[align=justify:9b2100f714]When she felt the presence of what AtraâLamia thought was Tongra it had departed hastily, there was no telling Luciferâs pranks never found an end to the childishness. A creature of Luciferâs depth subjecting himself and others to petty pallor tricks and séances in order to dig his claws into the nerves of those he deemed as âlesserâ beings. Narcissism and Ego would be both placed to shame should a comparison be made, for none had as much self-love and self-absorption as he. There was no telling to AtraâLamia what events were being played out in the ruined Temple of Darkbane beneath the obsidian spires; then again AtraâLamia cared not, she had already given more of herself than what that wretched clan was ever worth. She wasnât about to give another pound of flesh, another spillage of vitae⦠they were beneath her now, and every drop of its essence had been bled from her body to the verge of her own obscure demise. It was difficult to return to the usual conscience when one had stared into the hollow eyes of that shrouded nemesis. Many had thought they had stared into his eyes, seen their life flash before their eyes in rapid relay⦠but death is not that pleasant. You do not see the life you led, you see all the misery, failure and disappoint spoken in ones honor; or dishonor- nothing is as tormenting as failure, especially to a proud, glorious monster such as AtraâLamia.
A woman, who had bested the best, manipulated the men who claimed to have wills of iron. A woman who had taken the worthless and turned them into something to be feared, taken them under her black wing only to have them spit back in her face. The lovers who swore a thousand deaths before they would leave her side? Was that so? Then where were they now? Vain words, vain love⦠none of it worth even a heartbeat to a mortal let alone a Goddess. A woman who had fought the great wars, taken continents by siege and even had her father Lucifer himself running for his existence. Rightfully so, she had already slaughtered Lilith, her mother. What mattered to AtraâLamia was what she saw before her eyes now, whose lips were before hers, what tender touch encompassed her slender form in a tourniquet of sensual embrace. The past held no significance to the psyche, and certainly not to the heart. It no longer drummed to the disharmony of affection and war; now it was lust and hatred, the fuels that gave her spirit fire⦠the zest to continue⦠the passion to destroy.
Then again, was there even a point to that? Foes were few and far between, that is what happens when you eviscerate them before they know what has hit them between the eyes. Vengeance and Retribution should always be swift, but then why not savor the flavor of it. Slow, leisured like the hard thrust of lovers in rhythmic delve⦠sweaty, heated yet cold altogether. Revenge wasnât always a dish best served cold; sometimes it should be served with the hearts and loins of man, and the quivering, shuddering sacrifice of innocent blood. AtraâLamia adored to be feared, to see the black essence ooze from the inside, reflections of heinous deeds looking back at her upon their frightened mirrors- a nightmare in burlesque. The call out to her from Ladislas heard in the darkest recess of her mind received no reaction other than a tedious roll of the eyes, he would have to learn what it was to stand on his own two feet without her shadow looming over him. He was a creature designed for murder on a mass scale, not a petty death here or there; Atraâs grand scale was thinking cities, kingdoms and realms. Whatever his business was in a structure of Darkbane, gave him no favor in her mindâs eye. No ambition.
It caused her to lose interest in the Temple altogether, the only inkling of interest she became aware of had dispersed, why dwell in it? A fragment of hope that Tongra had returned to AtraâLamia only made her close of more to adoration, a pitiable, useless aspiration it were. Dispersed with her eagerness to remove her emotion from it, blizzard them over like a millennia of august snow and winter. To make her more removed from that world. Most of her memories barely even a spark in the eternal darkness of her mind, when one embraces an element fully, they soon become it. Whereas AtraâLamia was once âsomethingâ of material now she was nothing, empty like the void itself. Perhaps she could return to someone more of substance, more human in her approach even if a tyrant⦠but the question that required an answer was⦠Why would she want to? This affliction and conviction was lonely, it would lead to an existence of nothing more than what she was willing to give; everything had a price, this was hers. Looking for a cohort of equaled lust for darkness, the flesh, the death of nations, worlds, and universesâ¦one who would remain true to his word was impracticable. She was alone in this passion.
Take whatever pleasure was offered, but by no means hold it sacred, she was to be worshipped, why not let another get down on death kneel only to lick at her ankles and take whatever throes of lust and pain she was willing to lash upon their delicate skin. AtraâLamia could never remember a lonelier epitome than Pandora, but then there was no greater fool than Pandora. Atra remembered back to the fateful eve when her piceous eyes glanced upon the rapture of Pandora with the arms of formidable agents at her side. How Atra had wanted that power for herself, wanted to be Pandora and now look where she was⦠exactly the idol of that forgotten wretch. If anything pissed AtraâLamia of more, was that dawning, niggling cancer, a disease eating her away to the core. AtraâLamia could feel the plague biting away her inner trophies and glories, as if it wanted to take everything of worth away and leave her with nothing. No greater poison than the void and hatred itself, if consumes a being and she wasnât about to be defeated by a slumbering corpse, The Eternal Goddess Pandora. AtraâLamia however knew better⦠she knew âthe bitchâ had awakened. The last threads to be severed, the last nail in the coffin that was Darkbane, sever it and the rest just evaporates like vapor.
