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10-25-2015, 12:08 PM
An act and a play, draped in ruffian’s garb and provocateur bluffs, taking anything and everything warranted and granted; the nonchalant lock of his gaze performed for fiery benefits and fringed efforts. He paid credence, gentle bobs and nods towards Morrigan and her Pongo (contorting and controlling his innate desires to lunge and study it and smirk, smile, grin, laugh), and Orsino, ruffled and irked, irritated and vengeful, simply stared at the other beast – twitching an ear, a tail, and his nose. The scion listened to her offers and bestowals, the notions of family and support, and allowed the smallest of grins to slip between his lips (because he knew about comrades, companions, and the sentiments of his bonds – how far he’d go for each and every one of them). Perhaps it was the same within the wide-open sands and the desolate ice caps, each so different, but so alike in turn, sometimes rash and harsh with one another, and then in the next moment, protective and abiding; he marveled at the snippets of information for seconds and instances, before putting it aside, a lingering thought for the future. His attention pulsed and riveted back towards Cera – and he nearly laughed, wicked and debauched, at the framework of his response. I would be indebted to you…more than grateful - the rites and shackles and tethers maneuvered and contorted around such words brought a sinful leer to his skull and a scalding blade to Orsino’s. A spark of inspiration, a notion of deliverance and contemplation - here, his stage had been set – for what, he couldn’t be sure, for the impending, foreshadowing bits and pieces of destiny, fate, and fortune were so scattered, so barren – but the chance, the opportunity, brought to him was more than enough. He was bold, he was intrepid, he was ignited and adventurous and eager for something to play into his hands, for power to be riddled and snarled and snagged in his grasp; it could be kindled here, in the amiable munitions of friendships and camaraderie, and used for deceitful whims later, later, later, plunging back into anarchy and apathy. He tilted his head, a wholesome regard, a perfect picture of innocence and intrigue, of flames borne from interest and curiosity, and not the incensed, fueled, content measures of damnation, corruption, and distortion. The boy lingered in this honorable, gallant space, a little more stalwart than his grandfather, blinking and chasing after the particular runes Cera sought: capable of granting power for power, inquiry for information. “What kind of magic do you need?” OOC;; --- TAG;; @[ ] "talk talk talk" |
- table by Niki -
@Cera @Morrigan
