A night like any other night, was this?
There lay a bevy of beautiful creatures none like most had the fortune to lay eyes upon deep in the dark cradle of the Asylum, they lie there in reform and repose. Each one a precious piece in a collection of treasures, Each one holding their own array of qualities. Like one of a kind cuts to a precious gem, their multi faceted charms bellied the pride, the power, and the virile nature of their Master. Though they each held their own room, the bulk of them often lie in a great common room allotted to them for relaxing and dressing quarters while their Master was away. Their figures seemed crafted from the dreams of the salacious and the damned that often haunted the sprawl of the club below, and perhaps to some degree they were, but every and all would always hold a devotion to their Lord. About each delicate throat hung a choker , around each svelte frame some slip of cloth or none at all; all swathed in the finest of sheets on the softest of lounges and bed frames.
Though not all of the beds were filled, one stood out amongst the rest due to it?s recently left, still rumpled state. Lord Romax?s Darkness had filtered into the night again, it seemed. His Darkness, the Demure Darkling, the violet-gold sapphire with those blood ruby hues and that precious metal shine to her skin; Isir.
Gone, gone, gone; always spirited away somewhere in a fondly forgotten nook or a blissfully secretive cranny. Though long limbed and kept supple, the drowess could bend with little effort into the most bow tight forms. It was a skill learned long ago to seem as small as possible? Anything to avoid the lash, anyway to seem insignificant and beneath the notice of unwarranted punishment.
But now was not then, and now was deep with the pitch of cold as fierce as the burn of a fever.
As the room tempered down about the darkling, the fine, gleaming flesh of her arms and legs began to pimple and rise as the heat from within fought against the unnatural chill thickening the air. Breath came in slow, even streams and began to fog the short space about the half parted play of her lips; evidence of the beating heart still live and warm within. No true light penetrated the darkness, only the gelid spill of half ripened moonlight, pale and incorporeal as a gossamer wing spread to the air. The unseen was at work?
A Master?s touch. The Master?s touch.
Within the frail encasement of the diminutive darling?s mind a most alluring play began. Whispers of her Lord?s recent moony nature amongst the frailer sisters were ignored with an effortless ease, but there was something in the ever-solid curl and poise of the First sister Dru that caught Isir?s obedient eye. Though uneducated in some ways, the drowess excelled in others, reading bodies was one of them.
Pride, equanimity, pedigree, confidence, privilege? From the undulant roll of her limbs to the elegant turn of her lips, Isir read her First sister?s gestures with a quiet joy. From whatever all consuming malady their Lord had found himself swallowed by would be lifting soon, there would be no such dignity about her Sister?s air if it were not so. Seeing such confidence gave the drowess heart, but still she suffered from dark murmurs in the night. Bone tiredness was the cure for her nightly torments, so bone tiredness she would seek. During the light hours amongst the work between the club and baser duties of cleaning was where it could be found, and find it she did as often as she could.
Curled to the windowsill as she was, the darkling sank deeply? Deep, deep down. Her body succumbing to the tax of a long day, the progress of which was only aided by the intense chill permeating the inner, artful barrel of the room.
That was when He came.
A touch like no other haunted her every sense. Fingers of ice and fire given the softness of gloved flesh running hot trails down the sharp length of her jaw and the cool halo of metal and jewels about her neck. Darkness was his to control, both in essence and in body, how would such a supple creature so proud and ripe with the mark of his power be any different? Not all received such a personal touch, nor would they; rewards came to the honest in soul and the faithful without question. Caught in a dream more real than reality, the drowess bowed in her sleep, each limb caught in a fine tremble as the Sith Lord caressed his pet from within the inner dark of her unconscious mind. It was her turn now, it seemed, to receive a herald of his coming.
A vision or a memory? Something she?d known or a glimpse of what was to come? The darkling tasted blood somewhere through it all, her tongue was sweet with it, like the lingering glaze of honey from hot belly of a tea spoon.
?Soon?? Came the heavy, sinister baritone of a voice. His voice. That voice.
The only voice.
A whimper broke the air, but it was oh so small; all it did was die in the air once the fog of her breath trickled away.
