Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole
I thank whatever Gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of Circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of Chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
Finds and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

-Invictus, by Sir William Ernest Henley, 1875-



~*~

Wind gusts, this winged woman appears before your eyes: Her body tracing a shapely silhouette, the crimson wings draping down her back;
long fingernails like razorsharped claws gleaming on her hands and feet.

She approaches closer, you see the mark of her master on her necklace, these words etched on the silver pendant: "Property of Rewyn". The chain hangs loosely between the mound of her fairly large breasts. Through her clothes, you get a glimpses of her skin, smooth like porcelain.

She moves in fluid precision, graceful. That long crimson hair dancing with the wind as she advances towards you with a mischievous grin on her face.

Jasmine scented ruffle of leather and lace. Her hips swaying strategically, enticing. She stares with an infectious smile.

Her volouptous curves, almost humanly impossible. It is so utterly vulgar how her body perfectly imitates an hourglass.

She renders you motionless as you get lost in a trance, and contented. In a sanctuary amidst the chaos of this dream, Her image will be haunting your memory forever...