Today is of the Cycle Of The Seventh Moon.
Current Season & Month:  , Year: 543 A.R. (ref)

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The Bedroom of Lady Amarice ap Nudd-Syltamul


Lassroyale
(@lassroyale)
Patron Saint of Hawtbois, Catboys, & BAMF Babes Noble
Joined: 4 months ago
Posts: 438
Journey starter  
baroque bedroom furniture such as the nobles sleep 0 565

 

Spoiler
Lady Amarice ap-Nudd Syltamul
Lady Amarice apNudd Syltamul 1Lady Amarice apNudd Syltamul 3

The bedroom of Lady Amarice ap Nudd-Syltamul is a vision of gold and royal blue splendor.  Her large, four posted bed is draped in silky golden sheets that complement the rich blue of the comforter.  A sitting room is attached to the bedroom via a short hallway.

═ ✽ ═

DAETH

Do Death Angels Dream of Electric Sheep?

═ ✽ ═

The wind is desert hot and equally dry.   It licks a hot brand across Daeth’s cheek as he staggers forward, bare feet burning in clay-red dirt.  He hardly feels it, mind ranging far out ahead of him, his gaze focused on the indistinct shape of trees, distant and far ahead.  The heat wrings the moisture from every crevice and pore of his body; his mouth falls open and he drags his tongue slowly across his lips.  It scrapes thickly over the small fissures on the lower one, sandpaper rough and caked with blood, cracked like the dry earth beneath his feet.

A body is limp and heavy across his shoulders, dead weight, but Daeth won’t let go. Why won’t he let go? Who is-  

-somehow Daeth knows that he can’t look, though why he can’t\ has escaped him.  And yet, some deep, primal part of his being knows it’s vital that he doesn’t.  Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses a strand of raven dark hair, stirred limply by the wind.  Something clenches in the center of his chest, the sudden explosion of his breath catching on the dam of his teeth.  The sharp ache of something so familiar and yet so unknown, branches through his empty spaces as bright and sudden as chain lightning.

Daeth clenches his jaw and shifts his gaze forward.

Ahead the oasis looms, beckoning and taunting; a siren’s image in the midst of a dry, dusty sea.  He walks towards it with trembling steps, bone-tired and delirious with thirst.  Distantly, a part of him marvels at how strange it is to actually feel the hurt of his body in such acute detail;  he absently maps the sharp twinge that shoots up his spine with each forward step.  Mostly though, the pain is twisted into something uncompromising and constant. 

It’s all so... uman.

Daeth shifts the body across his shoulders a bit, knees aching; an undefinable itch spreads beneath his skin as he lurches forward.  His steps rend clumsy, tired gouges in the rich, red earth, marking his passage where usually he'd leave little trace of himself behind.  He seems to be leaving bits of himself all over the place these days: a rogue feather here, a droplet of deep ruby blood there; his scent braided into the roots of her hair, the imprint of his hands spanned across the gentle swell of narrow hips.

Her? Her…  Her name was not forthcoming.

It was always like this.

 

═ ✽ ═

 

Daeth wakes with his body humming with prescience.  He curls left, reaching out for something he can still vaguely see behind the subtle dark of his eyelids.  He knows what he seeks (what he truly seeks) isn’t there; nonetheless, he still reaches out, fingertips straining like a lifeline towards something . (For the barest of moments, he feels it there, just out of frame; if only he could reach it, touch it.)  His fingers only caress the empty air, which in the pre-dawn shadow feels like the brush of something feathery and light over his knuckles.

He curls his fingers and tucks them back against his palm, breathing out a soft sigh which is inexplicably discontent.  When Daeth finally opens his eyes, he’s unsurprised by the slender backside and the cascade of golden blonde hair that greets him.  No trace of malcontent can be seen in  his rich purple eyes, though a feeling, an ache with no beginning and no end, clenches like a fist in his chest despite his best efforts to banish it altogether.  Daeth briefly rests his palm on his chest and feels his heart beating strong, steady, and sure beneath his lifeline.  When he breathes in, he thinks he smells ozone.

Always ozone.

