Be it a day of nights in which many men have fallen upon the beauty of her reflection. As light now does dim into a shimmering glow of despair, she arises to lay her sights upon such foolishly doomed men, who even but now gaze gracefully unaware of the dangers they lusted towards. With the swift swish of her golden locks crossing each doomed souls shadow, she pauses; as if awaiting guidance from another, a hand to lead, a friend to trust. Though as quick as she had froze did her screams of fright and hunger for passion expel from her lungs. Swooned had these men been, so over indulged in her beauty to take note of her form, a form in which she had total control as men such as these be men of man's creation, a puppet for the beautiful to utilise as they see fit. Without a contest even being granted, she had won. Now the last breaths of such lustful men shall be her prize, though weak from their bonds of mortality they will only supply a moderate excretion of ecstasy on her part. Though at lest an excretion it shall be.
