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Gwyndolyn Spiritor and AelKennyr Rhiano
She leads him down a twist of corridors and halls until she reaches a very large room. It is nearly empty save for the almost edible darkness hovering in the atmosphere. In the middle of the room is a Large obsidian statue. The top half is of a drow woman with fangs. The long curls falling down her loosely sculpted body. The bottom half is a spider. in front of this statue is a stone table with webs and runes etched into its surface. The tall ceilings and walls were perfectly straight and polished, almost unnaturally so.
There are torches. She speaks a single word of power, "Chath," and the sconces flare to life only to settle into a dim light that sparkles over the room. The table is as if new, it is so immaculate. Spiders skitter about. A drow passes, and knowing the room should be empty at this hour, darts in to see what the matter is. Upon seeing her, he drops instantly to his knees and bows his head so his eyes dare not even look at her. "Ku-lam lu' sila uns'aa ussta elgluth," she commands.
The drow rises silently and backs out of the room with his head down. When out of the room, he turns and heads away from the room. She turns her attention to Nimros and says,"This is the house temple."
Ilharess moves toward the altar. She pulls the dagger from the silken ties on her thigh and begins to pray in Ancient High Elven. Her accent is perfect and easy as if this was her native language. "Mighty Lloth, Goddess of Chaos, I have brought this poor imitation of drow into your holy temple, not to profane the sacred darkness you command, but to fulfill the quest you have put before me. Kill me not for this sacrilege, and grant me the favor and blessing owed me for my faithfulness...." Her prayer goes on in this tone for a bit longer. As she reaches the end of the intonation, she puts the dagger to her palm and plunges it deep into her own flesh. She makes no reaction to the opening of her flesh. Red blood pools around the blade. She closes her hand, as she pulls the dagger from it and guides the blood onto the altar as she says, "Try my heart this day, and find me your true daughter and high priestess." She lets the blood flow a moment before a darkness wells around the wound and it closes as if it were not there. She rises and turns to face the elf, her body naked and her face stone, without emotion
The walk to the temple had caused his wounded ankle to swell, and it throbbed as he followed Gwindolyn into the dark,cavernous room. His emerald eyes swept about it. taking in the altar, the statue, the spiders everywhere, their tiny scrabbling across the stone floors, grating on elven ears. His eyes widen when the sconces flare to life, and he tilts his head, catching the word she utters, although its meaning he could only guess. This was a place of power, a place dark and chilling, yet as his heart pounded in his chest, his lips curled into a smile. The power sings to him, calls to him, caresses him and stirs him. He watches as the male drow rushes to drow at Ilharess' feet with a desire in his heart to see her do that for him. To see her bow and scrape and live on his words, on his whim. He licks his lips and shivers, but not from cold. He hangs back as she approaches the altar and so has no warning when she raises the dagger and drives into her own flesh. His mouth opens in a warning, knowing that such a thing would severe tendons and cut through the myriad bones of the delicate hand structure. But all she does is bleed and seems to heal...quickly. Though she disrobes and rises naked to face him, it is not her body that tightens things low in his own body, but the ability she displayed. He raises glittering green eyes to meet hers and waits.
Ilharess sees his face. There is more on his face than a drow would let be seen. Careful training from childhood. To let emotion show is to tattle on yourself. She does not grin as she reads the lust for power, the desire for her, and the greed for her abilities. She watches his face carefully a moment and sees him making no moves to her nor any more demands. She also knows he understood every word of her prayer. "Lloth's power is what you feel in this room. She grants you favor, or you would not be here. And you would only ever enter this room as an offering to her under any other circumstance. She takes her claim in you. Fight it and regret it. Know her as your Goddess, and know that I am her High Priestess. Kneel before me as the unworthy beast you are." Her face takes a malicious tone as she points to her feet. Sounds of the male's boots are distance but slowly come closer. He carries something large, heavy or awkward by the sound of his movements.
When Nimros came to this place, he was a male child, a boy, and he knows that now as he watches her, sees her eyes study his face. He juts his chin out and makes no attempt to hide the thirst that burns inside him. During the time spent here, below, his body has thickened, muscles developing to full potential, strengthening. He curls his hand into a fist and sees the muscles move. He is no boy, now. This is no boy's body. This is no boy's vain and silly lust. Something in him has moved from need of her body to a different need of her. Green eyes narrow, and he slowly rearranges his expression, his lips curling into a sneer, his demeanor disdainful at her imperiously worded command. She dares command me! he thinks, but that thought does not show upon the elf's face. Nimros has learned. He rocks back on a heel and crosses his arms, as he used to see King Olwe do, but in his bearing is nothing reminiscent of the kind and gentle Lord of the Teleri.
