W
Weiss
Guest
Original poster
[fieldbox="Lady Macbeth, darkred, solid, 10"]
"We will proceed no longer in this business… King Duncan has honored me, and I've brought upon golden opinions from all peoples! Please, let's stop this, my lo–" Macbeth whispered with ill-founded ferocity to the figure bathed in the darkness. The disproving tonality of the man's voice tried and failed to eclipse the chameleonic quakes of hesitation. It was adorable, somewhat sad, that this Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, a man with power and more so, quailed at the sight and sounds of her. Then, from the blackness of a corner in their humble home, a cold, expressionless peal of laughter pierced the soundless air between the figure and Macbeth, cutting his sentence short. "No." Her voice carried not a touch of humanity. The single word was an icicle thrust upon Macbeth's spine. On the one hand, these words were tempting as much as they were wicked—to be the Scottish King forevermore. On the other, fear corroded his confidence like a claymore swung in mists of Cawdor. "What if we fail?" He asked. "We cannot fail."
Without warning, Gruoch, somewhat undressed with naught but a thin veil of verdant, translucent silk, jostled from the corner, throwing her right arm at and around her husband's neck. With her palm, she gripped the grizzled man's hair and brought his nose towards hers. Her left hand, however, clutched a dagger whose blade she drove into an inch before Macbeth's neck. The startled thane perspired unfrozen beads of sweat and his heart raced faster than the drums of war. In lieu of her fingers, she caressed his neck with the tip of the dagger. Her eyes locked unto his, and from then on Macbeth knew that he had married the Devil.
"I shall wine with his two chamberlains. They won't know a thing. Their memories will go up as smoke in the chimneys of their brains…" Gruoch brought the blade below her husband's heart and brushed his ribs. She gripped his hair harder, forcefully bringing her husband's ears to her mouth. She whispered, "… and when the fools slumber like the summertime hogs, you shall commit the ultimate crime. And when the morning comes we, like the other sheep outside our walls, will have tears rolling down our cheeks and we will grieve and mourn and cry for the beloved King Duncan." The dark lovers locked eyes again. They froze in their psychotic position, until Macbeth, with a newfound strength, gripped his wife and kissed her passionately against the wooden wall. "Yes, my love. I will exert every muscle in my body to commit this crime. Go now, and pretend to be a friendly hostess. Hide with a false pleasant face what you know in your false, evil heart." That night, they laid with heated passion, juxtaposed to the cold beatings of their frozen hearts…
The trees swayed and danced around Gruoch, her blackish green robes following in her wake. The lack of her mystic ichor from her body diluted the healthy glow and color of her flesh, turning it ashen and nigh lifeless. The mantle of clouds exhaled wintry winds. To her bloodless flesh, these gusts felt colder… she once pondered on how cold the winds of Lucifer's wings were, and although Gruoch only read about it in the Polis Archives, she asked herself if these winds came close. Gruoch was fleet of foot, and as she sprinted across the deadwoods whilst empowered by her sanguimancy, from afar, the thickness of the trees began to fade away, and only the sands of the palace courtyards could be seen.
Upon reaching the edge, a long tendril of blood whiplashed towards Mordred who, while seated upon the sands comfortably, knew and saw nothing. His guard was down, and this became his undoing—the blood poured forth and wrapped itself, like an anaconda, around the knight. The ichor turned from red into darker red, and from a fast-running liquid into a more viscous one. In this red prison, Mordred could feel the blood seep into the cracks and slits of his medieval armor, but it did him no harm. However, the blood unfastened Mordred's scabbard from his belt, and at once ejected it out into the open. Tomoe saw this, shocked, and as the archer stepped back, the sanguimancer launched herself towards the two…
"You must move faster." The Lady whispered from outside the King's Quarters. Gruoch heard the footsteps of her husband and he emerged with bloodied hands and shivering eyes. Silently, the cowering thane passed the dagger towards his Lady, who then proceeded to paint and smear the blood upon the hands of the drugged guardsmen. Her eyes were filled with coldness and naught more, and they fled and cleansed the premises immediately thereafter.
Whilst in the air, she said. "Where is he!? Where is Macbeth!" Mordred knew what her words meant—she was sure of it. Hearing her name alone that day on Orpheus' dingy made him look tense. At first she thought the knight was simply mad, but now she knew he was only wary.
After he had answered her question, Gruoch neared him so that there would be about an inch of space between their faces. "What did you do to him when you saw him?"
