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12-24-2015, 03:06 PM
An ear tilts downward at the sound of her voice, cupping the familiar tone as it lilts and breathes from her lips (so delicate and tender, even in just a single breath, he feels it in his mind and in his chest). The stallion doesn’t look at her, doesn’t meet her eyes, he doesn’t dare to—not at a time like this. Stripped of boundaries and reservations, they have risen together. Even unconsciously, he has made himself vulnerable, exposed, and bare where his mask of apathy and detachment usually rests so protectively. His guard has wavered in the afterglow that knits them together, threading through walls and barricades and stones that he has so painstakingly, irrationally forged—
No. It is nothing.
It is…nothing.
He stands oblivious to the mare’s own conflict that riles within her, too preoccupied with preserving his own impartiality to take notice (and what would happen if he did look to her? If he did give in, succumb and let himself fall to the desires of his heart—desires that he so vehemently, stubbornly,hopelessly rejects—what would happen then?)
The stallion nearly startles at her touch, so wrapped up in the writhing and chaos of his own conflicts (but they aren’t conflicts at all, he reassures himself, tells himself; because there is nothing to wrestle over. It is just like anyone else. …Right?); he doesn’t realize that she has turned her eyes to him moments ago. All Rohan can do is chuckle deeply at her simple statement, too afraid to trust his tongue. Still, he manages a smirking smile, ignoring and burying all of the words that he longs to say in fervent agreement—words, foolish words, that leap unbidden to the forefront of his thoughts.
Enna leans into him then, shoving playfully in their typical light banter. The Warlander welcomes this familiarity, this security, and almost immediately he begins to soften (hardly realizing that he had become tense at all). “It would seem that way,” he grins crookedly, masking with a laugh the deeper meaning that resonates through his bones.
Surely it is nothing.
“Speech.”
No. It is nothing.
It is…nothing.
He stands oblivious to the mare’s own conflict that riles within her, too preoccupied with preserving his own impartiality to take notice (and what would happen if he did look to her? If he did give in, succumb and let himself fall to the desires of his heart—desires that he so vehemently, stubbornly,
The stallion nearly startles at her touch, so wrapped up in the writhing and chaos of his own conflicts (but they aren’t conflicts at all, he reassures himself, tells himself; because there is nothing to wrestle over. It is just like anyone else. …Right?); he doesn’t realize that she has turned her eyes to him moments ago. All Rohan can do is chuckle deeply at her simple statement, too afraid to trust his tongue. Still, he manages a smirking smile, ignoring and burying all of the words that he longs to say in fervent agreement—words, foolish words, that leap unbidden to the forefront of his thoughts.
Enna leans into him then, shoving playfully in their typical light banter. The Warlander welcomes this familiarity, this security, and almost immediately he begins to soften (hardly realizing that he had become tense at all). “It would seem that way,” he grins crookedly, masking with a laugh the deeper meaning that resonates through his bones.
Surely it is nothing.
“Speech.”
NO BLINDING LIGHT, OR TUNNELS TO GATES OF WHITE
— just our hands clasped so tight,
waiting for the hint of a spark.
— just our hands clasped so tight,
waiting for the hint of a spark.
![[Image: 57c5195f31f1b_by_relibelli-db9li1z.png]](http://orig06.deviantart.net/bb9e/f/2017/138/7/1/57c5195f31f1b_by_relibelli-db9li1z.png)
please tag Rohan in all replies!
magic & force is permitted, excluding death or permanent injury.
