[A Dark] C a h o r s [Bewitching Beauty]

[C a h o r s]

[glow=maroon,2,300].X.x.X.Les Rites Dans Le Sang.x.X.x.[/glow]

Thunder rolled. The sound is crisp and wild, a white snake using the sound as cover to strike across the black sky. His form leaves only a contorted, white afterimage burned into the orbs of all whom watch his midnight hunts, though it is only temporary. At the next roar of the skies, the white serpent called upon allegiances, for more writhing lines burst forth from the churning ebonite blackness that was the sky. Dancing like the many witches and conjurers of her old home, fires centered inside their circle of bodies and minds, hearts and souls as one.

She was truly a Pagan, and a dark one. Not the peaceful Wiccans with their blessings and spells used for good purposes. She was the black half of the pentagram. Sacrifices and curses masked in the cover of night gently caress her past like a lusting lover. She was poud of her life and history, enriched with betrayal and heartache. Not fot this hellish wretch, but for the Prince she had slain with her words and guestures so long ago. It had been a night like this, and she could almost hear the deadly crash of waves as they split themselves on the sharp rocks that had been the demise of the foolish gray stallion on the midnight of Samhain, though there was no body of water with such volume close to her now.

A single sky serpent came astray and grabbed a momentary hold on a gnarled tree branch. Crimson sparks flew from the tip of the tree, a flame soon growling to life on the dry and broken plant. When the torch was completely aflame, that was when she was visible. Despite the beginning rains, the branched burned with the intensity of forbidden lovers heating themselves with each other's bodies, their lust burning high and bright so much that it consumed all who dare interrupt their binding, the visual life of their dance illuminating the black goddess behind their glowing array.

Deep coal black eyes shone with the light from the flames. Her mane and tail whipped about her in soggy tendrils, some sticking to her gleaming neck muscles. She rose, front pistons striking the air as if at an invisible enemy. Her ebonite hooves struck at the fire, at times even entering the burning mass, and she snorted. Crania high and body poised, she continued to dance about the flames, occationally breaching the flame's outer lining, and singing her war cries to the black gods of the storm. It was her solace in this world ruled by love and bonds that she had never forged. It would be an interesting thing to see this mare, this witch of screams and sulfer whose bod was said to be colored by the essence of sin and blasphemic tongues, would choose a mate. In time, her soul would attach to another of darknen lineage much like, though still dim to, her own. It would be a joining for the ages, topping the legends and folklore.

Hellish screams reached her ears as the pouring rain tried to end the fiery mass, attempting in vain to save the life of the plant that was in danger. Offering her energy to the embers as she had seen her mother do, she chanted in the ancient language of mystery and desire, "Grandir, le feu. Ne pas être éteint par la faiblesse de liquide!" As if reacting to her summon, the dancing red and orange glow appeared to sling the water from it's form, burning the sky tears while they hissed and called in their dying breaths. She continued her dance, shadows moving closer to her, shifting towards the mistress that hell itself spat out.

[glow=maroon,2,300].X.x.X.Les Rites Dans Le Sang.x.X.x.[/glow]

[E t i e n n e]

xXXDeath is Well UnderstoodXXx

Daggers dug into the hollow ground, clicking softly on rocks and pebbles as the devilish demon of a stallion glided his hulking crimson carcass over the earth. Sentinels stretched forward, listening to the cries of pain and agony in the distance as if it were the sweetest melody he had ever come to hear. Onyx pools stared out into the pelting rain, void of any emotion known to the equine race. In its place lay something far darker, an alien emotion known to so very few. Only years of suffering, of giving and receiving the most painful of tortures, could one earn the right, the privilege, of that one knowing glint. A forced to be reckoned with, this devil among demons. Not Satan himself could chain this dark brute. Whatever evil god there was had granted him gift of his own land. Perfect it was, a true darken paradise! Haunting forests and hills stained with blood and a red flowered meadow and so much more!

