A long empty hall. Lit by moonlight. Dust everwhere, a thick coat of it. Footsteps. A thin, pale person walking to the entrance of the hall, pausing in the door. Suddenly, she's dancing, her torn and ripped dress swirling around her bare feet. Slowly dancing down the hall, past the massive floor-to-roof windows. The moonlight making her pale skin look like moving marble. Her eyes closed and a peaceful expression on her face and she dances a one-person dance that suggests poison and death. Her bare feet stir up the dust, raising small dust clouds as she continues dancing down the long hall, oblivious to the howls from wolves outside. Her arms trace shapes in the air as her feet spin her around in slow circles. Reaching the end of the hall she stops dancing, and curtsies to her imaginary audience. Then she turns around and slowly walks back down the hall. Her eyes are open, her back is straight, and her feet stir up more dust that billows around her. She walks past a tall window and is lit up by the moonlight, then is back into the shadows. Then as she walks past another window and back into the moonlight you see a change. She has a wolf's tail. And claws on her hands. Both a shocking black that contrasts sharply against her ripped, once-white, gown. And now there are other sounds. The howling of the wolves has stopped, and been replaced by the growling of another pack of wolves, inside the mansion with her. She stops walking, and waits, her body in the first position of the poison dance. Suddenly they attack. Their lips pulled back in a snarl that revealed stained yellow pointed teeth with stringy bits of spit dangling from them. The girl started her dance. Her arms that had traced shapes through the air previously now sliced into the rabid wolves' bodies. Cutting deep gashes into their fur, making blood pour out everywhere. The wolves kept on attacking, and she continued dancing. Her face still looked peaceful, expect for her full, pale pink lips which were pulled back in a snarl similair to the wolves'. Her snarl revealed pure-white fangs, tipped with blood. Then she stops dancing. There are no more wolves attacking, and she is standing in the pose that begins the second half of her dance. She is waiting. Her lips are still pulled back in the snarl, and her claws are dripping blood from the wolves. All is silent. Then the men step out of the shadows. They were the one's who controlled the wolves, who made them attack. They surround her in a circle. They are half-man and half-wolf. They weren't born that way, they were created. They wait, calm, until it is the time to fight. Then they fight like vicious beasts, not caring what they kill as long as everything around them except their pack mates are dead. They continue like this until they die. Fighting what they have been designated to kill. And they have been told to kill her. Now they will fight to the death. And they begin. One man leaps onto her, and she begins dancing again. She slices his stomach open, and as the first drop of their own blood falls the rest of the pack attack her. She is twirling around, spinning and slashing with her claws, biting with her fangs, kicking and fighting. But all in the form of a dance. Despite every wound she has opened on them the wolf-men keep fighting savagely. Fighting as if they have nothing to loose, fighting like cornered wolves. They have no style of fighting, they just attack. No formation, no plan, just a savage attack. And yet they barely wound her. A scratch on her shoulder, a wound on her stomach that rips through her dress, her wounds pale compared to the damage she has done to them. The fight continues this way for what seems like an age. Slowly her attackers begin to weaken. They die off, one by one. And yet her dance continues. She does not slow. Does not weaken and does not give up. Her dance is poisoness to those who try to fight her. Her fluid like movement is like a weapon. A weapon of mass destruction if she so wished. She stops dancing. In the last pose, the finishing pose which she must hold until the applause. There is one wolf-man left. Only one. He is wary of her power, wary of her speed, and jumping around his comrade's dead bodies he watches her. Waiting for her next move. Then he is knocked down. From behind. He howls with pain as a wolf tears into his side and the rest of he pack run in to help. They maul him as she stands frozen in her finishing pose, the blood of her attackers slowly dripping from her claws and mouth. His howl is cut off mid-breath when his throat is ripped out by one of the wolves. There are no more attackers left alive and she curtsies to her wolf audience. Her dress is covered in blood from the wolf-men and the rabid wolves she had fought and killed. There are a few splatters of blood on her pale, flawless face, and her lips are no longer pulled back in a snarl. She slowly walks over the bodies of the dead men, and her bloody feet leave footprints in the dust that had settled after her first dance. Her face shows no emotion, and she slowly leaves the hall. The wolves always wonder about how she knows when her life will be threatened, and how she can kill and defend her pack so perfectly, barely gaining wounds, and how she seems to stay the same age and never growing older despite the aging of her clothes, the buildings and land around her. They don't know that she has paid a price for this... this perfection. For this body, this power, there was a great price to be paid. That price was her sanity. And her emotions. She still has her soul, but it is a battered a bruised one. She is insane, and feels no emotions to anything that happens. She is not whole, and never will be sane again.
evil-jessjess Community Member 
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