Hotaru
I want a snowfall kind of love
the kind of love that quiets the world
the kind of love that quiets the world
Slowly, the bow is lowered. At her back, Atlas approaches and the huff of his keyed-up breath against her cheek is merely background sensation. This is far more interesting. A formidable struggle of primordial might, a clashing of veritable titans. Hotaru had not set out to take arms against an Ursur this afternoon. It is not a kill to be stolen, or even a protection of her person any longer; this is a show.
The Ursur’s snarls are not so intimidating when they have a desperation clinging to its deep register, and even the spray of bright fresh blood across the snow is beautiful in some arcane, archaic way. Hotaru cringes all the same if only out of sympathy for how that pain must feel, gouging open flesh and fur. It doesn’t impede the widening of jaws at least, and the snow seems to quake instead of soften the noise of impact as the Ursur collapses heavily backwards, fangs buried through thick fur to pierce its thick neck. Massive paws flail in death throes, kicking up snow and smearing blood even as more flows down pale fur in rivulets. It is clinging to life only for as long as the predator deems it, blood pumping free as it fights for freedom it will never gain. Hotaru knows that, can smell death on the air as surely as the scent of iron. It will take merely a shake of that mighty crown and it will be over.
It is dark poetry in motion, and for all the ruination brought by her own hand, Hotaru is not ashamed to find herself respectfully awed by the easy domination on display.
Only then does her hand flex around her bow. Lightning prickles under her skin, anticipatory. Has her new foe been chosen then? Or is the ursur’s flesh all that is needed to sate this new beast?
The Ursur’s snarls are not so intimidating when they have a desperation clinging to its deep register, and even the spray of bright fresh blood across the snow is beautiful in some arcane, archaic way. Hotaru cringes all the same if only out of sympathy for how that pain must feel, gouging open flesh and fur. It doesn’t impede the widening of jaws at least, and the snow seems to quake instead of soften the noise of impact as the Ursur collapses heavily backwards, fangs buried through thick fur to pierce its thick neck. Massive paws flail in death throes, kicking up snow and smearing blood even as more flows down pale fur in rivulets. It is clinging to life only for as long as the predator deems it, blood pumping free as it fights for freedom it will never gain. Hotaru knows that, can smell death on the air as surely as the scent of iron. It will take merely a shake of that mighty crown and it will be over.
It is dark poetry in motion, and for all the ruination brought by her own hand, Hotaru is not ashamed to find herself respectfully awed by the easy domination on display.
Only then does her hand flex around her bow. Lightning prickles under her skin, anticipatory. Has her new foe been chosen then? Or is the ursur’s flesh all that is needed to sate this new beast?
The kind of love that keeps you in bed all day
won't you bury me in your quiet love?
won't you bury me in your quiet love?
