Sheepeater Cliff [m] eighty-eighth

Senmut would not be a god without a goddess. Godlihood, an ascension too high for a demon of boiling hell-song and soul tattered keys, but if he was a god and she was his throne, should he sing as a priest in this moment, she would become his remade priestess.

Changeling, god. Changeling, God.

Red light encapsulated him as a god. God.

The devil was beautiful when she sang, fallen into the erpa-ha's eyes. A pirouette in voice did not dare overshadow the call of the divine. Prayer to prayer, wind drifted through the strand of each hair. In the dark of Senmut's silhouette and sun-bathed face, Legend could not take away her eyes from his as their shadows grew, and Ra burned their immortal skin.

Immortality fled her the brighter his emerald eyes shined, and the longer she could see through the maze of his pupils. A twist formed in the deep of her belly. Torn from her was her siren eyes, opening into a does while her heart raced a million suns ahead of her limbs. Senmut, seeing her, and then came again: what was this, if not seen?
What was this if not seen?

For a moment, Legend truly felt as if he bore through her soul just then and her breath was put to a stop. Senmut sang the most beautiful prayer.