Belltower of Blackfell
(C) 2023 Kyrinn S. Eis All Rights Reserved
The sorceress Zharozenit turned to Aelvryqh, and as softly as unlit morning dew, caressed his silver skin, brushed aside his paper-white hair, and with both hands, framed his effeminate face and peered into his red eyes.
"Our parting, here, amid this rubbulous ruin, the refuse of worlds discarded; here, I pledge myself, my body to you, Isle Sorcerer, sweet Aelvryqh."
His draconic mind saw her intentional framing of body as prize; knew her mind, much less whatever spirit or soul anything human might have, was well beyond her desire to lend, much less give over to him -- even as much as she cared for him.
"And I pledge my yearning desire and present dotage, Zharozenit, Mistress of Myth and Magics; that we draw strength for our respective weirds from each other's company should be enough, but... it is not. My damned soul, held in the grip of the Ancient Powers--" She hushed him with a kiss, and he smiled as he brought her slowly to the ground. Not but two paces distant, the dismembered foes he had, with his demon sword, Sturmomen, slain and derived necessary strength from their sacrifice; these same dead were the scry focus of the one who had sent them...
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