will feel sorrow, will mourn a life cursed by its creators and the many senseless deaths it brought. For now she arches into Frey, her toes curling and her fingers grasping at everything, anything, trying to find purchase as she bites her lip and tries to hold the whimper inside her throat. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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