|
The mystery unraveled as quickly as it’d appeared, morphing from potential threats, misty, murky shadows, to another child enveloped in black; and contorted into audacity. He knew the sentiments well, eternally wore them across his features or tucked them neatly into his heart, where the gallant shield and the emboldened arts lay finessed and foreboding. Curiosity stoked a finer kindling in the grasp of his membrane, in the elongated, Cheshire grin folding across his lips – because he wanted to know what caused her nerve, what invoked her intrepidity. He’d been far too immersed in the schisms of defiance, courage, and bravery since the day he’d been born, striking out amidst glaciers and precipices, tangling himself in the foils of adventure and wild, heathen antics, branching out closer and closer to treachery, to deceit, to columns of immorality, skimming over the edges and fringes of licentiousness. Was she one more of his ilk, fearless, reckless, presumptuous, and maligned, waiting for the day their tainted filaments scattered across the stars? Had she earned her crown of confidence, her tiara of temerity, scorched and laid out patterns of sin and action, eloquence and satisfaction? Or had she yielded the sizzle of impertinence, the wandering, the vagabond art, by simple survival, reaching for the borders of a world that could content her alms and arms? The prince’s head tilted a fraction, not giving in to her brandished bravado, but quietly indulging in his own: neither pressing, smoldering, or composing an overbearing presence of gall; only the notion, the ruminations, the speculations, of his ensnaring potential, of his vagabond insurrection. He liked the brazen, the brutal, the barbaric, yearned for eventual glory days where all his bestial brethren were tied and anointed together in one callous entity, gnawing on triumph and feasting on conquest. Wouldn’t she be a delightful candidate for the foreshadowed crowd (and when she looked at him, what did she see – a foretold blackguard, a mutinous wretch, a conspiring heathen, or one of the great many mass, unknown, unclaimed, never marked into legends or tales)? The lad pretended not to hear her bite, the flippant twist to her words, nonchalant in his own right, conducting himself as if he were his sire, indifferent and composed, and leaning towards his dam’s social indulgences, continuing to hold his broadened, impish smile. Erebos opened his mouth to speak, to satisfy the wicked ties of his intrigue, when one more broke into the open, and they were treated to more ice.
The other filly’s eyes were like the glaciers of their home, and he remembered her only from passing moments, the strangled bits and pieces of meetings, the dashing across meadows and valleys, and he welcomed her in the same way he’d acknowledged the other: grinning, still assured, still confident, shifting his cranium towards the incoming femme in a show of camaraderie. Orsino attempted the same, but fettered quickly beneath his bonded’s limbs, eyeing the true stranger from the forest of dark legs. Intertwined with the marks of the devil, in the wayward signs of a Machiavellian mind, the scion finally indulged his voice, prospering it to both ladies of the mist and mire, of the pines and rime, fastened to the prior query. “Erebos.” His gaze narrowed, a brief bout of ruthlessness, before it sparked and incensed back into his striking, spirited control, a little wolf begging to howl at the threshold of his den. “Why are you at the Basin?”
@[Själ]
| |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
[O] Dear Mother, As This Noose Is Placed Around My Neck | open
