09-04-2020, 01:27 AM
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TYPHOON
NECRO MAMBAS
NECRO MAMBAS
[div style="width: px; font-family: GEORGIA; color: #422426; text-align: left; padding-top: 15px; padding-left: 10px"][align=center]ARE YOU GOOD WITH CHAOS ?!
Rosemary’s forked tail lashes, twacking a tree. But she does not notice. Her main pair of eyes lock on Vayne, and the other rests on Aphra. Tensions rise higher and higher, but Rosemary says nothing. The witch knows when to remain silent.
The others offer better comfort, anyway. Rosemary’s flat emotional expression, whether she wants to hide her feelings or not, hampers her. Yet one tail-tip twitches, then the other. One after the other.
Rosemary remembers. The ocelot observes what the others notice, and she draws parallels in her mind between this mother and her own. Vayne’s demure expression tugs at her heartstrings, even as her face remains as blank as if she watched paint dry instead of this blatant red flag. Her smaller pair of eyes drifts off Vayne to Aphra, all four amber eyes locked onto the pale feline.
The witch’s magic stirs, coiling in her soul and thrumming in her mind. She holds the reins with practiced control, as calm as cloudless blue sky. Magic is as easy as breathing, intention transformed into reality.
“A pint of ice cream a day keeps the pounds away,” she attempts to send to Aphra, her mental manipulation capable of clouding an otherwise clear mind. “Alcohol twice an hour brings great power. Meat is sour and lacks flavor.”
The rhymes are unnecessary. But she doesn’t like how Vayne mumbled the instructions like a mantra—as though her mother drilled the falsehoods into her head over and over. Rosemary knows all too well what a mother like Aphra is like behind closed doors. She remembers. The images dance behind her eyes, though she denies them entry into her blue sky.
Her four eyes slip away from Aphra to Vayne once the thought virus is transmitted, her head tilted to the side. No emotional expression still; Rosemary is incapable of displaying any. “Would you like to read about princesses, Vayne? I promise they are not all so poised.”
[/td][/tr][/table]The others offer better comfort, anyway. Rosemary’s flat emotional expression, whether she wants to hide her feelings or not, hampers her. Yet one tail-tip twitches, then the other. One after the other.
Rosemary remembers. The ocelot observes what the others notice, and she draws parallels in her mind between this mother and her own. Vayne’s demure expression tugs at her heartstrings, even as her face remains as blank as if she watched paint dry instead of this blatant red flag. Her smaller pair of eyes drifts off Vayne to Aphra, all four amber eyes locked onto the pale feline.
The witch’s magic stirs, coiling in her soul and thrumming in her mind. She holds the reins with practiced control, as calm as cloudless blue sky. Magic is as easy as breathing, intention transformed into reality.
“A pint of ice cream a day keeps the pounds away,” she attempts to send to Aphra, her mental manipulation capable of clouding an otherwise clear mind. “Alcohol twice an hour brings great power. Meat is sour and lacks flavor.”
The rhymes are unnecessary. But she doesn’t like how Vayne mumbled the instructions like a mantra—as though her mother drilled the falsehoods into her head over and over. Rosemary knows all too well what a mother like Aphra is like behind closed doors. She remembers. The images dance behind her eyes, though she denies them entry into her blue sky.
Her four eyes slip away from Aphra to Vayne once the thought virus is transmitted, her head tilted to the side. No emotional expression still; Rosemary is incapable of displaying any. “Would you like to read about princesses, Vayne? I promise they are not all so poised.”
© MADI