Don’t scream. Don’t. But I can’t feel my arm. I can’t even feel his cold on my skin. My hands slacken. I can’t feel the ground beneath me. I can’t feel my body. I’m weightless, sliding to the ground. A second grip at the edge of my opening of my tunic drags me off of my feet. I listen to myself choke, a ragged gasping sound, as his gift smothers me. Icy veins trace lines along my exposed throat, down my collarbones, my spine. Thousands of insects crawling against the curve of my skin, a hundred needles pricking my flesh. My eyes close against the force of his gift. His fingers drop from my wrist to slip across the nape of my neck, cradling my head where it falls back, my wings limp behind me. His mouth is a horrific snarl, a scar across his face where I can see it, lip curling back from his fangs. Its touch is a well of saccharine control, its flesh as cool as glass. His nails bite into my skin, blood beading at my throat. I can’t feel anything but that cold, that crawling, that fear. No. No. Wake up. WAKE UP. “See how weak they’ve made you?” His words are dull, muffled, as if I am no longer a part of my body, the shuddering, frail thing. Shadow spilling over his hands, stretching for purchase, but there is none. And then his scent. His scent as my lungs finally expand, and its burning, that rot smell, and his hunger as my blood beads on my skin.

TW: sparring, magic used as a weapon, scarred villain, mild violence and implied violence

This scene where my demi-mortal OC (Anya) is confronted by the scarred avatar of her god.

#FallenSaints #LysAnya #OC #DarkFantasy