Lion Head Mesa [M]No filter on your mouth

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Throughout this thread contains: Sexual suggestion, implied sexual abuse, delusion, dark psychology. VILE and uncomfortable.

Backdated to the night of February 15th

Lying on the floor, her chest was heaving. Dizzy.

In that morning, Machiavelli had been brought over from Muat-riya to ready for the traveling band. Eset had been clear. Mazoi listened. As she did. As she would. She collapsed later in the evening and did not return to the upper 

The wall of her room was kind to her eyes. By week, irritation had woven into her behaviors, and it was drastic each time. Aimless and disoriented, her rounds between Muat-riya and Akashingo became limited. Primarily, her residence dwelled in the palace. How many times had it been now, that she had felt this way? Enough times it made the demon born bitter and rowdy at it. This was not the same, however, was it?

In her lower stomach, a broil. She focused on it so intensely that it nauseated her and made her vision break into a sprint across the wall, before it fluttered itself back out. From her nose, pointed breaths, and below it at the edges of her mouth, cries. Continued, forceful breathing that was loud in a tearless weep. Her shoulders were firm to the ground, and a once cold cheek turned aggressive with heat with unbearable waves. It was sickening, and her belly, it was on fire. Her own scent fell upon her earlier in the day. Now it would not leave. Now this would not stop.

It would only strengthen.

It would not tame.

So, she breathed. Breathed rough. Whined and rumbled very softly in her room and found her vision hazy with no focus. Her eyes were lifeless, miserable, in what had been hours of stillness.