"My Goddess," he says, his voice low, resonate, with a man's tone. "She is my Goddess if I choose. And I have not chosen." He shifts his weight and walks a short bit about the room, surveying again the statue of Lloth. "I may choose to serve her. It depends upon what she has to offer me." He whirls about, and his lips curl slightly as he sweeps his gaze across the Drowess' body. "But kneel to you?" He gives a bark of a laughter. "Never." He crosses the room and stands a few feet from her, his hand reaching out to lovingly stroke the body of the statue. "Unworthy beast? You lie. If I were unworthy, she would have no interest in me at all." He gives her a slow, knowing smile."That you brought me here tells me that I am worth more to her than you at this point in your life."
Ilharess reels about to face him, but just as she is about to speak the male drow enters, carrying a very large basket in his hands. The woven container seems heavier than it looks as the capable male drow works it softly to the ground at the Ilharess's feet. The male quickly arranges himself behind the basket on his knees in proper respects. She dismisses him with a wave of her hand. She moves to the basket and opens it. A darkness roils from the top, but does not spill about the container, just mills over the opening. It boils in upon itself as if it were a living darkness. Sulfur permeates the air. She breathes deep as if catching the scent of something she adores. She reaches her hand in and there is a hissing sound. She coos to the space and pulls her hand from the darkness. She holds the handle of a whip. Snake heads writhe around seeking a target. One curls around her forearm in greeting. She pets the snake head. It is not quite a snake, but something very similar that was once at home in the abyss before being made into a whip attuned only to her.
Nimros turns his head as the footsteps near, a sound of someone grunting, the off-stride slap of the steps telling of someone bearing a burden of some sort. He watches as Ilharess opens her mouth to speak, but the sounds of the footfalls entering the room causes him to turn his head at the intrusion, a pouting frown on his face. His brows knit together as the male drow sets down a basket and craveningly lowers himself to the floor, kneeling to her. He watches her wave him away, and it is clear, as it could not have been before, how little regard she has had for both males. Was his trainer slave or was it his sex that gave him this aura of being "lesser?" Nimros chews the inside of his mouth thoughtfully, pondering, wondering. These could be slaves, nothing more. Then the smell of sulfur causes his nose to wrinkle, and his stomach to churn. He watches, eyes growing round as a darkness spills from the basket. Her nostrils flare too, but the look on her face is one of rapture, not distaste for the odor. And the hand she reaches in with is sure and without hesitation. He leans forward, his attention focused, now on the basket, his eyes narrowing as he hears the hissing. "Snakes?" he wonders to himself. She coos into the basket, and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, as she pulls out a whip such as he has never seen. The handle seems to be of leather, though he could not say for certain, and ten cords extend from it. But they were not cords, not really, for each had the head of a snake at the end. He watches the rhythmic writhing and curling of the snakes, not with dread but with fascination. His hand itches to hold such a whip, his heart leaps at the thought of cracking it, loosing those deadly heads upon another's flesh...her flesh, anyone's. What power. He is aware of the statue Lloth. Did she give this, this power? He works his jaw, his mouth dry with hunger for that kind of power.
Ilharess watches as more of his place becomes clear. He lusts for her power, but most males do. The snakes are but a small portion of the power granted by Lloth to her high priestesses for as long as they stayed in Lloth's favor. Still it is an expedient, visual reminder of the power imbalances in their culture and the cruelties extracted upon those caught to be disobedient or insolent. She's sees the small hand movements of his lustings. It is a sight she has seen on so many others. Her position came with constant danger, and the lust of others is just one of them. She looks up to him and the snakes snap in his direction as if seeking a hold for their teeth in his flesh. She is too far from him for them to reach. She shushes them and they curl around her waist, bobbing softly over her midsection as she looks to him. "You take liberties you should not. Lloth has granted you favor, but her patience is limited. It is time to learn your place and learn her power." Her voice is reprimanding, almost condescending.
