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- - - Krymsyn - - -
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Date Posted: 17:34:37 11/11/01 Sun
In reply to:
«†he¿ƒate»
's message, "<~>Ever wonder what it meant when they said "It doesn't matter what they look like on the outside, but on the inside is what counts?"" on 14:21:07 11/11/01 Sun
Beauty. What a sickening word. Like a raven painted ivory to match purity, whilst sinful intent still lingers beneath the surface. But wasn't that the truth? The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape, or so the proverb tells. Yes, beauty truely held no link with purity, and yet still so many held the ideals that such bonds existed. Oh well. All the better for those gorgeous evils, I suppose. They can flaunt their ravishing looks like honey, simply awaiting the fly to be trapped in their intricate web. How wonderful it is for those antagonists, that they have such an easy time. Or do they? What if the attention they draw is not to their liking?
Nothing's beautiful from every angle. Calm rhythm of smooth stones polishing against the turf echos within the vast breeze, spilling, twining with her intricate designs, seeping into her purification. Producer of such noise ambles forth at a placid gait, agile appendages spreading forth in perfect motions, striding deeply, creating a swift rolling motion within which one might become mesmorized. Muscles ripple like slim snakes beneath a taught pelt of varying tones, spreading from a sinful touch of ebony to a rich scarlet hue to match fresh blood, gathering every hue in between. Sturdy bones create moveable pillars, holding the massive weight of the brute in question. Sturdy chest rises and falls lightly with each haughty breath, drawing valuable oxygen into constantly starved lungs. Slender neck of Arabic heritage glides upright, a dominating gesture, to a spledidly curved face, one of intellect and profoundness, carrying experience and expression, though hindered slightly by a thoughtful mask. Large obsidian optics swim around in their hollows, shifting, gathering information. Thick strands of raven hue slither against afore mentioned neck, tangling together like a cobweb, meshing into interesting patterns of charcoal lace. Matching strands of longer species dangle from dock, brushing swiftly against hocks while being kissed and taunted by the ever-present breeze. All components weave together, binding to create one compact figurine of satanic past. The epitome of an "evil" beast. The deadly version of earth's most pleasent herbivore.Attention falls upon the female of obvious antagonistic intent, male making several judgements about her simply based upon her appearence, though it be contradictory to his thoughts on the matter. Path suddenly changes, aiming in her direction, perhaps by some unknown force greater than any can comprehend. Or perhaps it was merely lead on by the stallion's desire to kill in cold blood. Skull shakes lightly, stil held in upright position, but demanding nothing from the female, sensing that such actions could easily set her off. Brute comes to a halt a countable distances from the mare, just out of striking distance, for safety's sake of course. Silent expression remains as such, large eyes taking her in, noting various attributes of her physical features. Silence remains a black widow tainting the brute, her web latched over his lips, forcing words to be choked down. Instead brute merely acknowledges the presence of the female, watching, seeming to wait for something.Silence is one great art of conversation.
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