His lack of reaction was just enough time for a durastic change to take place. The demented soul fought for control once more, but was losing gradually. It had nothing to hold onto now, and now that there was someone in the room there was a distraction. Solomon held her attention just long enough for the natural inhabitor to break through and take partial consciousness. She could feel that he had discovered her mess, though the reaction to even that was hardly one at all; it was just the thoughts that had begun to flow, and the energy, and life that was drifting through his veins. Knives shuddered, her eyes were wide open and blank, washed over black, and dull.

Before he rounded her once more, and came within quite close proximity, the young woman took only a step back. She was unstable now, and anxiety, fear, and uneasiness had taken control of her. This neutral state was one she didn't enter that often, for people were not around her when this struggle for consciousness took place. Both voices screamed a battle inside of her head, one in the ancient language which Knives had begun to understand, and common speak around most parts of the human realms. Her eyes flashed, the layer on the surface regaining its menacing glow, and liquid-reflection of the pale light which snuck through the cracks of the door. She could hear nothing but muffled coos, and see nothing but Solomon in the thick darkness which consumed the room.

There was warmth, and a foreign touch that did not belong to her. His slender, worn fingertips had brushed across her cheek, and detected the lack of warmth upon her skin. She froze. A chill ran down her spine, causing her body to tremble for a few moments before falling still. Her eyes closed, opening moments later crystal clear, unoxygenated blood-red. They were no longer washed over black, and no longer menacing. The look in her eyes was soft, as if she did not understand what was going on. Lost. The next words that he spoke were lost, and were nothing but murmurings, quite similar to the false whispers one would hear in the wind. Beyond the mutilation and murderings this young woman had just commited, she looked more fragile than a porcelain doll. Her pale skin contrasted greatly with the intense darkness, and the ebony hair framing her face caused her to look much like a ghost.

Instinct kicked in, and as soon as their eyes met she shoved him aside and bounded for the door. Her breathing had become quick and shallow, and her eyes wide with fear. She was much like a young fawn in this moment, whipping about to try and escape a fate which she did not know would blossom into something more than just being caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

__________________
. Andurhil is my loveslave . Quark is my Necro-Loving-Fiend .



| Venemous Design | Chronicles of the Abyss |