With the nimbleness of his race, Nimros jumps back as the heads rush at him, fangs exposed, the air whistling with the movement of the creatures. The green eyes the young elf turn to the drowess hot with anger, his face flushed with the embarrassment of jumping back, betraying a fear of being struck. He watches as the snakes curl about her naked body, wrap about that same waist his arms have but lately curled around. Her voice carries throughout the room, it seems to him, still burning with the shame of betraying himself. Taking a deep breath, he stands up to his full height at her words, his green eyes blazing with hatred. He had loved her, desired her, lusted for her, but this drowess before him, he felt a hatred as deep as the love he thought he had. "Her patience is limited," he says, his voice husky with the loathing he feels. "Or yours? " He asks, keeping out of striking distance, but his own assurance rising again. "Learn her power? Tell me of her power. What will she give me if I serve her?"
The loathing is nothing new to her either. It is common in her lovers and her enemies alike. It comes with power. She sees the changes in his eyes. The way he is taken aback, the shame, the hatred, the rebuilding and the angry insolence. A healthy start to his education. "She rules the darkness. Her chaos rolls through the abyss unhindered and unfettered. Her enemies cower before her like simpering orcs only to attempt to strike at her covertly. She maintains her rule, her power. Her beauty far beyond their grasp to mar." She pauses a moment with true worship and adoration in her eyes as they wash over the statue. The lust for power he holds is mirrored in her eyes as the snakes tighten about her waist a moment. Then her face is carefully voided of all emotion and the snakes rest once more.
She turns to him. "Her loyalty can be likened to that of a spider. You see the spider walking, and you think it is headed in one direction, but it does not last. It moves in another without warning. The webs of chaos woven unpredictably to create such glory for her to bask in. She has chosen you to be an agent of her chaos. But should you not learn your lessons, your role can be altered quickly."
Such adoration in her eyes when she lifts them up to the statue. Such blind and complete worship he thinks, and over what? He turns and follows her gaze to the statue and then drops his eyes to her face as she continues. "Pretty speech," he says, his voice flat. "But I asked you not of lessons, j'nesst. I asked of rewards. What will she give ....ME?" He turns and walks around the statue, looking up at the half woman, half spider body. "What would this Goddess give me?" His eyes flick over the statues full, upper body. "Power? Position?" He continues to walk around the statue, a hand reaching out, almost touching the spider portion. "Death to any enemies?" He comes around and closer to the drowess, but still at a distance where the snakes cannot strike at him. "Would she give me you? You at my feet? You kneeling to me?" His eyes grow dark with desire, then. "For I think I want that, to start with."
Her face a careful mask as he dares to reach towards the Goddess. Thoughts of her handmaidens coming to take him away to the abyss for tortures unspeakable fill her head. She looks to the darkness the torches cannot penetrate to check for openings that would tell of their coming. The large spider-like beings do not come, but the darkness grows more. She can feel her power rise up in her as his challenges grow more brazen. She holds backs until he asks for her at his feet. She lets a rue smile curl her dark lips. "Power, position, wealth, ability, enemies dead at your feet are among her rewards. Me at your feet is not. This world..." Her free hand flickers around the room. The other hand begins to pull the whip slowly. The snakes let go their grip and slither to her side. They writhe there restlessly. "This place you find yourself is ruled by her and those of her image. You are but a male, not of her image. You find yourself graced with many gifts already, training no other elf has hoped of. More training ahead for you. You have been brought here to be groomed for a place of ruling, but not down here. If you deny the Spider Queen, you have been brought here for my pleasure. I will be given the distinct joy of keeping you alive as my toy." The tone in her voice as she speaks of her joy is dark and not at all promising any good for him.
Nimros watches the snakes slither and slide over each other, the sound of their skin rubbing against each other mingling with her voice. "Ruling," she said. "Power, position." He shifts his stance, rocking forward on one foot. "Perhaps I am not in her image," he concedes. "But if she would give me power, position, rulership. if I am worthy of those things, and I am not to rule down here, still I am not lowly and not so base as to be at your feet." He turns in a circle and speaks to the air around him. "Nor any other's here." He flings his arms open wide and looks up at the statue. "I do not deny her." His voice is loud, carrying, bouncing off the walls of the room. 'I welcome her. I accept her, gladly." He lowers his arms and whirls about to face the drowess." What I deny is .."He pauses, tilting his head in challenge. "You. I deny you. You have led me with your silky thighs, your sighs, your cries of passion as we lay together. But I am done with you leading me by my manhood. I will not kneel to you. Not now, not ever. Your Goddess is my Goddess." His green eyes are cold and flinty. "But you are not She."
