A wicked witch this way comes…
Her hips draw the eye first, perfectly shaped like an inverted wine glass, framed in black sequins which glitter with every step. The rear side of her gown is open all the way to the dimples at the base of her spine, exposing her long, elegant back. Her hair is perfectly coiffed as usual, cascading dark ringlets curling over her left shoulder. The dress doesn’t cover much more in front than it does in behind, a plunging neckline coming to a relatively restrained halt inches from her navel. She’s not so much wearing the dress as she is embodying it.
Her smile captures souls, her azure eyes reveal nothing but see everything. The crowd parts as she moves through it. None dare stand in her way. Such is the lot of a wicked witch. Feared by many, loved by none, needed by all. A kingdom goes to its knees before her.
She draws a woman from the crowd with one elegant hand and kisses her on the mouth, hard and crushing. When she releases her victim there’s blood on the woman’s chin. It trickles slowly from a wound on her lip, but she doesn’t seem to notice it even when it begins forming a droplet at the very tip of her chin and subsequently drops onto her exposed toe.
Honor to be wounded. Glory to be taken. The crowd is enthralled as the witch passes by and enters her private chambers.
Three cats are curled around the room, elegant black forms in perfect repose. They do not fear the witch, for cats know that there is very little to fear from the darkness or what lies beyond it.
Something stirs. Platinum blonde curls ensconce features which might be pretty or plain. There’s no telling through thick layers of cosmetics which obscure the figure who has been taking refuge in naked repose.
“I am bored, Lamb. Entertain me.”
Lamb takes to her feet and begins to sway. Her lithe body gyrates to a beat which was not audible until she began to dance. Music flows from her limbs, modulated by her motion. The witch’s eyes narrow as they close partially, her elegant fingers spelling out the tune.
She opens her eyes and looks toward the sound. It is different from the others. It does not defer to her. That alone makes it a curious anomaly. Lamb stops dancing and the music stops leaving heavy silence in its place. All eyes, female and feline, alight on the intruder.
Of her face, only the speaker’s lips are visible. The rest is obscured by a dark shaggy mop of hair which falls well past her eyes. Her lips are pale, unmarked and unadorned. How she is seeing through the curtain of hair is anyone’s guess. Her body is strong and broad through the shoulders. Thick hips, powerful thighs, a generous bosom. This is a woman designed to Do Things.
She stands in the doorway, a short curved blade in her hand. It is made of simple steel, but that does not matter for the edge is sharp enough to cleave light.
“Witch,” she says. “I have come to kill you.”
“Oh,” the witch replies. “Good.”