speak of the devil

and she will come

The clench that the warmer seasons had upon Moladion was finally given up and with this reborn autumn came the hushed whispers of anticipation for the coming winter. Many were beginning to scope out their potential partners as the days wore on, but Naamah was always on the prowl for her next quarry; there was not a day that she was not in search for someone to have her fun with.

Today was not unlike any other day.

A tumultuous storm fired up in the distance, the darkened clouds and oncoming thunder warning those of what beast was soon to arrive. The thick veil of clouds over head gave the atramentous temptress a sense of ease as she sat and watched from her covered perch beneath the trees that surrounded the grotto. Many days, she was fortunate enough to have someone happen upon her path and other days, she must be patient and wait for her next victim to fall into her web. It was this practiced patience that granted her the reward of a rather young, raven-pelted female who was retreating into the confines of the cavernous lair for reasons unimportant to the angel-faced femme. Perhaps she was fearful of thunderstorms.

Let Naamah ease your worries, darling.

She waited for a long while as she watched the entrance of the cave, allowing the winds of the tempest to approach further so that rain was now beginning to pelt into the trees and the earth around her. The booming thunder rattled her insides as it roared above her head and it is now that she decides to enter the cavern this girl has chosen to find solace in, just as the rain picked up and began to drench the world around them. Her paws raise her to stand before she lopes smoothly from her hiding place and into the beginning of the dark cavity, shaking herself lightly and fluffing herself up before staring into the slowly fading darkness beyond. Waiting once more.

The girl is given to rise from her place of solitude as she is now aware of Naamah’s presence and is brought forth to her place of waiting, hackles risen and vocals drawn out into a growl. The pitch-eyed femme fatale watches her for a moment before a pleasant chuckle is exuded from her own jet black figure. “My dear, no need for being uncivilized..” She coos gently, the hint of a mocking tone lingering in the back of her words. The girl is rather similar to herself, though larger and more.. brutish in appearance. Perhaps her mother was this way too - poor girl. Naamah pities her silently, knowing that her lineage is not as pure or impressive as her own, though these emotions are never allowed to be seen within her eyes; the black pits that they are allow her the capability of masking what may be seen in their murky depths.