xsnowxgardenx (xsnowxgardenx) wrote in roadsnevertaken,
xsnowxgardenx
xsnowxgardenx
roadsnevertaken

Shortened for interaction. [Roses & Swords]



Some say that a true hunter never really sleeps - that on some subliminal, deeper level of the subconscious every minute detail registers on a scale of perpetual danger - while the resting shell of the predator itself gathers the strength for another kill. The true disaster in misunderstanding, or worse, underestimating, an opponent in any environment is the error of presumption, the illusion of grandoise confidence that leaves a lack of inhibition. It is the mistake that dexteriously transforms every advantage into a blocked escape and every weapon useless.


Regardless of the publicity, the rumors, the lies, the metamorphesis, Eve del Fuoco lived and breathed death. It attached itself to her very existance and colored every movement she made. No matter how many photographs she withstood as Kale as her support for the glare of the press or how many red carpet affairs she endeavoured, regardless of the wealth and the political power she accumulated as she climbed to the very top rung of the social ladder, she would always be a Deathseeker. Not all the glittering gowns in the world would ever completely cover that up, nor all the gold dust upon murderous eyes. Not even her mother's influential genes could drive it away. It continued to be a surpressed force pacing just beneath the surface, promptly chained and draped within. It lurked beneath the pale flush of scarlet in her cheeks, flowed freely in the sexual sway of her hips and buried itself beneath the austere composure of her presence amidst others. Most of all it lingered like a perfume on the cloak of benevolence she now draped herself with - a gift born the moment another killer's fingers choked off her last breath, and a life of pure innocence refused to let her go - but it would never depart.


And now it recognized one of its own.


All three of their lives came down to an earth-revolving primality, what the senses could and could not perceive, how an individual could step over and between cross wires to remain undetected without tripping a defensive mechanism in a hunter's brain. Entangled in the limbs of the man next to her, ensconced between thin layers of cool scarlet silk and warm, dreaming flesh, Eve walled out everything to the most severe warnings of danger. Nothing short of a planet's trajectory failing and leaving it plummeting out of orbit onto the two of them was to disturb her. Or Keishen, who was quite an obvious exception. The very memory of her were like nails of steel that could make her flinch inwardly at any point during the day.


It didn't take the presence of the opposing woman long to invade the realm of the Deathseeker's dreams, to infect and pollute the imageless bliss therein, rolling out across the room to greet her own like two great, dangerous felines. Eve's eyes wasted no time in flashing wide open in the darkness, glinting daggers of seductive blue imbued with the capacity to pierce the veil between reality and dreams itself. When they careened around the room to individual heat signatures, they rested effortlessly on the predator, glowing succinctly as though all the ancient mysteries to the world laid buried within them. And then, discarding the small shreds of modesty that she'd earned by becoming a public icon, Eve brought herself up on one arm to fully face Keishen, the sheets draping her voluptious figure like a silken second skin. Long, rippling locks of dark hair skimmed down across bare shoulders, a curl falling haphazardly across one bright, alarming eye. It was an intentional effort not to allow her concern over the other woman's attendance not to appear in any of her actions.


"I don't believe you were invited," Eve purred with laudible disapproval. ".. although you have a knack for that. Tell me, what could I possibly owe the.. pleasure of your company to?"


Before a response could cross the burning synapses of the woman's brain, she was already moving - beautiful and fluid like poetry in motion - shouldering on the nearest piece of clothing with a disembodied grace. Although the unbuttoned shirt of Faust's made her appear smaller within it there was something that surrounded her, a simmering aura of lingering malicious intent that snaked around her muscles like taut strings, which only intensified in her presence. This individual had done the unthought of - what was said to have been impossible - when she brought the Deathseeker down and now, distracted even moreso than she had been that fateful night Eve did not discredit her. The tangible feeling of malevolent emotions, sensations and thoughts clashed with the intuitive command of her charismatic instincts - everything about her was upside down and inside out, including the half that wanted so desperately to relive its last moments with the other woman. To lick the blood clean from her fingers and tape up broken bones.


The question was.. what did she want?
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Must. Not. Cry.

This is absolutely brilliant and now that I have something to work for I'll think up something good. I'll get back to you in a week.