At the loud declaration of Atnorsa's fist smashing into Quintus' mouth resounds, Anastasius' cool thins subtly.  A moment later it rushes back, and his nimble digits flow into motion.<br/><br/>Dripping down the sides of Mohini's agonized teats like molten wax, they drop to her chain.  In a single, fluid twist, Anastasius lifts the iron leash and twirls its end about his wrist, securing it there in cool coils.  As he does, his voice wraps its own silver chain about her, emanating in intoxicating calm from below the mesemerizing eyes that seek and fix Mohini's.<br/><br/>"Be wise now, little woman.  Cause me no trouble, so that I don't have to do worse trouble to you."  For a moment, his stare lingers with his instruction, infusing it into Mohini from the liquid calm of his wine-dark eyes.  Then Anastasius' countenance rises, and his lithe form rises, Mohini's weight borne up against his leg as her shackled hands are led by the short length of the leash to mid-thigh height, pressing her close.  His voice rises, and wends its musical way to trim Atnorsa's ears.<br/><br/>There, memories of blissful oblivion crystallize, before melting through her with suggestion of the sugared feeling she enjoyed moments - and an eternity - ago.<br/><br/><strong>"But you are a field, as all earth is a field, and earth Goddess a field, and the clay of a vessel,"</strong>Anastasius explains in subtly lilting tones, rippling his sure declarations through Atnorsa's increasingly violent awareness.<strong>"A vessel to be filled, a field to be tilled, a Goddess to take seed, a woman with woman's need.<br/><br/>"You <em>are</em>,"</strong>Anastasius concludes.<strong>"So, <em>arch</em>."</strong>