The boy stood as a monument to decadence, a sculpture born of the purest sin. He was every indulgence, magnified by the eyes of he who beheld him in their presence.
Phoenixe had every attribute of grace. He was swift, nimble, lithe. A hunter. Despite the iron heaviness of his every strong muscle, he floated on the paws of his feet, his tail streaming behind him, every movement that of a butterfly at its last dance.
And, yet, as the wind blew through his soft hair, teased by curious fingertips, his ears perked up with the slightest shifts in his world of decadence and decay, and his amber eyes fixed on his prey.