It makes Daeth hungry for something he can’t explain, makes him crave with all the intensity of a starving man who’s dying with the smell of his salvation, robust and aromatic, in his nostrils.  Maybe Daeth is starving; maybe he’s wasting away from a nameless hunger that can’t be sated.  He doesn’t know why, but he feels as if this clenching hunger wasn’t always nameless; he thinks at some point he held the name for what he yearns for, trapped carefully and delicately beneath his tongue.

Daeth sits up and scrubs his hands over his face in agitation.  This strangeness, this undefinable yen for which he doesn’t have the words to describe, is driving him to the point of insanity.  He feels the slight pull of calluses scrape against the smoothness of his face, shuts his eyes as a phantom sensation of something cottony and cool grazes the sweep of his cheek, like a soft, wistful sigh.   

A moment later, a real sigh wafts into the air, this time from the soft lips of his bedmate.  A small hand traces a path from his hip up his torso, the delicate fingers absently tracing the outline of the large scar that bisects his stomach and chest providing a welcome distraction from his thoughts and the mirage of nameless yearning that’s taken to haunting his dreams.  He opens his eyes and looks down at the pretty, pouting face of Lady Amarice ap Nudd-Syltamul, nothing in his expression hinting at anything but a yearning of a very different sort.  His lips turn up into a loose, rakish grin as he leans back on an elbow and watches her watch him.  Daeth knows what kind of picture he presents, ever the more evident by the cute flush that suddenly sweeps up Amarice’s pale body.

He reaches out with his free hand and walks two fingers along her thigh.  “I’m sorry, m’Lady,” he apologizes, not sounding sorry in the least.  “Did I wake you?”

Daeth’s smile grows wider at the hitch of her breath, as he shifts forward suddenly and pins her beneath him, which she willingly allows.  He presses a light kiss to the side of her neck, before whispering in a low, playful tone. 

 “It is awfully early…” he muses, letting out a soft sigh that tickles the fine, golden blonde hairs near her pointed ear.  “If you need some help getting back to sleep, I think I might have a few ideas...

Anything further that Daeth may have teased was cut off abruptly when Amarice wound a hand in his hair and stole his breath with a heated, demanding kiss.

He laughs, says, “As m’lady wishes,”  and sets to task.

 

═ ✽ ═

[OOC:  To The Bedroom of Lord Callon Syltamul ]

TOM-CAT (Must Read): Teleskela - Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ★★Try Again - ★★Powder Keg - Soft, soft - Imprint - ★★Stupid Little Tom-Cat
DAETH (top 3): Breaking Callon - Pleasure w/Pain - ★★Sensing Death
RISQUÉ (most recent): ★★Fun with Fisticuffs!
──────────────────
[ ☆ = favorite / ★★= extra fave]


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Lassroyale
(@lassroyale)
Patron Saint of Hawtbois, Catboys, & BAMF Babes Noble
Joined: 4 months ago
Posts: 438
Journey starter  

DAETH

Death Angel & Bearer of the Mark

╺ ✽ ╸ 

Oranges and Lemons

Sometimes when Daeth dreams it’s like he’s in a borrowed body, the pulse in his veins being pumped from a borrowed heart.  He can’t make heads or tails of his dreams as of late, their after-echo turned into nightmares more often than not.  

 

He dreams in loops and replays, information, stuttering through his mind in vivid pictures smeared brightly behind his eyelids.  He dreams in snatches of the familiar and wide expanses of the unknown.  He moves through the darkness that he’s been intimate with, acquainted so vitally that he feels it still curled in him, touching him from deep inside.   And always he has a sense of being trapped or of running away. Always, away; away, away, away.

 

And in his dreams he wears his own skin like a stranger’s coat.

 

╺ ✽ ╸ 

 

Daeth is standing barefoot on a muddy track.  The electric smell of fresh rainfall on the cusp of an impending storm is in the air, making his senses tingle.  The sun is high above his head, distant and oblique as it casts a pale, alien light down over the landscape, making the rich, red earth he’s standing upon look foreign and strange.  He feels apprehension curl through him, raising gooseflesh like warm, fetid breath breathed across the nape of your neck as you pass through an empty room in the middle of the night.

