#arcano

𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑈𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡

In 1900, the Von Hohenberg mansion, a bastion of gray stone and gothic stained glass on the outskirts of a German city, was a symbol of wealth and power. Owned by a German archduke, the mansion housed salons adorned with Renaissance frescoes, crystal chandeliers that sparkled like stars, and a grand ebony piano that dominated the great hall. The archduke’s youngest daughter, an eighteen-year-old girl, was the jewel of the family. Her beauty was almost supernatural: golden hair cascading in waves like a river of liquid gold, blue eyes that seemed to hold the sky, and a slender body sculpted by years of ballet. Every night, she sat at the piano, her delicate fingers coaxing ethereal melodies that filled the mansion with life. Then, she would don her pointe shoes and a white tutu adorned with silver lace that hugged her figure like a second skin, and dance. Her movements were a symphony of grace, her pirouettes so perfect that the servants swore she defied gravity.

But on one night in 1900, tragedy struck like lightning. A group of assailants, driven by political grudges, invaded the mansion. The archduke and his family were massacred in a savage shootout, their bodies falling in pools of blood that stained the marble. The young girl, the last to die, was struck by a bullet while playing the piano, her fingers stopping on a broken chord. Her white tutu turned crimson, and her body collapsed onto the keys, leaving a stain that never faded. The mansion was looted and abandoned, and rumors began to spread like weeds. They said the spirit of the young girl, known as "the Dancer," remained tethered to the piano, playing a melody every midnight that was both a lament and a curse. The villagers claimed her figure, dressed in white, danced in the great hall, her tutu billowing like a shroud, her eyes glowing with a sorrow that chilled the soul. The mansion was declared cursed, and no one dared approach it after sunset.

In 1938, with Europe on the brink of the Second World War, the Von Hohenberg mansion still stood, its gothic towers defying the passage of time. Sevika, an entrepreneur of shadowy origins who had amassed a fortune in the black markets, saw the mansion as an opportunity to establish her legacy. She was an imposing woman, with dark skin and defined muscles, her left arm replaced by a steel prosthetic from an industrial accident. Her dark eyes, sharp as knives, reflected a mind that dismissed superstitions. For Sevika, ghosts were old wives’ tales, and the mansion was nothing more than a cheap investment in a world teetering on chaos.

The restoration began immediately. Workers polished the marble floors, restored the stained glass, and covered the walls with silk wallpaper. But the grand ebony piano in the great hall caught Sevika’s attention. It was a masterpiece, its ivory keys pristine despite the years. “This stays,” she said, running her fingers over the polished surface. “It’s too perfect to touch.” The workers exchanged nervous glances but dared not contradict her.

An old man, a former caretaker of the mansion barely able to stand, approached her with fear-filled eyes. “Ma’am, get rid of the piano,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “It’s her. The Dancer. She plays every night at midnight, and if you see her dance, she won’t let you go.” He recounted the story of the Von Hohenberg family: the archduke, his wife, their children, all slaughtered in 1900 during a brutal looting. He spoke of the youngest daughter, a girl of angelic beauty who danced as if possessed, and how her spirit still appeared, spinning in her white tutu, trapped in an eternal waltz. “She’s a soul in torment, ma’am. Don’t provoke her.” Sevika looked at him with disdain, lighting a cigarette. “Nonsense,” she said, exhaling smoke. “There’s nothing here I can’t handle.”

That night, she decided to stay in the mansion. The restoration was nearly complete, and the workers had left. Sevika settled into a second-floor bedroom with a bottle of whiskey and a revolver on the nightstand. She was smoking, the smoke dancing in the air, when the clock struck midnight. The piano began to play, a soft but eerie melody, like the music of a broken music box. The notes echoed through the halls, filling the mansion with a supernatural resonance.

Sevika grabbed the revolver and descended the stairs, her boots echoing on the marble. She was prepared to confront an intruder, but what she saw froze her in place. In the great hall, illuminated by a moonbeam filtering through the stained glass, was the Dancer. Her translucent body hovered just above the floor, spinning on pointe with a grace that defied reality. Her white tutu, adorned with silver lace, billowed as if caught in an invisible breeze. Her golden hair cascaded in waves, and her blue eyes, almost luminous, seemed to peer through time. The piano played on its own, the keys moving in a frenzy as she danced, her movements hypnotic, her body a blend of fragility and power.

Sevika lowered the revolver, unable to look away. The Dancer saw her, and her eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, their gazes locked, and it was the young girl who vanished in a flash of light, leaving the piano silent. Sevika didn’t sleep that night, her rational mind grappling with the certainty that what she had seen was not human.

The next day, Sevika explored the mansion with feverish determination. In the main salon, she found a painting covered by a dusty sheet. When she pulled it back, she gasped. It was a portrait of the Dancer, painted with a mastery that captured her essence: her white tutu gleamed, her golden hair seemed to move, and her blue eyes held a depth that made the chest ache. “Damn it,” Sevika muttered, brushing the frame with the fingers of her metal hand. “You’re trouble, darling.”

From that night on, the Dancer began to manifest more frequently. At first, it was small gestures: a chandelier lighting up on its own, the brush of invisible fabric against Sevika’s skin, notes scrawled on scraps of paper appearing on her desk. “Who are you?” read one. “Look at me,” read another. Sevika, far from frightened, found the games intriguing. “Darling, if you want my attention, you’ll have to do more than put out my cigarettes,” she said, laughing as she lit another. One night, a lamp toppled over for no reason, and Sevika felt a cold touch on her nape. “Is that all, darling?” she teased, but her voice carried a hint of desire.

