The Sacrifice - At One Of Daddy's Parties

Her choices are white or black; lace, silk, satin, and other materials.  Covering her all up or revealing some things.  Different themes, patterns, motifs, and symbols.  Ignoring her stupid father and her father's stupid laywer that's trying to hook her up with some rich playboy, Blake Knight's recalling her ritual hours earlier in her room where she was preparing for this stupid party.  Tuning her father out, a gold goblet in her right hand, wearing a daring black dress with a deep plunging front kept on her with a red sash, Blake goes back in time with her thoughts.

In her room, standing nude, looking at herself in her mirror that's fogged up from her cold aura.  A gold Egyptian motif necklace around her neck, after considering her many choices to put around her neck, after touching her flesh dreamily with them while sitting in one of her chairs in her boudoir.  Which one's first?  Not that she keeps track.  They're all special.

Starting with the Odin, the All-Father, Thor, Cthulhus, the Darksun, Orias, Raven, Shialla; their specific symbols of worship being picked up by her icy fingers and the edges of them traveling across her naked flesh.  Small tokens that were previously worn or carried by mortal worshipers of these divines.

The very feel of them makes her nipples hard and her silky blonde slit wet.

Soulless, shouldn't feel, heart dead.

Through the eyes of the Hight Priestess of the Pale Night, the Mother of Demons that should not be watches something and feels.  Blake Knight feels too.  A cold exhale of breath is released out with a sigh.

The Daedric Princes, King Ryan, the Jackal, Anubis, Satan, Lucifer, Asmodeus, the Leviathan, Azazel, Cetrion, Nyghtwolfe, Luke, Doom, and so many more.

A modern day serial killer in the presentation of Blake Knight, starting so long ago with what the Pale Night began.  With her very own kind, with her very own children.

A whimper, a prayer, makes Blake focus more on the source, pausing in what she's doing, running one of these holy or unholy motifs across her bare breasts.  She started in her chair, she continued by being in front of her mirror, turning on her barefeet, that soulless milky white gaze goes to the surviving warrior cleric of some holier than thou divine sent to slay her.

Slay her?  Oh priest, you weren't even told who or what I am.  When the universe rejects you, when it casts you out, when reality itself willingly alters everything to where your name and who you are are erased, you don't KNOW WHO I AM!!!

By this time, in her right hand is her signature serrated knife from the primeval Abyss, her most favored weapon, is against the throat of this powerfully potent priest, the lone survivor of a group sent to kill her.  She hisses, her icy coldness crushes against the holy aura of this one, like a lover in heat crashing against the bod of her mate, no matter the sex.

She smirks.  She already chose her motif necklace, the Egyptian motif that matches her new black dress with the red sash.  She just likes orgies, that's why she spent time with the rest of the trinkets upon her flesh, with her collection of trophies and memories.

With the tip of her knife, she makes this one look at her, her terrible and utter gaze peaking through.  She doesn't have just one sort of victim, she doesn't have one means of killing and collecting, she has several.

"Look at me."

The lone survivor, on his knees, about to die.  Not die.  No, no, no, to be forever hers.  She sees it in the priest's eyes while she hears him pray to his divine.  She sees him ask, 'Who are you?', 'What are you?', 'What do you want?'.

She answers with this:  covering up his mouth, cutting his throat, taking his gaze.

The screams are muffled.  Can't let her stupid father, her father's stupid lawyer, or the guests hear.

Her gaze traps the priest's gaze.  You'll never know.  No one does.  No one.

For I have seen the light long before you all, while your divines went about to create and quarrel with each other.

Back to her father's party, the memory still so fresh in her mind, making her shiver, but not as much as the blood of her most recent victim tastes in her goblet.  Oh, this rich playboy her father wants to hook her up with is still here.  Her dead heart flutters.  She's thinking about others, someone else, what she has planned.