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"We will proceed no longer in this business… King Duncan has honored me, and I've brought upon golden opinions from all peoples! Please, let's stop this, my lo–" Macbeth whispered with ill-founded ferocity to the figure bathed in the darkness. The disproving tonality of the man's voice tried and failed to eclipse the chameleonic quakes of hesitation. It was adorable, somewhat sad, that this Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, a man with power and more so, quailed at the sight and sounds of her. Then, from the blackness of a corner in their humble home, a cold, expressionless peal of laughter pierced the soundless air between the figure and Macbeth, cutting his sentence short. "No." Her voice carried not a touch of humanity. The single word was an icicle thrust upon Macbeth's spine. On the one hand, these words were tempting as much as they were wicked—to be the Scottish King forevermore. On the other, fear corroded his confidence like a claymore swung in mists of Cawdor. "What if we fail?" He asked. "We cannot fail."
Without warning, Gruoch, somewhat undressed with naught but a thin veil of verdant, translucent silk, jostled from the corner, throwing her right arm at and around her husband's neck. With her palm, she gripped the grizzled man's hair and brought his nose towards hers. Her left hand, however, clutched a dagger whose blade she drove into an inch before Macbeth's neck. The startled thane perspired unfrozen beads of sweat and his heart raced faster than the drums of war. In lieu of her fingers, she caressed his neck with the tip of the dagger. Her eyes locked unto his, and from then on Macbeth knew that he had married the Devil.
"I shall wine with his two chamberlains. They won't know a thing. Their memories will go up as smoke in the chimneys of their brains…" Gruoch brought the blade below her husband's heart and brushed his ribs. She gripped his hair harder, forcefully bringing her husband's ears to her mouth. She whispered, "… and when the fools slumber like the summertime hogs, you shall commit the ultimate crime. And when the morning comes we, like the other sheep outside our walls, will have tears rolling down our cheeks and we will grieve and mourn and cry for the beloved King Duncan." The dark lovers locked eyes again. They froze in their psychotic position, until Macbeth, with a newfound strength, gripped his wife and kissed her passionately against the wooden wall. "Yes, my love. I will exert every muscle in my body to commit this crime. Go now, and pretend to be a friendly hostess. Hide with a false pleasant face what you know in your false, evil heart." That night, they laid with heated passion, juxtaposed to the cold beatings of their frozen hearts…
The trees swayed and danced around Gruoch, her blackish green robes following in her wake. The lack of her mystic ichor from her body diluted the healthy glow and color of her flesh, turning it ashen and nigh lifeless. The mantle of clouds exhaled wintry winds. To her bloodless flesh, these gusts felt colder… she once pondered on how cold the winds of Lucifer's wings were, and although Gruoch only read about it in the Polis Archives, she asked herself if these winds came close. Gruoch was fleet of foot, and as she sprinted across the deadwoods whilst empowered by her sanguimancy, from afar, the thickness of the trees began to fade away, and only the sands of the palace courtyards could be seen.
Upon reaching the edge, a long tendril of blood whiplashed towards Mordred who, while seated upon the sands comfortably, knew and saw nothing. His guard was down, and this became his undoing—the blood poured forth and wrapped itself, like an anaconda, around the knight. The ichor turned from red into darker red, and from a fast-running liquid into a more viscous one. In this red prison, Mordred could feel the blood seep into the cracks and slits of his medieval armor, but it did him no harm. However, the blood unfastened Mordred's scabbard from his belt, and at once ejected it out into the open. Tomoe saw this, shocked, and as the archer stepped back, the sanguimancer launched herself towards the two…
"You must move faster." The Lady whispered from outside the King's Quarters. Gruoch heard the footsteps of her husband and he emerged with bloodied hands and shivering eyes. Silently, the cowering thane passed the dagger towards his Lady, who then proceeded to paint and smear the blood upon the hands of the drugged guardsmen. Her eyes were filled with coldness and naught more, and they fled and cleansed the premises immediately thereafter.
Whilst in the air, she said. "Where is he!? Where is Macbeth!" Mordred knew what her words meant—she was sure of it. Hearing her name alone that day on Orpheus' dingy made him look tense. At first she thought the knight was simply mad, but now she knew he was only wary.
After he had answered her question, Gruoch neared him so that there would be about an inch of space between their faces. "What did you do to him when you saw him?"
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