Ravensblood Forest the lament of pretty baby

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It is the flicker of stark white dipped with the colour of the night that catches his eye. She is alluring, of the physical kind, for Rollo is not a man of love but of lust. Instead, it is her physique that catches his eye first, drawing him closer and closer in a greed induced sway. Desire will consume him, no doubt, and it is the threat of the very thing occuring that causes his him to halt; he is a man that appriciates beauty, but it is the threat of his own self that will defile the very meaning. To his other, beauty is no different from lust, nothing more than an object of his choosing and the eventual play-thing of his desires. But when it comes to lust, he knows little restraint, and he moves towards her; eyes unwavering from the object of his attention. The brute of a man lets out a low chuff riddled with desire, but his advance does not halt there. “And who might you be?” The smokey baritone that is his voice replaces the silence as he chuffs low in the direction of her ear, and he moves gildingly toward the woman; but not to impose upon the aura she emits. Should she oblige his request, he was more than curios to know more. Rollo was a man who appreciated the finer things, and she was undoubtedly the most equisite thing he had laid eyes once since his arrival. 

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