Post by A z z y on Apr 8, 2024 0:59:31 GMT -7
The ink and snow capped witch strode purposefully towards the lands neighbouring The Howling Keep, perhaps one of the longest standing lands that were currently part of the Dark Kingdom. The Whore House. For once, it was not business nor the need to scheme that drove her steps, but to maintain a promise she had made since taking the throne. The spring sun ascended from the horizon, unmarred by the dense rain and snow clouds that had stained the skies throughout winter. Yet despite the slow death of winter, the sun did not bring warmth to the witch queen this dawn. Her breath left her in twin jets of translucent plumes, fading into the nothingness of the ether with each exhalation. Marduk soared cautiously overhead, a single crimson eye kept on the dark regent with a sprig of amethyst hued Heather clasped within his beak. Jagged grey scars cut up her face like a lightning strike, dissecting her once flawless visage into a curious jigsaw puzzle. A shoddy attempt at Frankenstein's Monster - afterall, she had never needed the patchwork face to be horrifying. These scars would soon fade and no doubt the hair would return, but until then, she bore the grim reminder of what it had taken for her bird to prevent her from being a kingslayer. A muscle in her jaw jumped as she shoved the memories away for now, her stride lengthening and the arch in her nape hardening as she crossed the border into The Whore House.
It was not the first time she had been here, but it was the first time she had ventured to these lands to meet someone other than Charm. Thomasin doubted the draft behemoth would mind her dropping by, but if he did, he knew where he could find her. As the monstrosity of a building marked the horizon, a feral smirk curled the lips of the monarch, her daggers meeting the aged cobbled path that lead her to the house. Whatever the structure had been in its heyday, it now reminded her slightly of the asylum she had been raised in. Her halcyon runes drank in the image whilst smothering the whimsical nostalgia that threatened to creep along her spine, not here not now. The gods knew she was only one more tragedy away from a catastrophic break, now was not the time to allow to such notions to consume her. Those cracks could not fracture her foundations, not now, not ever. As she moved through the wrought iron gates of the Brothel, two towering brutes intercepted her, the demeanour shifting slightly as they realised who stood before them. Their scarred roman noses dipped to her, yet their eyes did not leave Thomasin - the demeanour of the witch queen had evolved since her taking of the throne and what stood before them now was a strange replica of the woman they had initially known.
TAGGED - fleabittengray
WORDS - 560
MUSE - good
NOTES - ❤️
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