A sharp edge of a dagger kisses a flinching tongue, tip tasting for ichor. Lips set in a thin line, gaze hollow.
“The cloak of life threads for 𝒉𝒊𝒎. Do you hear it?” A cranium tilts, palm embraced by a tongue—crimson spilling, wiped away && then swallowed.
“You look like an awful disgrace,” a purr, low && hardly kind in intent—a dagger in palms, as she sits upon where she rests: the 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳’𝘴 hips. The sharp blade rests against * 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 throat.
“If you’ve any sense… Miquella calls no?”
“In a place most promising, you rest,” a trill—hands spreading wide, to flourish && announce the prettiness of a wasteland.
“Fear not. You are safe.”
"I mean no disrespect, but in my case my mistake was my devotion to the divine in the first place."
He paused, taking a quick glance around the unfamiliar area.
"I know not of the one you speak. Tell me, where do I find myself?"
“…That is a tragedy. Where does your path lead you now? Does it bring you to my Kindly Miquella?
Perhaps, your mistake was divine intervention—to swallow gold && bear the needle.”
Fingers welcome crimson, wet && so fondly slick after they sully a wound; fingering for honour. She barks out a sob—agonies rippling, helmet rolling by her feet with a clang.
“Do you think 𝐡𝐞 likes red? He must. I am most blessed; I am most sacred. This is my baptism.”