There lay a bevy of beautiful creatures none like most had the fortune to lay eyes upon deep in the dark cradle of the Asylum, they lie there in reform and repose. Each one a precious piece in a collection of treasures, Each one holding their own array of qualities. Like one of a kind cuts to a precious gem, their multi faceted charms bellied the pride, the power, and the virile nature of their Master. Though they each held their own room, the bulk of them often lie in a great common room allotted to them for relaxing and dressing quarters while their Master was away. Their figures seemed crafted from the dreams of the salacious and the damned that often haunted the sprawl of the club below, and perhaps to some degree they were, but every and all would always hold a devotion to their Lord. About each delicate throat hung a choker , around each svelte frame some slip of cloth or none at all; all swathed in the finest of sheets on the softest of lounges and bed frames.
Though not all of the beds were filled, one stood out amongst the rest due to it?s recently left, still rumpled state. Lord Romax?s Darkness had filtered into the night again, it seemed. His Darkness, the Demure Darkling, the violet-gold sapphire with those blood ruby hues and that precious metal shine to her skin; Isir.
Gone, gone, gone; always spirited away somewhere in a fondly forgotten nook or a blissfully secretive cranny. Though long limbed and kept supple, the drowess could bend with little effort into the most bow tight forms. It was a skill learned long ago to seem as small as possible? Anything to avoid the lash, anyway to seem insignificant and beneath the notice of unwarranted punishment.
But now was not then, and now was deep with the pitch of cold as fierce as the burn of a fever.
As the room tempered down about the darkling, the fine, gleaming flesh of her arms and legs began to pimple and rise as the heat from within fought against the unnatural chill thickening the air. Breath came in slow, even streams and began to fog the short space about the half parted play of her lips; evidence of the beating heart still live and warm within. No true light penetrated the darkness, only the gelid spill of half ripened moonlight, pale and incorporeal as a gossamer wing spread to the air. The unseen was at work?
A Master?s touch. The Master?s touch.
Within the frail encasement of the diminutive darling?s mind a most alluring play began. Whispers of her Lord?s recent moony nature amongst the frailer sisters were ignored with an effortless ease, but there was something in the ever-solid curl and poise of the First sister Dru that caught Isir?s obedient eye. Though uneducated in some ways, the drowess excelled in others, reading bodies was one of them.
Pride, equanimity, pedigree, confidence, privilege? From the undulant roll of her limbs to the elegant turn of her lips, Isir read her First sister?s gestures with a quiet joy. From whatever all consuming malady their Lord had found himself swallowed by would be lifting soon, there would be no such dignity about her Sister?s air if it were not so. Seeing such confidence gave the drowess heart, but still she suffered from dark murmurs in the night. Bone tiredness was the cure for her nightly torments, so bone tiredness she would seek. During the light hours amongst the work between the club and baser duties of cleaning was where it could be found, and find it she did as often as she could.
Curled to the windowsill as she was, the darkling sank deeply? Deep, deep down. Her body succumbing to the tax of a long day, the progress of which was only aided by the intense chill permeating the inner, artful barrel of the room.
That was when He came.
A touch like no other haunted her every sense. Fingers of ice and fire given the softness of gloved flesh running hot trails down the sharp length of her jaw and the cool halo of metal and jewels about her neck. Darkness was his to control, both in essence and in body, how would such a supple creature so proud and ripe with the mark of his power be any different? Not all received such a personal touch, nor would they; rewards came to the honest in soul and the faithful without question. Caught in a dream more real than reality, the drowess bowed in her sleep, each limb caught in a fine tremble as the Sith Lord caressed his pet from within the inner dark of her unconscious mind. It was her turn now, it seemed, to receive a herald of his coming.
A vision or a memory? Something she?d known or a glimpse of what was to come? The darkling tasted blood somewhere through it all, her tongue was sweet with it, like the lingering glaze of honey from hot belly of a tea spoon.
?Soon?? Came the heavy, sinister baritone of a voice. His voice. That voice.
The only voice.
A whimper broke the air, but it was oh so small; all it did was die in the air once the fog of her breath trickled away.