> Next
There are torches. She speaks a single word of power, "Chath," and the sconces flare to life only to settle into a dim light that sparkles over the room. The table is as if new, it is so immaculate. Spiders skitter about. A drow passes, and knowing the room should be empty at this hour, darts in to see what the matter is. Upon seeing her, he drops instantly to his knees and bows his head so his eyes dare not even look at her. "Ku-lam lu' sila uns'aa ussta elgluth," she commands.
The drow rises silently and backs out of the room with his head down. When out of the room, he turns and heads away from the room. She turns her attention to Nimros and says,"This is the house temple."
Ilharess moves toward the altar. She pulls the dagger from the silken ties on her thigh and begins to pray in Ancient High Elven. Her accent is perfect and easy as if this was her native language. "Mighty Lloth, Goddess of Chaos, I have brought this poor imitation of drow into your holy temple, not to profane the sacred darkness you command, but to fulfill the quest you have put before me. Kill me not for this sacrilege, and grant me the favor and blessing owed me for my faithfulness...." Her prayer goes on in this tone for a bit longer. As she reaches the end of the intonation, she puts the dagger to her palm and plunges it deep into her own flesh. She makes no reaction to the opening of her flesh. Red blood pools around the blade. She closes her hand, as she pulls the dagger from it and guides the blood onto the altar as she says, "Try my heart this day, and find me your true daughter and high priestess." She lets the blood flow a moment before a darkness wells around the wound and it closes as if it were not there. She rises and turns to face the elf, her body naked and her face stone, without emotion
The walk to the temple had caused his wounded ankle to swell, and it throbbed as he followed Gwindolyn into the dark,cavernous room. His emerald eyes swept about it. taking in the altar, the statue, the spiders everywhere, their tiny scrabbling across the stone floors, grating on elven ears. His eyes widen when the sconces flare to life, and he tilts his head, catching the word she utters, although its meaning he could only guess. This was a place of power, a place dark and chilling, yet as his heart pounded in his chest, his lips curled into a smile. The power sings to him, calls to him, caresses him and stirs him. He watches as the male drow rushes to drow at Ilharess' feet with a desire in his heart to see her do that for him. To see her bow and scrape and live on his words, on his whim. He licks his lips and shivers, but not from cold. He hangs back as she approaches the altar and so has no warning when she raises the dagger and drives into her own flesh. His mouth opens in a warning, knowing that such a thing would severe tendons and cut through the myriad bones of the delicate hand structure. But all she does is bleed and seems to heal...quickly. Though she disrobes and rises naked to face him, it is not her body that tightens things low in his own body, but the ability she displayed. He raises glittering green eyes to meet hers and waits.
Ilharess sees his face. There is more on his face than a drow would let be seen. Careful training from childhood. To let emotion show is to tattle on yourself. She does not grin as she reads the lust for power, the desire for her, and the greed for her abilities. She watches his face carefully a moment and sees him making no moves to her nor any more demands. She also knows he understood every word of her prayer. "Lloth's power is what you feel in this room. She grants you favor, or you would not be here. And you would only ever enter this room as an offering to her under any other circumstance. She takes her claim in you. Fight it and regret it. Know her as your Goddess, and know that I am her High Priestess. Kneel before me as the unworthy beast you are." Her face takes a malicious tone as she points to her feet. Sounds of the male's boots are distance but slowly come closer. He carries something large, heavy or awkward by the sound of his movements.
When Nimros came to this place, he was a male child, a boy, and he knows that now as he watches her, sees her eyes study his face. He juts his chin out and makes no attempt to hide the thirst that burns inside him. During the time spent here, below, his body has thickened, muscles developing to full potential, strengthening. He curls his hand into a fist and sees the muscles move. He is no boy, now. This is no boy's body. This is no boy's vain and silly lust. Something in him has moved from need of her body to a different need of her. Green eyes narrow, and he slowly rearranges his expression, his lips curling into a sneer, his demeanor disdainful at her imperiously worded command. She dares command me! he thinks, but that thought does not show upon the elf's face. Nimros has learned. He rocks back on a heel and crosses his arms, as he used to see King Olwe do, but in his bearing is nothing reminiscent of the kind and gentle Lord of the Teleri.
