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11-25-2015, 09:08 AM
The charisma he’d enacted had been a wondrous oeuvre: no sooner had his smile curled over his lips did she bear a matching one, and any apprehension, any nerves, any sense of strife cooled, tucked back into his chest in a silent, begrudging murmur. His grin enveloped and strung along his handsome features in almost angelic disarray, woven like his mother’s tender traces, but never quite derived from gentleness, from warmth and fondness. His was a elegant, poised mask, a masquerade of nails and indulgence, barbs and thorns and nettles eager, ready to sting, tipping only gently to one side as the girl spoke, whittling and carving the result of his expectations. Even while she frowned, even while she puttered over the circumstances, Erebos maintained his vigilance, ignored Orsino’s noxious plumes, his terrible wishes, and thought of the other femme deep within the pockets of a battle with Gods – while he’d lunged at the painted Colossus, she’d disappeared, somewhere else in the midst of chaos and bedlam. He’d never had an opportunity to ask, pledge, anoint, consecrate the foil of circumstances piled around them; and it’d been over, with no other chance. But now, now he surged into the sands and the hallowed hills of unholy heat, on the fringes of one more battle, one more skirmish. He continued listening to the edges of the crusade, because he knew the pummeling din well, because he’d faced down monsters just like the rest of them, came away with more scars, mischief, and pride. The darker child’s words were a ghostly drumming in his ears, you’ve found Zenobia, and my sister has taken it upon herself to help another filly, and he knew before she said anything more that he’d been too late. She’d already gone to assail the monster, and his moment was gone: crashed, gnarled, and broken. His jaw clenched, tight, taut, and his features struggled not to curl into a vicious, irritated snarl – exasperation clawed at his chest, at his skull, and Orsino dared to laugh through their connection, punished the haughty conjectures with more audacity. His vengeance was being enacted by another – different crimes, but the same beast, and that stupid notion of pride, of arrogance, of tenacity and determination pummeled through him, rooting at his heart, silly, foolish, and damning. If the girl looked back at him, she’d see the appealing depths of his smile were gone, replaced with a thin line of consternation and upheaval. Zenobia had already gone to take what he wanted: requital, reprisal, and vengeance. But this child of the Throat had at least given him something other than disappointment: the luster of a name, though garbled and strangled through ignorance. “Asshole would be more fitting,” he ground out, choking back the wrath, the hate, the contempt flooding through his voice. “We hunt the same creature.” His stare continued their idle rapture at the battle scene miles beyond, blurs of flying lizards and girls chasing after blood, gore, and revenge, and the indulgent motion of spite spread through him again. Without looking at the child, he spoke of his loathing, of his reasoning. “He killed my friend when we were children.” His eyes narrowed, lost in pockets of memories: a fiend nestled above his friend, Arwen in a pool of crushed, gnarled bones and puddles of blood – completely, utterly broken. I want him dead, he didn’t say. I want him massacred, he didn’t mention. Instead, he listened to her talk, a scion of the hot sands, distracting him from wretched memories and helpless babes trembling in the snow. The prince’s gaze eventually found hers, with an ear always turned towards the ongoing campaign, trying to riddle a small smile back across his face. Up North – she wanted to talk about his homeland, instead of the wretched figure trying to tear her comrade apart – and a bitter laugh almost pervaded his soul; he caught it before it could escape into the void and leave them all deplorable. “Cold, chilling, and beautiful,” was his simple answer, and then, before he knew it, because perhaps he too had been caught in someone’s spell, his speech turned into a flourish of poetical nuances. He loved his home, his kingdom, his paradise – it was a shame Arwen no longer got to see it. “Picture endless mountains, pine, fir, and caverns, with a lake that never freezes, with hot springs to warm your bones,” the smile grew, larger still, enraptured again and tangled away from the harsh outcries of reality dotting the horizon. “Its my favorite place.” Then, he paused, as if remembering a segment of manners. “What's your name?” OOC;; TAG;; @[ ] "talk talk talk" |
- table by Niki -
@Aelin