Lovely, lovely, yes, but the land was nothing. No, one could not lead without followers. One femme he had sighted already, but why stop there? No, eventually he would need a queen and options were what he needed. Not first come, first serve. His queen would be satanic, a wench with dark power and fury unknown to all others. She will be great, a glory and treasure for any true darken. Wicked and ready to kill, he needed her to be. So here he stood, the crimson pelted beast, to claim such a femme. There was no ‘sweet-talk’ to this black blooded monster. He needed a female of pure darken standers and a blackened heart to match only then could he so much as hope to win a mare.

And then, when he had had all the storm he cared to stand through, he saw a lovely sight indeed. A mare of ebony. The aura surrounding her was black as night, no, even that did not do this fem justice, her aura was more of a deep obsidian void of ominous space that wrapped so snuggly around the demonic bitch it seemed to swallow her whole. She danced around the great fire of an old tree. The flame’s red sheen off her lucid fleece was breath taking. Even a devil could appreciate fine art work, and what a striking canvass she made. She called to the flame in a tongue the Clydesdale was not familiar with. French perhaps. No matter. He would have here all the same. A devilish smirk spread its way across his crimson kissers and the Latin hellion started toward his prey.

“G’d eve.” He bellowed once he had closed in on her, his voice heavy with accent as if he had come from Romania. “What brings a wicked wench such as yourself to these most unholy grounds?” The sarcastic amusement was easy to sift out. This brute was the poster child for unholiness and so much more.

xXXIt's Life that isn'tXXx

[C a h o r s]

[glow=maroon,2,300].x.X.x.Continuer à Souhaiter.x.X.x.[/glow]

The night played out it's motions of the storm, the sounds resonating throughout the fields, alerting all to her presence. She kicked, once more, at the growing embers, and her wicked grin contorted her features deeply. She could not help but to find joy in the crimson, orange, and yellow array of colours. It flickered in her eyes, the glow of the flame giving her pelt a devilish red gleam. Feathered hooves occationally breached the fire's boundaries, feeling no heat whatsoever upon her thorns or pillars.

The slightest sound, like a whisp of grass about a bodice, reached her ears. Swiveling auds around, she she listened to lyrics as they were bellowed. Turning elegant crania to face the brute, she glanced him over like a predator sizing up it's prey. The wind whipped her tresses about in the air, caressing her strong neck and covering one dark chocolate eye. He continued in a language she could understand, but not speak. English, she guessed. An accent flooded his words and made them even more darker than mere words could accomplish. A greeting came to her ears and she smirked. This would be fun. "Je suis désolé, mais je ne parle pas l'anglais. Je peux vous comprendre, bien que,"* she began. Then, another comment entered her dreambox, and found a release through her lips. "Je suis ici parce que je souhaite être réclamé. Bien sûr, vous auriez dû savoir telles choses puisque nous sommes dans le Claiming Grounds,"* she hissed, voice merely a temptress's whisper, barely audible over the flames.

*-"I am sorry, but I don't speak English. I can understand, though."
**-"I am here because I wish to be claimed. Of course, you should have known this since we are in the Claiming Grounds."

[glow=maroon,2,300].x.X.x.Vous Pouvez M'Avoir.x.X.x.[/glow]

[E t i e n n e]

The stag snorted in a ghastly attempt at a laugh. “Yes, I suppose one would travel to the Claimed Grounds to be nothing else but Claimed…” He replied without the slightest hint at amusement. He had began to wonder if he even knew what amusement was. Did he ever? Yes. Torturing the lights into death had served as his amusement all his life. Even now it was the closest he had ever come to happiness. Fun, some would call it.

"No English, eh?" The stallion questioned and thought on how to assess the situation.

He could understand the mare if only barely. Even in French, her voice was a symphony of death and despair. It called to him, beckoned him as if she had cast a spell upon him. A siren she was and he the unfortunate male to hear her song. He must have her. He will have her. Even if it drove him to his death. That was how the siren’s song worked. Though it would be so much easier to think of a way to communicate with her if she could understand his native tongue. It was so much easier for him to speak Latin. Though English had been taught to all the colts in his previous herd, unlike his late brother Tain, Etienne found it frustrating to speak. It would help him to concentrate on what she was saying if he did not have to concentrate on his own words.

