Blackwater Islands Of whit and measure

they are rusty. embarrasing.

that they are bested by her is rubbing salt in the wound that would surely fester. but for now, they can feel that they have pushed their body to the limit; in the strain of muscles, in the sting of spliced flesh.

they withdraw, a low growl slipping from betwixt their lips.

i will go to my nightwife, and when i return, i expect you to be gone from these islands. a glower is sent her way. next time, i will not hold back. a threat covered in honey.

ingram's exit! feel free to either wrap up or archive as is. <3