A/N: Hello there!
Here are two more of Cynder's sonnets! Just so all of you are all aware, the second sonnet's story has a very slight erotic element to it, which I decided to add it because, well, Shakespeare has a tendency of being sensual in his works. The original sonnet merits it, for sure.
Anyway, enjoy.
Sonnet II:
Cynder wroter her second sonnet with less ease, for, while the primal urge to express herself still burned within, the spontaneity of observing Spyro and wishing to write for the first time was not there, giving room for methodical thinking. Sitting in the vast, silent library she overlooked twice a week, she repeatedly tapped her quill on the fresh scroll she had unrolled, and thought back to her previous sonnet, that had become like a first child to the dragoness: it was not perfect -that's for sure, but that it was the first made it the schemata of what the she wished. It was prime-born, and anything that came after it would have to need to be modeled in its likeness.
After drowning the plume-tip in ink, she put it to the virgin paper, and started scribbling the first line of the poem. This line came slowly, each word dripping from her quill like her thoughts did through the selective funnel of her mind. Once the last punctuation mark was put in its place, she took a deep breath, and read what she had given birth to. Looking away once she had finished reading, she bit her lip: The line was imperfect…
Immediately, she went to fix it, changing its words and structure, only to read these corrections, dislike them, and replace them. Soon, what had been a single straight line of words had become a mess of ink blots and corrections, but Cynder got the line to work. Reading the monstrosity one last time, she smiled, for thought the line looked grotesque, it read angelically. Her joy was not long-lived, however, for the moment she decided she was ready to move on to the next line, she suddenly realized there would be another line, and another, and another, and that each of these would be as hard to give life to as the first. Sighing, she put her plume in its ink-jar, and decided it was a good time to take a break.
…
Walking through the many isles of books and scrolls, she thought of the purple dragon, and her curious desire to see him breed. Though inexplicable, she knew deep in the pits of her mind that what she asked for was justified: Beauty had to live, and without Spyro's seed, it would not. As she checked a shelf to make sure its contents were in their place, she wondered who she wished the dragon to mate with. Instinctively, she thought of herself first, and when she did, a strong chill rushed down her back. Perhaps she wished to have him for herself…
No, she thought, turning away from the shelf and walking on. Her intentions were not to have him, but to have his grace prosper, and that meant that if he'd choose some other partner, she'd be happy.
Or, at least she thought, for the moment…
…
By the time she went back to her table, she felt relaxed, and ready to write, but the first line of her poem, the monster in words, drained her energy again. Reading through this mesh of ink blots and poorly scribbled words, the black dragoness suddenly felt like she had had gone from being a street painter, that carelessly slabbed colors on a canvas to explore the depths of his artistic orgasm, to a tested school master, that thought of the consequences that each stroke his brush would bring. Taking a deep breath she silently whispered
I
can
do
it...
and got to work.
And even if it took hours, and even if she had to suffer through it's birth, her second sonnet was finally born. And as she put the last punctuation mark, she felt a slight sting in her stomach.
When two-hundred winters take hold of your brow,
And dig deep trenches on your perfect crown
Your coveted beauty, looked upon now,
Will be tattered by weeds, of no value found.
Then, when you're asked where your beauty has sunk
-The succulent nectar of your days of lust,
You'll say, with your eyes sunken and drunk
"I lost my beauty, in time's evil gust."
O! but great indeed the praise would be,
If you could say "This fair child of mine,
Will take my place when I'm no longer me,
But rather, the earth that feeds Clevertines.
This is why I plead you to throw
Your seed before the coming of snow.
Clevertines: White flowers that grow in the plains South of Warfang. These are commonly used in funeral services, and are planted near grave sites.
Shakespeare's original sonnet:
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held.
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use
If thou couldst answer, "This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,"
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
Sonnet III:
From time to time, Cynder was provoked by desire, making her want Spyro… no… crave for Spyro
and flesh,
and his panting,
and his groans.
...
Such was the case on the day the dragoness wrote her third sonnet. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun had started to make its way below the horizon. Having flown back to the great temple from a long day of rebuilding Warfang, both Spyro and Cynder showed clear signs of weariness: Their bodies were covered with the filth of construction work, and their minds had clearly been overused.
They needed to rest.
Inside the confines of the great architecture, they both quickly agreed to make their way to the bathing pools. The two dragons were too tired to speak -having done so the entire day; but every so often, the dragoness would turn her head and look to Spyro, who would glance back and give her a smile. They did this a few times, until they reached the hot spring at the back end of the temple.
The dragoness spared no time stepped into the welcoming waters of the hot steam. Her body was eased into a state of sensual enjoyment, as the water soothed her muscles, and the hot, humid air, mixed with the scent of flora getting ready for the night, cleared her mind. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and walked towards the deeper edge of the pool. Soon, she was neck-deep in the water, and had melted into bliss.
...
Spyro stepped into the pool moments later, disturbing the serene steadiness of the water as he made his way towards dragoness. Cynder kept her eyes closed as she heard him get approach, waiting for him like flora waited for spring.
"Might I help you, Cynder?"
A forepaw took a hold of the dragoness' shoulder, prompting sudden tension from the her muscles. At first, the paw had a firmness like that of a beast catching prey it desired, but soon it loosened, and started running between her collarbone and her flank.
"With what?" Cynder interrogated Spyro in a hushed voice.
"You look like you need some help scrubbing yourself off."
"I'm fine," Cynder lied. "I can do it myself."
But Spyro did not respond. Instead, he ran his paw further down her flank to her thigh, then over her thigh, to the tip of her tail.
The sensation was godly; the stimulation of her tender skin being nearly too much for her to bear. With her eyes still closed, she imagined the his stare on her: the amethyst-hued perfections feasting of her flesh. Every time he'd moved his paw about her underbelly, she'd gasp, as want would flood her mind.
Want…
Want…
Want…
...
Soon enough, Spyro had moved around to Cynder's other flank, and continued with the erotic ritual.
"You seem to be enjoying this," Spyro teased.
But Cynder remained silent, aware that if she would voice herself, she toil the serene sacredness of the moment with her profanity.
…
That night they did not mate, instead, Spyro left the dragoness with a bug of endless desire in her head. And so, sitting under the dim light of a candle, the dragoness wrote as Spyro slept:
Look in the mirror, and tell the face you see,
"Now is the time that this face should form another,
Whose fair elegance, if not renewed with speed,
Will not bless, with beauty, some wanting mother."
Do you not know a fair maiden, whose unused womb
Wishes the tillage of your great husbandry?
Or are you beckoning for a death tomb,
To stop beauty's great posterity.
Think back to your mother, and I'm sure you'll see
That when she'd look at you, she was pleased
To know that beauty would forever be
As long as your greatness would make a female bleed.
So now that you live, remember to seek,
Love, red and hot. Do not be meek!
Shakespeare's original sonnet:
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
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Thankies!
