In the way he slashed and scorched Rianele’s Forsworn brothers and sisters to mutilated pieces of meat. She was deeply intrigued by such precision and excellence within the deadly art of his swordsmanship; something she had never dreamed of accomplishing with her twin savage swords of leather and bone. His fighting manner was more of a dance than of a striking savagery as of her brethren’s.
How he can be so graceful yet brutal in his kills goes beyond her understanding. Perhaps he is a seasoned assassin who takes rightful pride in his works of blood and gore.
The Forsworn weapons clunk to the gravel below, forgotten, as the woman cautiously approaches him.
His appearance was equal to the splendour of his massacre. His eyes were red as the fresh blood spilt from the fallen Forsworn around him. His deep grey-blue flesh brings to mind of lifeless corpses of the lone Breton’s own kills. How the effects of death leave behind such a lovely colour on the decomposing bodies inspired her war paint to be akin to death’s shade. His long ivory hair cascades over his broad shoulders, partly sprayed wet from the crimson dripping off the soaked locks, his long narrow face and lean, strong physique. The shock of his hair reminds Rianele of cleaned bones, polished to have as prized trophies from animals and people. His eleven ears were as sharp as his blade. He was the embodiment of death.
His head snaps towards her. His eyes narrow as he grips the pommel of his ebony sword - slender and dark and powerful as he - drawing it to use against his last opponent. The lone Forsworn halts. Placing her fisted hands atop her thighs she bows her head in show of her submission to him. She is not his enemy.
The Dark Elf replaces his sword to his side. His stance has not yet relaxed, however, as he is still suspicious of the lone Forsworn’s intentions. Rianele was not sure anymore as the waiting predator was of herself in approaching him. All she knew was she could not waste an incredible opportunity to know such a unique being as he. All she knew was that she wanted to have sex with him, blood and all, amongst the cooling carcasses of her late companions. The Breton wanted to bear the offspring of this beautiful, lethal man. Rianele falls to her knees, the grass pillowing her legs. She slowly reaches up to the knot that holds the top of her revealing cuirass in place. The strips were loosened, allowing her to pull her armour of deer pelt down to her hips. The submissive battle-mage continues with removing each article of her garb until she has left herself overly vulnerable and at the utter mercy of her impassive spectator.
Her loins burn intensely with such delicious heat the Forsworn had not experienced before.
Her hair piece is the last to be removed, freeing her short tresses that fall below her elfish jawline. The Breton looks onto the magnificent Mer before her, who is now just a few steps away from where she kneels. Her doe eyes stare longingly into his wondrous orbs of crimson. Her womanhood throbs hotly as her juices trickle down her inner-thighs from solely being studied by him. No man before had left Rianele in such a shameless and utterly insane state of arousal.
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timeasmymeasure
1/?
Date: 2014-01-02 06:41 pm (UTC)In the way he slashed and scorched Rianele’s Forsworn brothers and sisters to mutilated pieces of meat. She was deeply intrigued by such precision and excellence within the deadly art of his swordsmanship; something she had never dreamed of accomplishing with her twin savage swords of leather and bone. His fighting manner was more of a dance than of a striking savagery as of her brethren’s.
How he can be so graceful yet brutal in his kills goes beyond her understanding. Perhaps he is a seasoned assassin who takes rightful pride in his works of blood and gore.
The Forsworn weapons clunk to the gravel below, forgotten, as the woman cautiously approaches him.
His appearance was equal to the splendour of his massacre. His eyes were red as the fresh blood spilt from the fallen Forsworn around him. His deep grey-blue flesh brings to mind of lifeless corpses of the lone Breton’s own kills. How the effects of death leave behind such a lovely colour on the decomposing bodies inspired her war paint to be akin to death’s shade. His long ivory hair cascades over his broad shoulders, partly sprayed wet from the crimson dripping off the soaked locks, his long narrow face and lean, strong physique. The shock of his hair reminds Rianele of cleaned bones, polished to have as prized trophies from animals and people. His eleven ears were as sharp as his blade.
He was the embodiment of death.
His head snaps towards her. His eyes narrow as he grips the pommel of his ebony sword - slender and dark and powerful as he - drawing it to use against his last opponent. The lone Forsworn halts. Placing her fisted hands atop her thighs she bows her head in show of her submission to him. She is not his enemy.
The Dark Elf replaces his sword to his side. His stance has not yet relaxed, however, as he is still suspicious of the lone Forsworn’s intentions. Rianele was not sure anymore as the waiting predator was of herself in approaching him. All she knew was she could not waste an incredible opportunity to know such a unique being as he. All she knew was that she wanted to have sex with him, blood and all, amongst the cooling carcasses of her late companions. The Breton wanted to bear the offspring of this beautiful, lethal man.
Rianele falls to her knees, the grass pillowing her legs. She slowly reaches up to the knot that holds the top of her revealing cuirass in place. The strips were loosened, allowing her to pull her armour of deer pelt down to her hips. The submissive battle-mage continues with removing each article of her garb until she has left herself overly vulnerable and at the utter mercy of her impassive spectator.
Her loins burn intensely with such delicious heat the Forsworn had not experienced before.
Her hair piece is the last to be removed, freeing her short tresses that fall below her elfish jawline. The Breton looks onto the magnificent Mer before her, who is now just a few steps away from where she kneels. Her doe eyes stare longingly into his wondrous orbs of crimson. Her womanhood throbs hotly as her juices trickle down her inner-thighs from solely being studied by him. No man before had left Rianele in such a shameless and utterly insane state of arousal.