Porcupine Ridge seven spider eyes, for every day of the week [mtr.]

*screams back*

Tundra.

His steps slowed.

There was something so hauntingly ravishing about the way she lay there, still, refined in solemnity. So unforgivingly enrapturing, as the moon stroked tender fingers over the curve of her back, and controverted eyes looked on in their silent rumination. She appeared just as she had before; that lissom ghost, willowy and seraphic.

But why was she here, now, mere paces ahead of him? The Svartell’s eyes drifted unwittingly over her nimble figure, drowning in contemplation of his own, and he pondered briefly whether he ought to slip back into the nefarious tenebrosity from which he came, or slither onward like a serpent in claim of his prey. It was ironic, truthfully, as even he could not discern which of them was the prey; perhaps both, perhaps neither. Something about this delphic woman, with her silken disposition, it drove his skull to a whirlwind - meteoric turbulence to unbalance the suave, imposing nature of his being. Perhaps that was why she lingered so euphorically in his thoughts, the most compelling of poisons.

She’d poisoned him...

But he wanted more. He always wanted more. So forward he strolled, insouciant in his demeanor, arresting in his posture - the picture of nonchalance; the controlled grace of a spectre. As his body aligned itself beside her own, keen eyes of lambent ice peered down in search of her gaze, blackened lips parted to release the sonorous timbre of his voice.

“Are we always going to meet like this?”