The Wiccyn

The wiccyn’s eyes narrowed, flashing like burning street-lamps. Eye’s seared with red shadow, a kiss of wickedness that only comes out in the bitter deep of night. Eye’s without remorse, darting endlessly, each moment flaming hot, then immediately laced with cold. Nervous and hungry the eyes clawed and snapped at the soul before her. This time the shadow engulfing her patriotic duty to perform, one which was to consume. It overcrowded whatever little light remained inside her haunted heart—her gaze focused into laughter, her cheeks frosted to cobalt blue, her flesh became a shudder of pale white, rippling like the wild and lose mane of a moon-stallion. It was the most unvirtuous thing Finn had ever seen, as if nature had broken all permitted rules and sided, at least for the time being, with things, and things dark, things jealously ripping at power and magic as if they were gold and oxygen combined.

© 2018 Steve Roberts

Her flesh became a shudder of pale white, rippling like the wild and lose mane of a moon-stallion.

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