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“Oh fear the patient woman 'cause this much I know, there's a serpent in these still waters. |
┘ | ♛ | No one calls you honey, when you're sitting on a throne. | ♛ |
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To that King I will bow, at least for now. But one of these days a comin', I'm gunna take that boys crown. |
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♔ P R I A ▪ A walking Gaia; shimmering shades of green and golden, like the earth itself was what she embodied. The femme stood an imposing figure among a crowd, everything about her an entrancing discovery; from large wings and sparkling lavender horns that crowned her head, to the way her dusky fur seemed to glimmer in the light as if it was dusted with a new and dazzling gemstone. Pansophical eyes are set among lovely, though often stern, features frequently bedazzled and painted to match her often mercurial moods. The Pravda was a walking runway, with an opulent style and taste; often bedecked in gold, diamonds, and even stars. Though burdesome, her beautiful hair was a living galaxy in itself; ever shifting shades of gold and beryl that seemed to hold a universe in their knee-length strands. The woman walked as if she was a force to be reckoned with, and in truth she most certainly was nothing if not that.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯♛⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
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