Private Tales These Venomed Lies

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
“Maybe not,“ he put the needle point in the hollow of her throat, resting it there so that it rose and fell with her breaths. “But what kind of priestess refuses to make a sacrifice to her God?“

The Butcher looked into her eyes, searching for something. At last, he lifted the dagger and brushed it against the strands of her ivory hair the caress of edged steel.
 
A dark light animated his eyes at her words, the first sign of true curiosity or interest, or indeed anything resembling real human emotion.

“Tell me, “ he commanded, the same hoarse voice that had commanded the burning of villages, the hanging of dozens and the slaughter of hundreds more. Men, women, and children. The old and the young. The weak and the strong. A decade without mercy, here in the Reach.
 
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  • Spoon Cry
Reactions: Aristeia Darke
Aristeia's eyes burned with contempt.

"I do not need to confess to you, Unholy One." There were deeds done in the eyes of the gods that did not need to be shared.

He could slit her throat, but she would heal. It had been some time she had seen her own flesh knit back over what should be fatal wounds, but Aristeia was adamant in keeping the words she swore to those she was faithful to. Let the Stranger think she would be a sacrifice, a body left to grow cold here...

If that gave her a way out of this... then she would gladly give her throat.

This is for your, First Mother...
 
  • Yay
Reactions: Shrike
A snort at her contemptuous stare and the jut of her bared throat, tendons taught and stark, pleading to be cut. It reminded him of that ranger, years ago. Such defiance, just to end up a flayed corpse on a rope. Better than most, the bleating sheep of the rest.

A wolf could respect a wolf.

He let her hair fall away and put the edge of the blade back to her neck. Slowly, oh so slowly, he drug it across her skin, with a care to avoid the artery - though such a thing would be lost on her. Tydeus drug the blade down in a vertical line against her snow white skin, eyes fixated on her reaction to the pain.

Would she scream?

Would she beg him to stop?

A tremor ran through his jaw. Why deny it. He enjoyed the way the razored edge parted flesh and left a thin line that flooded with scarlet. He wondered if this was how a mason felt, chipping away at stone to reveal the angel within.
 
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