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01-19-2016, 02:46 PM
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Rikyn
His muscles are still taught as steel (or so he’d describe them) as he stares her down, the snort breaking from his nostrils at her attempt to compare him to a rodent all the disdain he lets escape from his being, aside from the obvious physical cues that he lingers on the brink of violence. Of all the things that might have touched his ego before the discovery of his magic, the comparison of a rat does not bother him. He is Lord over all things smaller than him… and she seems to be diminutive in comparison to his masculine bulk, anyway, now that he thinks of it, letting his eyes trail away from her, into the trees about and above. He still hates her. He hopes that his nonchalance and obvious loathing drive her to strike first, having taken some maturity to mind in the past season, and lessons from his mistake while ill. The white mark on his shoulder is a physical reminder, as is the very presence of the black dragon woman; his tail curls as if alive and fanged behind him. It’s when she makes a complete idiot of herself that he cannot curb his tongue, dark lips curling back into a sneer, his laugh chilled and mocking. "I thought you said it was lifeless," he jibes, rolling his golden eyes as uses one golden ankle to try and remove the tangled branch from the other, refusing to give the shrub a gender (how dumb); his anger begins ebbing away with each lunge of his overly aggravated heart, and continues its slowing as he gives up the task of removing the stubborn bush from himself. Mostly, it’s the realization that she is only a foolish girl, pretty with a head full of air, but also that he has noticed he’s ever more prone to strange moods the older he gets. Besides, she’s not his mother, or the line of fate he seems to be bound to, and he might actually like her if she’d just shut the hell up. Such is the after effect of rage, his young muscle finding no way to vent his excessive anger than to immediately reduce it to an even more base emotion: lecherous, his narrowed and still molten eyes sweep across her figure, the heat emanating from her obvious now that he seeks it. She is pretty, a weapon of a woman is not curves and softness but sinew and leather, and with the strange mental shudder of the erotic remembered, he catches glimpses of her through the haze of the strange, black goo, when she first was not a dragon but a shining warrior maiden in the night. But she’s still talking (it’s like a high pitched eeeeee that regains his focus from her ample, starry ass and back to her vapid little blue steel eyes), and he thinks she might have asked him something through the muddling sensation of another rise of aggravation as she keeps being a bitch for no reason he can surmise. "I don’t need your help," he manages to nicely manage (from, “you couldn’t help if it was all you wanted to do, idiot”), still trying to puzzle together if she’d asked him if he was ashamed to be escaped or if he could give her his name. It seemed odd to ask either, considering the situation – and so he decided on the slightly less crazy of the two. Still, he felt little obligation to share such information, rather the pressing need to ask her… "Are you completely mad or only partly so?" straightforward, no menace included in his tone, the prince (in his mind) looks at her through narrowed eyes that suspect the first, "you’ve been a bitch to me for three minutes straight and want to know who I am now? Even if I had meant to kick your ass forever and fifteen years ago, I’d say you’ve had a good knock on the head or were born half brained to begin with." @Ki'irha  |
