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| Subject: :: Even The Dead Can Dance :: | |
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Author: Mereret |
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Date Posted: 03:26:58 10/06/03 Mon In reply to: Niko 's message, "Werewolf on the Loose" on 21:53:44 10/05/03 Sun :: Once upon a time, the villianess had been a small child who, instead of reigning with a sword and icy fist, tended goats with her nomadic tribe. Her father had been a native with hair as dark as the midnight sky and eyes a golden brown hue color, just like the sweet breads she had helped her mother bake. How fond she had been of her mother, as all children are at that age. The future Matriarch's dam had been a northwoman, built tall and sturdy with hair of cornsilk and eyes the color of the glaciers themselves. Often, Mereret could remember lying at her mother's breast at night, listening to the stories of the north and how during the coldest of seasons, colorless powder that melted when warmed would cover the landscape and of her forefathers and their deities. :: Mother...? :: Head lolling back, the dark haired female roused slowly from her revery to darkness. How she ached! Her shoulders, back and legs! Death seemed to smother her in this dark cell, but this was nothing new to her. She had seen worse. Weaving a simple Wytch Fyre, Mereret frowned as the room lit with a soft green glow. Trade one set of jewelry for another, viscious glare cast upon her fair features. Foul curses echoing off the cell walls, she cursed Othoe and vowed to make him pay in blood. She would have his head served up on a silver platter. :: [ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ] |
| Subject | Author | Date |
| ::But they must stop at one point in time:: | Shêtan | 10:55:07 10/06/03 Mon |
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