She couldn’t breathe.
A hand at her throat, unforgiving, merciless. Her hair spread about her head, a bloody halo upon silk.
Her body arched hard beneath his, bowing, losing track of whether it was pain- or pleasure- that she was meant to be experiencing.
No. Even with her breath trapped and her will faltering while her life fled, the whimper of her own thoughts, echoing aloud, made her shudder. Don’t. I don’t want…
“No?” His laughter mocked her openly, and as he relaxed his grip upon her and the world wove drunkenly back into focus, handsome oriental features melted and shifted to a younger face, welding goggles pulled down around his neck. They bumped against his chin as he leaned forward to her, cruelty on his lips and violence in vicious brown eyes, the face no more than a mask to be worn and discarded. “You may not say ‘no’ to me, little stone. You belong to me.”
A second hand joined the first around her neck, and he smiled to her as he bore down upon her once more.
“There is no place you can run… not from me. Not even death, will keep me from you.”
“Your life… belongs to me.”
(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese)
((Mature Content Warning: The following post is rated Mature [NC-17] for Sexual Content, Language, Fantasy Violence, and Loki.))
The memory of pain reached her before full consciousness took hold. Devastating heartbreak… a sweet, handsome face she hadn’t seen in three years; the Mother’s rage, a wild black fury that had no end, sated only in the punishment meted out with brutal, merciless passion.
By whatever miracle, her body was whole, hale, and unbroken. What resided beneath mere flesh and blood, however, was another matter entirely.
Distant, vacant eyes of faded jade turned slowly over the room as she gained her feet. Pausing for a moment, she sought wistfully for the sense of strength and power that would have provided a fleeting sense of comfort, its absence indicative only that she had exchanged one prison for another.
(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese)
A flock of brightly colored hummingbirds fluttered and tittered around her.
They spoke- rarely to her- in girlish, reverent whispers, while their fingers moved with brutish efficiency over her face, hair and clothing, poking and prodding, pinning and tugging, combing and fussing with every millimeter of the budding woman that they could put their hands upon.
One stood upon a small stool before her, pecking at her porcelain features with a single-haired brush. Working steadily, she perfected the sweeping, kabuki red lines along her eyelids, highlighting her full lips in the same vivid hue.
(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese.)
((This post is rated PG18 for potentially disquieting scenarios.))
Within the confines of a tiny, frugal kitchen, a thin, awkward child writhed on her feet and screamed in pain.
Two women stood with her, but seemed to be more the source of her agony, rather than her salvation.
The distinct crack of flesh on flesh filled the cramped space, a patch of furious color rising upon a pale, freckled cheek. “You will be silent.”
((Author’s Note: All conversation is translated from the Japanese.))
The deadbolt filled the silence of the pitch black suite as it slid home, a long-awaited finality of the shot that had never come. Darkness moved within darkness, even the faintest rustle of silken fabrics grinding against the silence in cacophonic discord.
Steel whispered to the encompassing night in susurrated greeting, the only warning given before saturninity was shattered and shadow scattered to the farthest corners of the cavernous room. The cold, crystalline light centered upon a tiny figure hovering above the plush duvet, straddling the shimmering pale expanse of blade that, nestled beside its sheath, was the only disruption of the comforter’s otherwise unbroken plane.
In a place that was not a place at all, a pair of figures who were both far more than, and terribly less than, people, suddenly stood facing each other, where a moment earlier there had been nothing but slag and rock. Each wore a voluminous cloak that shifted and stirred about their figures, muffling their forms to the extent that the only definable trait between them was a significant difference in height.
From within the void of the taller entity’s cowl, syllables of a tongue long faded from human hearing slithered with reluctance into the smoldering, oppressive air. The moment the cavern’s molten boundaries absorbed the last of the creeping susurration, a writhing sigil flared into existence, perfectly equidistant between the pair. Something in the bearing of each relaxed subtly, as the rune twisted and folded upon itself in the open space while it burned through a limited spectrum of decayed verdancy, at its lowest range hungrily devouring the light provided by the chamber itself.
天壌の 血刀 is a youthful woman of ultimately indeterminate age. In her elevated geta sandals, she stands slightly more than six feet tall, often seeming to tower above those amongst whom she moves with effortless grace. Her blazing ginger tresses are pulled almost severely away from her face, bound into a tight, intricately woven chignon at the crown of her head, held in place by a simple set of kanzashi, including what appear to be a pair of sturdy ebon chopsticks. A striking, almost other-worldly beauty, her pale porcelain features bear few touches of makeup, with only faint brushes of kabuki red upon her lips and beneath her eyelids, feathering out to the outer corners of her eyes, her lashes darkened and full; her perhaps potentially flawless complexion is marred by a heavy dusting of freckles of various shades across her cheeks and nose. Eyes the hue of faded jade ornamentation rarely seem to hold any true emotion; if anything, they often seem dull and without much in the way of resonant cognizance.
Her garments appear to be of genuinely traditional Japanese flavor. A full length silk kimono of a deep, subdued mossy emerald, its collar a pure, snowy white that lends her natural pigmentation a semblance of color, adorns her subtly luscious figure, muting some of her curves without allowing them to become entirely forgotten. Overtop of this she wears a long silken coat that seems, at least, to be fashioned of a heavier fabric, its coppery-threaded earth tones almost completely untouched by any special embroidery or brocade; at her every movement, the uchikake’s thickly padded lowest hem grazes constantly upon the ground. Her obi, the thick sash that encircles her waist, perfectly matches the shimmering copper of her flowing overcoat.
Even in stillness, she stands with pristine, perfectly poised elegance, patiently awaiting her next instructions in the grand dance; when she does once more engage with the world, with each step she seems to float across the floor, rather than take individually defined steps. Every breath, footfall, gesture and movement the woman makes seems a part of some elaborately choreographed performance, graceful and lovely, sensuous and delicate, bearing some hidden truth or meaning for only a true connoisseur to discern and appreciate.