Force-claiming is allowed here once a week per character, as is blocking force-claims by the Peak/Lagoon (as a whole) once a week. Rollover is on Sundays.
Nyimara has known her fair share of stallions in this world. Stallions like Bjorn, Aranck and Cullen, who offer the world beneath the guise of power and formidability in the form of colorful words and pleasant interludes. All of them showed promise, from the chiseled curve of their strong jaws to the powerful ripple of lean muscles of a body in its prime. Each one of them had worn battle scars proudly, gazed out upon the world as a conquest. However, each one failed her when the time came. Bjorn’s gaze wandered far too quickly and too easily. Aranck simply left without a word edgewise as though she were nothing more than a used playtoy discarded once its newness grew stale. Even Cullen lost his greatness when the rest of his so-called brotherhood abandoned him for what they hoped might be greener pastures. Each one had worn a mask and each in turn had lost it as easily as a bird takes flight.
Quinn. Now this is a stallion who wears his mask proudly and despite her best attempt, the silver haired witch cannot find the seams that bind it to his handsome face. His hungry eyes follow her, chase each move and twitch of muscle. Like the beast within her, she can sense the monster lurking beneath the fierce eyes and knowing smile. Unlike with the rest of the foolish stallions, he does not eye her with suspicion and fear, neither does he follow with wide eyes and mouth drooling in her wake. No, there is more to him than meets the eye. Much more.
His inquisitive baritones echo in the small space she created between them. A single chocolate colored lobe flicks ever so slightly as the Cheshire smile upon her twisted lips widens. A barely audible chuckle echoes in response as those fierce dark eyes once more shimmer with fierce pride. ”Only the weak try to inherit the earth….” she purrs, her long tail snapping audibly against her flank. ”It’s our responsibility to wipe them out before they can ruin the rest of the world.” she finishes, her voice dropping into a seductive growl. Once more the flash of hatred dances in her eyes as thoughts of Solomon and Faolain and Siobhan and all the others who had wronged her dance into the forefront of her mind. They might think themselves protected behind their thick walls and barricades of stone, but Nyimara did not forget, nor would she ever let them live to a ripe old age in peace. Not while breath still rose within her chest.
His blunt teeth draw her from her thoughts. Dark ears fall backwards to listen to the sound of his voice and the scrape of his fangs over her flesh. ’Encouragement…’ the very mention sends a shiver of anticipation pumping like venom through her veins. Paper-thin nostrils flare as the lithe woman arches her long neck once more. Dark eyes blink slowly from beneath the veil of silver white forelock as the vicious smile grows. ”Encouragement… foreplay… call it what you wish…” she murmurs, leaning her mahogany frame into his rich brown body hungrily. ”In the end, it will all be fun and well worth both our time.” she whispers, sliding her petite figure beneath the crook of his neck. Despite already allowing the dark stranger to cover her in the Dunes after the sandstorm, the lust that this nomad draws from her is unmatched. Her femine hip presses against his shoulder as she curls about him like a cat demanding attention from its master. Lustily she draws his flesh into her mouth and tastes the flavors that the salt water left on his skin. ’MINE’ the voice within hisses. ’MINE’ she breathes to herself as she exhales sharply against his hip and flicks her banner high over the supple curve of her hip. ”Let’s go. I’ve had about enough of the incessant chatter here as I can handle. I assure you that you won’t find what you are looking for here.” she teases, batting her lashes and forcing herself to draw away from him again.