[To Continue a Legend]

You're like my favorite damn disease. Evil. She wondered what made someone evil. And on the same note, she pondered as to what evil truly was. Everyone was an individual, and they would act as their mind told them; was it destined from birth if someone was to be good or wicked? Did they even have a chance? Perhaps fate was laid out before they were even born: whilst they lay in the womb of their dearest mother their destiny was already chosen. The future Alphas, future lovers, and the killers of the world; it was all predestination. Or was it more of a free-will type of thing? The influence of others could certainly alter any personality. Even the saintliest of creatures could turn blood thirsty and craving for death if mindfucked enough. It was an interesting concept, one that the lady seemed unable to simply expel from her mind; it was a constant thing as of late. Distracted, she wove aimlessly through the underbrush, dragging her feet in a lazy, thoughtless way so her black nails drew striking white streaks across the red, desert stone. It was here she noticed her feet were soiled. Ugly, matted, and discolored they provoked a careless thought in her mind, the memory of a man with wise golden eyes and a wide, boyish smile. His feet had always been dirty, as she remembered, because he was always walking. Rain, snow, summer, winter, he marched on as if nothing in the world could halt his aimless wandering. Well, except for her greed. Cut down mercilessly by his own sister. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. Those were old memories, years and years ago. But did that make her evil? Was it all about actions and less about pseudo-science and personality? She didn't suppose she was wicked. Ambitious, but not evil. Persephone always walked on the more interesting side of the fence, but not necessarily the greener. Grass was grass, except when it was on fire. Or drenched in blood. Or offering a peaceful solace under a warm sun for her darling children.

A wistful sigh escaped the parted curve of her lips, pink tongue tracing the outline of a broken canine as she did so. Luxferre. Dahlia. Valarie. Careless mind wandered over their young lives, and with a mother's curiosity she let her eyes drift over the horizon. Where could they be now? Off causing the world grief and trouble out of their reckless tempers? She remembered when she was like that. Bloodthirsty, vengeful, ravenous, desperate. She couldn't imagine her girls killing their brother. Dahlia, perhaps...so much like herself! Mother and daughter, daughter and mother. But did murder make someone evil? A frown crossed her lovely features, pale and perfect despite years of stress and fatigue. Delicately she furrowed her brows, little china doll wrinkles appearing near her under her eyes, over the bridge of her nose. Priests killed all the time, but preached good. Soldiers killed. No, murder didn't make someone evil. Thoughtlessness did. Carelessness. But was this a character flaw? Or a determining quality fate wove through the hands of Pandora's playful, ignorant disobedience?

As the sun began to run teasing rays of light over the far mountains, she came to the final conclusion that she simply did not care. (Perhaps that was evil.) But that was not to say she was not interested in others or their wellbeing. A mother, afterall, knew the most loving of form of care. It was simply that nothing interested her anymore. Six years was a long time for a Synicalian when measured in terms of life. Three was more than enough to conquer and complete all life's goals, and she had managed that. But now what? Empty, her careless eyes wandered over a withered desert plant. She felt just as dead as the flower, but in her mind, she knew there was potential. She just needed the spark, the looming desperation and desire to have more, more, and more. She wanted to quietly, possessively devour the world one step at a time, burn it all down with one look. Lestat. A shudder racked her lean body, a silent sob caught in her throat, and then she was calmly analyzing the terrain beneath her feet again. Men were devils. Demons. But interesting. And the bad boys were the best taste of life, in her opinion. A snicker passed through her slim jaws, a quite utterance of girlish amusement. It was why she was here, perhaps. Seasons came and went, children grew and moved on. The cycles rotated in ongoing spirals of complete, overlapping circles with she as the radius. She could be a woman again, the perfect ideal of quiet and calm, pretty and patient. But she wasn't sure she wanted to be, and furthermore, she felt an angry screech of indignation from her inner warrioress at the thought of complete submission. I'll be the one to hold you down, kiss you hard, take your breath away. And after I would wipe away the tears, just close your eyes dear.

Grinding her teeth to the ebb and flow of her own changing emotions, the thoughtful woman wandered into the path of Rawbones, and at once the gentle roll of her hips ceased with startling speed. Stiff, Persephone turned herself slowly away from his attention, curling the wisp of her lush tail around her hind legs with elegant distaste. Heart throbbing, she turned to look back, chin resting lightly on the pink scar tracing the rounded curve of her shoulder. A snorting growl of writhing dissatisfaction curled her lips into a woman's sweet ire, the delicious curve of her tongue whispering suggestive profanities under a toxic breath. Huffing in a lazy, though untethered and clearly audible, fashion, she lowered her bodice to the ground, hoping her thoughts could catch up with her sooner than the male.