Luscious rubiescent embouchements curved into a sinister smile, eyes sweeping over the plains of her realm and beyond that into the mortal world; already knowing the dark plans of the âShining Oneâ- influencing his mind that sacrificing the young female slaves in her would grant him his one and only wish. The pesky one annoying him would suffer soon enough, let her think she was a force to be reckoned with and squash her like a bug merely for entertainment. There were a couple of abilities in the fey that AtraâLamia desired to possess in her own repertoire of unpleasant surprises, she always liked to keep an ace or two up her sleeve. Then there were the thoughts of the âBeloved Oneâ, the one whose heart she held only to stomp her foot upon it, like it was a delicate flower waiting to be plucked and cherished. Nicolai had grown weak, he had to see the error of his ways, had it been long enough? Snide lips pursed in lustful arches, right hand rising to her lips only to place a temperate kiss upon her flesh before blowing it to the shadows âFor you my love. Remember promises⦠the massacre of mankind? Maybe soon enough my love⦠maybeâ whether he would hear her the sweet darkness of her voice mattered not, it was the fact she had spoken of them, in regards to HIM when he had been exiled from her mind. The anger was still raw and fresh, but less bitter to the experience.
Silken legs shifting from her seated position, graceful curves shifting to the motion of her svelte figure, landscapes of devilish yearnings, bodice barely sheltered by the lapping darkness for a Goddess barely bothered with coverings of the flesh, nakedness was the idealism of perfection and rarely AtraâLamia cursed herself with them. Toned, bronzed limbs rising, silk and satin thrown across the canapé of iron and night only to expose those dreams of man for the shadows to behold, to bow, lower their heads to bask her in their wicked webs. The stateliness of her form screamed succubus, that was a gift granted by the loving womb of her mother, beauty unbound and untold given by her father the most beautiful creature ever to have been created. All women could only dream to come close to comparison, but their jealousy and envy bleed through the cold, dead veins of their corpse-ridden reality, only to have them hate her more. Their hatred only making AtraâLamia stronger beyond their livid imagination, they have her the essence she required to exist and the more they offered lies against her, the less likely she would ever fade in nothing, even long before they were gone to the tenebrous embrace of death.
Soft, smooth flesh adorning the skeletal frame of AtraâLamia, even though flesh was just a guise- a useless image portrayed in order to resemble that of mortal; it made it easier to control them all, the pawns they are. Many great men had admired these curves and contours, but only two had seen the vehemence of desire that was truly her. Three female lovers, that could even state they had been close enough to see a flicker of what Atra was in reality- still the females were the most loyal, most tender and more sweeter of the sexes. Dainty digits splayed, palms placed down against the flesh of concaved naval only to sensuously travel upwards in ascension. Drifting over hard surfaces covered in satin, rising in leisure to higher zeniths of firm pert peaks⦠teeth nibbling over saccharine lower lip offering a hard bite while her hands continued their exploration. Ascending to the graceful arches of nape, up through lengths of silky black, lifting rivulets from sculptured shoulders glistening in the gilded light of flickering black candle overture as crossed forearms rested on the crest of her head. Trappestine opprobrious rondures danced in the darkness with diabolical scintillation, ophidian asphodel incandescence burning in the centers of darkness. A quivered whisper breaking her poise, breaking the delight that was woman⦠the sound traveling to ears like ice itself, causing lip bitten to curse into a baneful simper.
âAtra?â the sound of her name couldnât be more delicious and she knew who it had manifested from before even giving it consideration or care of reminiscence. Brazen, callous and selfish in her own wantonness, though unfeeling and cold to the sentiment side of it. Chiseled chin ascending in her typical grandiose pose, conceited and arrogant, âThink of lovers gracing your body and one melts from the shadows with all their dreams held out on the palm of their hands, to offer them to you, negligent to the notion, that I no longer concern myself with them and their pitiful dreams.â Atra thought to herself all the while sashaying to the end of her chambers listening to where the melodious voice had ventured, she could even smell Satireâs presence even from a distance, a low seductive growl rolling from her esophagus and over the tip of her envenomed tongue. However, it was best to watch Satire writhe in torment in trying to find her, than offer her hand in directing her to where AtraâLamia stood skyclad for her eyes to enrapture, admire and worship. A Goddess may watch, but one rarely intervenes. All she would offer was a cacophonous choir, frozen caresses and shadowy kisses⦠âCome my love, embrace the darkness and maybe my love, you will find me thereâ[/align:9b2100f714]
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