This is a new nightmare, one that seizes him with the type of paralytic panic that he hasn’t ever felt in his life. 

As he stands there, a shadow crawls in from the North, stretching long fingers that grasp at him and caress his skin with the softest touch.  And then a voice speaks, awful and formless, yet somehow musical in its intonation.

 

“Oranges and lemons,

Say the bells of Saint Clements.”

 

Daeth doesn’t know why, but he begins to run, the need to get as far from the shadow as possible rising up within him and drowning out every other sense.  He nearly trips in his haste to get away.  His bare feet are sucked down deep into the mud, which grabs at his legs as he moves away from the shadow, from the voice, from the sense of his impending doom, his loss of freedom that’s creeping steadily towards him.

 

“You owe me five farthings,

Say the bells of Saint Martin’s.”

 

Worms squish in between his toes; the muck sucks at his ankles, slurping at his shins with wet, squelching noises.  He looks back, his purple irises nearly chased out by pupils blown wide with panic that he can’t tamp down.  The shadow glides towards him and there’s something sensual about the way it moves.  Shadowy tendrils flow behind like locks of long, silky black hair stirred by the non-existent wind.  He needs to keep running…right?

 

“When will you pay me?

Say the bells of Old Bailey.”

 

Mud slurps at Daeth’s knees as he struggles to get farther away from the shadow, though he finds his will weakening the closer it comes.  Sweat beads at his brow as he strains to move.  His body feels heavy; it takes effort to force one leg in front of the other.  He twists and looks over his shoulder – the shadow is gaining ground.

 

“When I grow rich,

Say the bells of Shoreditch.”

 

Now that he listens to it, the voice is rather pleasing.  It’s a voice that makes men pay attention.  It’s warped from the sound of broken glass falling from split lips, into something sleek and dark. Still, when the shadow falls across him, it feels suffocating, like he’s being covered with a wool blanket in the middle of a tropical heatwave.  He shudders when a delicate hand reaches out and cups his cheek.

 

“When will that be, 

Say the bells of Stepney.”

 

Daeth tries to move but abruptly realizes that he’s been pulled down into the mud to his waist.  He tries to twist away from the touch, though a great part of him wants to lean into the cool hand stroking along his jaw.  He feels himself sink deeper, up to his neck.  He closes his eyes.

 

“I do not know,

Says the great bell at Bow.”

 

The muck sucks him down into its cold depths, choking off his air, cutting off the wan light of the sun.  It’s like being far below the surface of the ocean, sunk down into the dark, cold depths where shadows pass by and bump shoulders blindly with whatever lurks in the deep.  Suddenly, he’s grabbed, pulled up out of the mud which grabs at his legs the hands of jealous lovers.  The shadow is wrapped around him, suffocating and whispering softly into his ear.  He wants to sink back into its embrace - into her embrace.  

 

“Here comes the candle to light you to bed,

And here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

   Chip, chop, chip, chop, the last man is dead.”

 

╺ ✽ ╸ 

 

Daeth wakes with a start, places a  hand to his neck and feels it whole and firmly on his shoulders.  He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face.  That goddamn dream, again.  This is the first time the shadow has gotten that close…has actually touched him.  He doesn’t know what it means.  Heaving a great breath, he glances out the window and sees that it’s still dark with a few more hours until dawn.  He’s agitated and restless, and, seeking something to turn his thoughts from his dreams (nightmares) and the confusion they cause, turns to his bedmate.

Amarice comes awake readily enough, and as she opens beneath him, Daeth gladly loses himself in what she has to offer.  It’s perhaps not the most romantic that he’s ever been, but the Death Angel has never professed to be a selfless being.

TOM-CAT (Must Read): Teleskela - Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ★★Try Again - ★★Powder Keg - Soft, soft - Imprint - ★★Stupid Little Tom-Cat
DAETH (top 3): Breaking Callon - Pleasure w/Pain - ★★Sensing Death
RISQUÉ (most recent): ★★Fun with Fisticuffs!
──────────────────
[ ☆ = favorite / ★★= extra fave]


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