"My Goddess," he says, his voice low, resonate, with a man's tone. "She is my Goddess if I choose. And I have not chosen." He shifts his weight and walks a short bit about the room, surveying again the statue of Lloth. "I may choose to serve her. It depends upon what she has to offer me." He whirls about, and his lips curl slightly as he sweeps his gaze across the Drowess' body. "But kneel to you?" He gives a bark of a laughter. "Never." He crosses the room and stands a few feet from her, his hand reaching out to lovingly stroke the body of the statue. "Unworthy beast? You lie. If I were unworthy, she would have no interest in me at all." He gives her a slow, knowing smile."That you brought me here tells me that I am worth more to her than you at this point in your life."
Ilharess reels about to face him, but just as she is about to speak the male drow enters, carrying a very large basket in his hands. The woven container seems heavier than it looks as the capable male drow works it softly to the ground at the Ilharess's feet. The male quickly arranges himself behind the basket on his knees in proper respects. She dismisses him with a wave of her hand. She moves to the basket and opens it. A darkness roils from the top, but does not spill about the container, just mills over the opening. It boils in upon itself as if it were a living darkness. Sulfur permeates the air. She breathes deep as if catching the scent of something she adores. She reaches her hand in and there is a hissing sound. She coos to the space and pulls her hand from the darkness. She holds the handle of a whip. Snake heads writhe around seeking a target. One curls around her forearm in greeting. She pets the snake head. It is not quite a snake, but something very similar that was once at home in the abyss before being made into a whip attuned only to her.
Nimros turns his head as the footsteps near, a sound of someone grunting, the off-stride slap of the steps telling of someone bearing a burden of some sort. He watches as Ilharess opens her mouth to speak, but the sounds of the footfalls entering the room causes him to turn his head at the intrusion, a pouting frown on his face. His brows knit together as the male drow sets down a basket and craveningly lowers himself to the floor, kneeling to her. He watches her wave him away, and it is clear, as it could not have been before, how little regard she has had for both males. Was his trainer slave or was it his sex that gave him this aura of being "lesser?" Nimros chews the inside of his mouth thoughtfully, pondering, wondering. These could be slaves, nothing more. Then the smell of sulfur causes his nose to wrinkle, and his stomach to churn. He watches, eyes growing round as a darkness spills from the basket. Her nostrils flare too, but the look on her face is one of rapture, not distaste for the odor. And the hand she reaches in with is sure and without hesitation. He leans forward, his attention focused, now on the basket, his eyes narrowing as he hears the hissing. "Snakes?" he wonders to himself. She coos into the basket, and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, as she pulls out a whip such as he has never seen. The handle seems to be of leather, though he could not say for certain, and ten cords extend from it. But they were not cords, not really, for each had the head of a snake at the end. He watches the rhythmic writhing and curling of the snakes, not with dread but with fascination. His hand itches to hold such a whip, his heart leaps at the thought of cracking it, loosing those deadly heads upon another's flesh...her flesh, anyone's. What power. He is aware of the statue Lloth. Did she give this, this power? He works his jaw, his mouth dry with hunger for that kind of power.
Ilharess watches as more of his place becomes clear. He lusts for her power, but most males do. The snakes are but a small portion of the power granted by Lloth to her high priestesses for as long as they stayed in Lloth's favor. Still it is an expedient, visual reminder of the power imbalances in their culture and the cruelties extracted upon those caught to be disobedient or insolent. She's sees the small hand movements of his lustings. It is a sight she has seen on so many others. Her position came with constant danger, and the lust of others is just one of them. She looks up to him and the snakes snap in his direction as if seeking a hold for their teeth in his flesh. She is too far from him for them to reach. She shushes them and they curl around her waist, bobbing softly over her midsection as she looks to him. "You take liberties you should not. Lloth has granted you favor, but her patience is limited. It is time to learn your place and learn her power." Her voice is reprimanding, almost condescending.
