Thread: This Land is SO TOTALLY Not Your Land [Swagbeast and fireandblood]

It was the same routine every Thursday night. The same middle-aged homeless man hobbled by with his shopping cart of assorted trash, the same business man strode down the terrace with his black leather briefcase after leaving the office and the same unrealistically attractive house-wife jogged by with her pint-sized Pomeranian. Samosa watched them all, like a house cat stalking her master's new pet hamsters. Her fingers fumbled with the keys, a simple task that was growing increasingly cumbersome as of late. Mid October sported warm, fleeting summer breezes, not the bone numbing cold of December, so she found herself displeased with her dexterity. Eventually she emerged victorious from her duel with the store keys, reaching into her pockets to produce the last of her cigarettes. The nicotine curbed her hunger pangs and made her routine walk by the butchery much less tantalizing. She took a drag the wind yawned overhead, sighing around the flimsy willow trees forming a neat coffle up and down the terrace. After bathing in the familiar scent of Nicotine, Samosa waltzed down the sidewalk in all of her tall, curvaceous glory. Humans quite literally parted around her as a galley's prow parted water. Her aura was suffocating and her beauty was unmistakeably dangerous. Men gawked at her, shamelessly, while women passed with whispers on their lips. She was well accustomed to rumor and assumption, often hearing her neighbors in her condo gossping, claiming that she was a Satanist and practiced the devil's work in her apartment. If reading Dante Alleghieri's Inferno was indeed heresy, Samosa would be sentenced to the 6th circle, forced to burn eternally in an inflamed tomb. Halfway down the terrace Samosa cut through a closely constructed string of duplexes flanked by a local Syrian's 7-11. A familiar smell wafted into her nostrils - it wasn't that of the Syran's trademark shawarma or the local potheads rolling a fat-one in their backyards, it was something enticing. She advanced on notorious soundless footfalls, investigating the darkness with her perilous grey eyes. To her side was a lifeless corpse, beaten and battered, and another that was nearly as pallid as the moon overhead. She walked like the wind with the power of several wild cats, yanking the mystery assailant by his mop of arrant curls to send him in the direction of his first victim. She could smell the blood, all wet and metallic and decadent, but it was human flesh that made her knees weak. Samosa was a dangerous beast from surreality if ever one lived, a beautiful woman paired with a mouth teeming with razor sharp fangs. She survived on flesh and bone, tearing hunks of skin and muscle from her victims, ripping through their thighs until she heard their hamstrings snap. Suddenly, her mouth began unfastening at the hinges what were once human teeth grew into pearly, jagged tusks, and her tongue lolled out of her mouth as if she were a dog dying of dehydration. Leave, she snarled. Her voice was a melodic cocktail of authority and mellifluousness and cunning, but it was no where near sweet. This domain is not yours to hunt on.