He studied the mare for a moment as if deciding on something he had spent countless nights considering then spoke,

“Operor vos teneo Latin tunc?” He asked, voice ever void of emotion, the before she could answer, “Is est facile seen ut vos es atrum. Quis est Vestri nomen?”

* Do you know Latin then?
** It is easily seen you are a dark. What is your name?

[C a h o r s]

The witch eyed him curiously. He mumbled something unintelligable and she decided that if it was meant for her to hear that he would speak up. Flicking her tail, she grazed his bodice with her coal black eyes. He was truly a hellion, and for this she thanked Hecate, her Goddess. The goddess was the one of death and wars, of bloodshed and chaos. There was none darker, and none worthy of her attention. A wind blew her tresses about her like snakes flitting about the head of a medusa.

She was a siren, a black hearted wraith. Singing her tempting melodies to whomever peaked her interest. A smirk found its way to her kissers as he spoke to her in Latin. She understood, but had no idea how to respond in the slightest. Instead of flitting about with laced words and filamented choruses, she answered with what she knew. "Je lui parle assez pour comprendre que vous dites. Cependant, parlant c'est littéralement une autre question,"* she declared.

Then, more lyrics spilled from his vocal chasm. It was like a bellow, as if it was the dying breath of a demon was concealed into words. He questioned her name and she answered simply, voice like the pant of a favorite lover. "Cahors," she hissed, watching him with pools of obsidian.

* - I speak it enough to understand what you are saying. However, literally speaking it is another matter.

[E t i e n n e]

“EGO operor non specto vos oro is. Is est idem eadem idem me quod vestri French.”* He replied then listened intently to her next word.

“Cahors.” He tested it upon his lips with a hiss and a smirk as if it tasted sweet upon his lips. “plurimus venustus, meus carus.”**

He inched carefully forward as if the ebony femme was a giant snake ready to lash out at him if he made the wrong move or uttered the wrong words. A vexing snake of equine proportions, was she, but defiantly a snake. She had fluid movements made with purpose and her thoughts and feelings were well hidden behind a mask of emotionless beauty. It was a hard thing not to compliment.

“Quis says vos adveho domus me ut meus domain.”*** He soothed, “Is ullus alius aims habeo vos they mos opportunus suum nex.”****

((Muse dead.))

*I do not mean for you to speak it. It is the same with me and your French.
**Most lovely, my dear.
***What says you come home with me to my domain?
****If any other aims to have you they shall meet their death.

[C a h o r s]

((Mine too... ugh... x.x))

The wretch pondered him a moment. She wanted to leave these grounds upon other alignment's had trod. It sickened her to her core to be breathing the same air as anything but a dark. A shiver, both of lust for the stallion and sickness of this tainted oxygen, ran down her length. Flicking her mane, she parted her kissers and spoke, voice like the honeyed words of a moth to the flame. "Oui, andrò con lei,"* she hissed, eyes glinting in the sparse light.

Approaching the beast, she rubbed her side along his length, flicking her tail 'neath his chin. A different glow entered her eyes, unmistakeable glare beneath lashes. Impossible, would it be, to not recognize the feeling in her orbs. A low whisper exited her vocal chasm. "Potere so il nome di mio Roi?"** she questioned, looking at him over her shoulder.

* - Yes, I will go with you.
** - May I know the name of my King?

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[E t i e n n e]

Hellion smirked. He stretched his neck and let soft velvet of his muzzle touch the smooth skin of the mares leg as she passed. His name? oh, yes. He had forgotten to tell her what to call him by. The stag scolded himself for forgetting such a thing and gazed his bod along hers as he again took the lead.

"Etienne." He stated. "Follow, Cahors. I shall show you the way."