With the nimbleness of his race, Nimros jumps back as the heads rush at him, fangs exposed, the air whistling with the movement of the creatures. The green eyes the young elf turn to the drowess hot with anger, his face flushed with the embarrassment of jumping back, betraying a fear of being struck. He watches as the snakes curl about her naked body, wrap about that same waist his arms have but lately curled around. Her voice carries throughout the room, it seems to him, still burning with the shame of betraying himself. Taking a deep breath, he stands up to his full height at her words, his green eyes blazing with hatred. He had loved her, desired her, lusted for her, but this drowess before him, he felt a hatred as deep as the love he thought he had. "Her patience is limited," he says, his voice husky with the loathing he feels. "Or yours? " He asks, keeping out of striking distance, but his own assurance rising again. "Learn her power? Tell me of her power. What will she give me if I serve her?"The loathing is nothing new to her either. It is common in her lovers and her enemies alike. It comes with power. She sees the changes in his eyes. The way he is taken aback, the shame, the hatred, the rebuilding and the angry insolence. A healthy start to his education. "She rules the darkness. Her chaos rolls through the abyss unhindered and unfettered. Her enemies cower before her like simpering orcs only to attempt to strike at her covertly. She maintains her rule, her power. Her beauty far beyond their grasp to mar." She pauses a moment with true worship and adoration in her eyes as they wash over the statue. The lust for power he holds is mirrored in her eyes as the snakes tighten about her waist a moment. Then her face is carefully voided of all emotion and the snakes rest once more.
She turns to him. "Her loyalty can be likened to that of a spider. You see the spider walking, and you think it is headed in one direction, but it does not last. It moves in another without warning. The webs of chaos woven unpredictably to create such glory for her to bask in. She has chosen you to be an agent of her chaos. But should you not learn your lessons, your role can be altered quickly."
Such adoration in her eyes when she lifts them up to the statue. Such blind and complete worship he thinks, and over what? He turns and follows her gaze to the statue and then drops his eyes to her face as she continues. "Pretty speech," he says, his voice flat. "But I asked you not of lessons, j'nesst. I asked of rewards. What will she give ....ME?" He turns and walks around the statue, looking up at the half woman, half spider body. "What would this Goddess give me?" His eyes flick over the statues full, upper body. "Power? Position?" He continues to walk around the statue, a hand reaching out, almost touching the spider portion. "Death to any enemies?" He comes around and closer to the drowess, but still at a distance where the snakes cannot strike at him. "Would she give me you? You at my feet? You kneeling to me?" His eyes grow dark with desire, then. "For I think I want that, to start with."
Her face a careful mask as he dares to reach towards the Goddess. Thoughts of her handmaidens coming to take him away to the abyss for tortures unspeakable fill her head. She looks to the darkness the torches cannot penetrate to check for openings that would tell of their coming. The large spider-like beings do not come, but the darkness grows more. She can feel her power rise up in her as his challenges grow more brazen. She holds backs until he asks for her at his feet. She lets a rue smile curl her dark lips. "Power, position, wealth, ability, enemies dead at your feet are among her rewards. Me at your feet is not. This world..." Her free hand flickers around the room. The other hand begins to pull the whip slowly. The snakes let go their grip and slither to her side. They writhe there restlessly. "This place you find yourself is ruled by her and those of her image. You are but a male, not of her image. You find yourself graced with many gifts already, training no other elf has hoped of. More training ahead for you. You have been brought here to be groomed for a place of ruling, but not down here. If you deny the Spider Queen, you have been brought here for my pleasure. I will be given the distinct joy of keeping you alive as my toy." The tone in her voice as she speaks of her joy is dark and not at all promising any good for him.
Nimros watches the snakes slither and slide over each other, the sound of their skin rubbing against each other mingling with her voice. "Ruling," she said. "Power, position." He shifts his stance, rocking forward on one foot. "Perhaps I am not in her image," he concedes. "But if she would give me power, position, rulership. if I am worthy of those things, and I am not to rule down here, still I am not lowly and not so base as to be at your feet." He turns in a circle and speaks to the air around him. "Nor any other's here." He flings his arms open wide and looks up at the statue. "I do not deny her." His voice is loud, carrying, bouncing off the walls of the room. 'I welcome her. I accept her, gladly." He lowers his arms and whirls about to face the drowess." What I deny is .."He pauses, tilting his head in challenge. "You. I deny you. You have led me with your silky thighs, your sighs, your cries of passion as we lay together. But I am done with you leading me by my manhood. I will not kneel to you. Not now, not ever. Your Goddess is my Goddess." His green eyes are cold and flinty. "But you are not She."
> Next