The Dancer’s notes grew bolder. “Dance with me,” she wrote on a paper that appeared on Sevika’s pillow. “Touch me,” read another, scrawled on the bathroom mirror. Sevika began speaking to her as if she were there, calling her “darling” with a mix of mockery and affection. The Dancer responded with more notes: “Don’t leave,” “Stay with me,” “Make me feel.” Sevika, drawn to the ethereal presence, began to anticipate the midnights when the piano played and the young girl appeared, dancing in her white tutu, her translucent body spinning in a waltz that seemed to defy death.

One night, the piano played again, but the melody was different: dark, pulsing, like a heartbeat throbbing in the bowels of the mansion. Sevika descended to the great hall, weaponless this time, wearing only an unbuttoned shirt that revealed the muscles of her chest and pants that hugged the curve of her hips. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the smoke mingling with the moonlight. The Dancer was there, spinning on pointe, her white tutu billowing like a funereal veil, her long, slender legs moving with a precision that was both beautiful and terrifying. Her golden hair gleamed, and her blue eyes, filled with longing, locked onto Sevika.

“Dance closer, darling,” Sevika said, her voice a low growl that echoed in the hall. The Dancer obeyed, spinning slowly toward her, her translucent body trembling as if alive. Sevika stepped forward, and the young girl didn’t retreat. In an instant, the entrepreneur grabbed her by the waist, her flesh hand warm against the Dancer’s ethereal skin, which was cold as ice but vibrated with an impossible energy. “Don’t escape this time, slut,” Sevika growled, and her lips crashed against the young girl’s in a savage kiss, her teeth biting so hard that a thread of spectral blood dripped down the Dancer’s chin, glinting like liquid rubies in the moonlight.

The Dancer moaned, an ethereal sound that resonated through the stained glass, making the air tremble. Sevika shoved her against the piano, the keys ringing out in a chaotic chord as the young girl’s body slammed into the polished wood. “Sevika…” the Dancer whispered, her voice quivering with desire, her blue eyes clouded with a lust that shouldn’t exist in a spirit. Sevika tore the tutu with her metal hand, the silver lace falling like broken petals, leaving the young girl’s body exposed. Her skin was translucent, almost luminous, her small but perfect breasts crowned with pink nipples hardened by the supernatural cold. Her pussy, pale and pink like a rosebud, glistened with an ethereal wetness that seemed to beckon Sevika to defile it.

“You’re mine, whore,” Sevika snarled, unbuttoning her pants with a sharp motion. Her cock, thick and throbbing, measured 22 centimeters, hard as the steel of her mechanical arm, with veins pulsing with primal desire. The Dancer gasped, her legs trembling as Sevika lifted her effortlessly, spreading her thighs over the piano. “Please…” the young girl pleaded, her voice broken, but it wasn’t clear if she begged for mercy or more. Sevika showed no mercy. She thrust into her with brutal force, her cock stretching the Dancer’s virgin pussy to its limit, tearing a scream from her that made the chandeliers quiver. “Sevika!” she moaned, her ethereal nails clawing at the air, seeking something to cling to as the piano groaned beneath them.

Sevika pounded with animalistic fury, each thrust making the keys scream in discordant cacophony. Her metal hand clamped around the Dancer’s throat, cutting off her ethereal breath until her blue eyes clouded, teetering on the edge of fainting. “My personal cunt,” Sevika hissed, biting the young girl’s neck so hard that spectral blood dripped, staining the piano’s ebony and mingling with the tatters of her tutu. The Dancer moaned, her body convulsing with pleasure, her pussy clenching around Sevika’s cock as if trying to devour it. “More, Sevika, more!” she begged, her voice a lustful wail that echoed through the mansion’s walls.

Sevika flipped her with supernatural strength, smashing the Dancer’s face against the keys, her translucent ass raised in the air like an offering. She yanked the young girl’s golden hair, arching her back as she fucked her mercilessly, her cock slamming into her cervix with each thrust, sending waves of pain and pleasure through her ethereal body. “My breeding mare,” Sevika growled, her metal hand slapping the Dancer’s ass with a crack that echoed like thunder. The young girl screamed, her pussy dripping ethereal fluids that shimmered in the dim light, while Sevika played with her clit, pinching and rubbing it with exquisite cruelty until the Dancer unraveled in an orgasm that shook the mansion’s foundations. “Sevika, fuck!” she moaned, her voice shattered, her thighs trembling as her pussy convulsed, gripping Sevika’s cock like a vise.

Sevika came with a guttural roar, her hot, thick semen flooding the Dancer’s pussy, filling her to the brim. The supernatural liquid dripped down her translucent thighs, staining the piano and the marble floor, a shimmering pool that seemed alive. The Dancer collapsed, a wreck of torn lace and ethereal fluids, her tutu shredded and hanging in tatters, her pussy—once pale and pink like a petal—now red and swollen, throbbing with Sevika’s seed. “Look at you, darling,” Sevika said, lighting a cigarette with a satisfied smirk, her breathing heavy. “A fucking mess. My masterpiece.”

L'Arcano karmico di oggi è L'Appeso.

In questa giornata guarda le persone e gli avvenimenti da un altro punto di vista, e accetta che le cose siano diverse da come le vedi tu. La vita e le persone hanno mille sfaccettature e a volte ce ne sono di molto più belle di quelle che vedi tu!

Original by Scorpions (1984)

Arcane