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graasvoel
Though it was bitter, he grinned in triumph as he eased a laugh out of the teary, downtrodden mare. His dark brows raised at her words, “My company? A mess? It’s you that’s the mess at the moment,” his rough voice was playfully as he easily gestured towards her scraped knees and dirt-soiled skin, “And I’m rather clean—but I’m willing to get as messy as you’d like,” his grin broadened as he, again, flirtatiously winked at the spotted woman. Though it was a friendly wink. with no pressure behind the insinuation (but he was serious about the offer).
And then she asked about his language, her lovely hazel gaze lost to the fiery sunset—though it was quickly burning out and giving way to a lavender twilight. “Skoenlapper? It means ‘butterfly’ in Korofi. My people—” he broke off, realizing that the Korofi were no longer his, and corrected himself, “—They can make even beautiful things sounds harsh.” Indeed, his mother-tongue was a hard and guttural language, for the most part. It was spoken from the throat.
And then he chuckled, “I am no ‘Sir.’ My father would laugh the air out of his wings to hear you call me that. But Myrrine is an enchanting name. And do not apologize, I am never sorry to meet a beauty,” again, he smiled and then fell silent as he awaited to see if she would speak on the troubles that caused the tears to cascade down her spotted, pretty cheeks.
Though he began to lose hope that she would, so was the silence that stretched between them and she continued to watch the fiery sliver of sun slip beneath the snow horizon. The drop in temperature was palpable as the earth lost the day’s heat; even the lighting became cooler sets of blues, purples, and greens. He shifted, quite comfortable in his thick, shaggy winter coat—but he wondered if the slender-built woman would like to share some of his body heat. Though she had seemed unwilling to let him get close to her.
And then she spoke, and the giant man is caught by the deliciously michevious smile that suddenly paints her lips, “I’d be delighted to,” his deep voice rumbled in answer, beginning to shift to follow after her.
And then she asked about his language, her lovely hazel gaze lost to the fiery sunset—though it was quickly burning out and giving way to a lavender twilight. “Skoenlapper? It means ‘butterfly’ in Korofi. My people—” he broke off, realizing that the Korofi were no longer his, and corrected himself, “—They can make even beautiful things sounds harsh.” Indeed, his mother-tongue was a hard and guttural language, for the most part. It was spoken from the throat.
And then he chuckled, “I am no ‘Sir.’ My father would laugh the air out of his wings to hear you call me that. But Myrrine is an enchanting name. And do not apologize, I am never sorry to meet a beauty,” again, he smiled and then fell silent as he awaited to see if she would speak on the troubles that caused the tears to cascade down her spotted, pretty cheeks.
Though he began to lose hope that she would, so was the silence that stretched between them and she continued to watch the fiery sliver of sun slip beneath the snow horizon. The drop in temperature was palpable as the earth lost the day’s heat; even the lighting became cooler sets of blues, purples, and greens. He shifted, quite comfortable in his thick, shaggy winter coat—but he wondered if the slender-built woman would like to share some of his body heat. Though she had seemed unwilling to let him get close to her.
And then she spoke, and the giant man is caught by the deliciously michevious smile that suddenly paints her lips, “I’d be delighted to,” his deep voice rumbled in answer, beginning to shift to follow after her.
the vulture feeds while it can
until there's no trace left of man
until there's no trace left of man
@Myrrine
Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.
