03-05-2012, 03:49 PM
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The woman walked through the fire-burnt landscape with slow, purposeful steps. Her world had become smaller these days, driven by the singular goal of a dead woman and her holy child. She had seen the truth in him and heard whispers in dreams, in passing voices spoke through flames and rain. Lillith could not, and did not, deny the fact that the dead man she had once loved was now gone. What lingered of him was the shadow and the ghost of a god. They could die, she had learned; one could stop being anything.
Naked save for a glittering silver and blue charm around her throat. Time had aged her. She was seven now, and she had children to stretch and sag her belly and breasts. Her fur helped to hide these things, still thick and plush and glossy. The madness in her eyes was far brighter though. It was a feverish gleam, one that made her ice colored eyes sharper, like glass. She breathed in the cold air and exhaled steam, sending it skyward. A familiar scent trailed in along the frost, but she had known her destination long before she had scented the girl.
She found her, in the few remaining stones of what had once been a holy land, a shade of her father. Lillith’s black lips pulled away from teeth yellowing from time, her whiskers curling towards her muzzle. Her steps became stiff-legged, her fur bristled along the length of her spine and turned her tail brush-bottle. As she moved slowly towards the girl, her snarl twisted into a terrible grin. Of course she would come here—it only served to mock the dead, something her daughter seemed to do without care.
The woman walked through the fire-burnt landscape with slow, purposeful steps. Her world had become smaller these days, driven by the singular goal of a dead woman and her holy child. She had seen the truth in him and heard whispers in dreams, in passing voices spoke through flames and rain. Lillith could not, and did not, deny the fact that the dead man she had once loved was now gone. What lingered of him was the shadow and the ghost of a god. They could die, she had learned; one could stop being anything.
Naked save for a glittering silver and blue charm around her throat. Time had aged her. She was seven now, and she had children to stretch and sag her belly and breasts. Her fur helped to hide these things, still thick and plush and glossy. The madness in her eyes was far brighter though. It was a feverish gleam, one that made her ice colored eyes sharper, like glass. She breathed in the cold air and exhaled steam, sending it skyward. A familiar scent trailed in along the frost, but she had known her destination long before she had scented the girl.
She found her, in the few remaining stones of what had once been a holy land, a shade of her father. Lillith’s black lips pulled away from teeth yellowing from time, her whiskers curling towards her muzzle. Her steps became stiff-legged, her fur bristled along the length of her spine and turned her tail brush-bottle. As she moved slowly towards the girl, her snarl twisted into a terrible grin. Of course she would come here—it only served to mock the dead, something her daughter seemed to do without care.