Tension and constriction is laid bare between the dual figurines of a terracotta maiden and a ashen nymph with gangling pillars and lashing, twisting tail. It shimmers in the air as such fireflies, gleams, twinkles with as much luminescence as starlight, and the elven lad maneuvers with careful step between each whisper, each murmur of hidden suggestions and tantalizing lure. There is ease in the way he reacts to each flirtatious beat of lyrics that passes between darkened lips, and perhaps a less warmed area of
Carnesîr's soul sings to him that if he remains by the girl's side, for one minuscule night, he could forget the touch of the Shadow's hooves, the bitter feeling that creeps upward into his soul as a mantra.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

He is brought back by the girlish giggles that escape the maiden's maw, bubbling at the surface, and a wanly smile graces his face. If nothing but a game, he muses, it could grow to be a intriguing one. They are young, foolish, do not understand the price in which these seemingly harmless flirtations shall pay later on in their existence, and for now, they will dawdle among saccharine words and honeyed touches.
It is in this that he takes a cautious step forwards, chocolate pearls flickering as candlelight to the elk companion she has deemed Altair, before attempting to reach around and nibble at the girl's withers. It is a common occurrence of affection, grooming as important to the survival of a herdland as loyalty, beneficial to both parties and soothing to frayed nerves. She queries him, of his homeland, his language, and a chortle escapes his throat, for it would be so easy to deny her, to watch her huff and puff and create harmless jokes in elven that she could not begin to understand.
And yet, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he moves back to answer her. "This language is cumbersome to me. I believe it would be translated into you look good."

With her next inquiry and the somberness that trails behind as a pack of thirsting hounds, Carnesîr notes her sudden sobriety with a mix of disappointment and guilt. It was not the maiden's fault, the decisions he had made, and he did not wish to bring his sorrow upon her, his fault, the mistake in which caused him to stumble and trip back into the familiar ice of the Basin.
He does not respond to her lyrics, placid and serene in the overwhelming heat of the Spring. He sways, a leaf in the force of a gale, the only hint of his nervousness and uncertainty in the continuous motion of his eyes, followed by the gentle lowering of umber lashes.
Then.. it happens.

The maiden steps forth, a siren from the deep, emerald glittering as precious gems beneath the surface of the land in which they stand. Terracotta follows her movements, stiffening if for a fraction of a second as she presses against his warmed flesh, breath fanning against sinew and causing goosebumps to grow along damp flesh.
He is well and truly damned as the tickle of a obsidian tassel brushes along a sensitive spine, and if he was any more feeble, than he would have simply thawed and melted down to the bone, puddling into the rippling waters beneath them then and there.
But he wasn't. And so as blurred pearls stare dazedly at where she used to stand, he notes that there is a darkness growing in the skies behind the mountains that surround them. It wafts and curls as smoke, a gradual force at first, and in his confused state, he does not recognize the danger in which it brings. It reminds him of the Reaper, of Deimos, an he wonders with brief intent if something is terribly wrong with their homeland.
"Guruthos..?"

Attention is snapped back to the curved girl pressed flush against him, peering at him with twinkling eyes.
What has.. oh.
Oh. Well then.

Ba-dump goes his heart.

A stuttering breath is drawn forth from his maw, and does the maiden even know what she has promised? He is afraid she does not, afraid of the consequences, and yet speech still flows from his maw in a drunken quickness. "I trusted one of the winged ones." He hears shouts in his mind. He hears her voice. He feels the scuff of a hoof against his flesh. I said I wasn't ready for it. When I agreed to let you use me as target practice I believed you would be intelligent enough to make sure to prevent something like this from happening!

Ba-dump. Ba-dump..
"I met her again and they screamed at me. She.. she hated me." Baleful pearls gaze towards the emerald gems. There's still a dusty hoof print on his cheek.
There really isn't.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

But he can still feel it.
"She hit me." He turns his gaze to the swirling depths below, steam rising and forcing him to blink rapidly, harks dropping to tendrils of obsidian mane.
"I trusted her. And she hit me."

There is still darkness growing on the horizon.
Shadow's..

How blissfully ironic.