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graasvoel
His red-hot and sharp gaze does not miss the lingering uneasiness in the gold mare—nor does he miss the failed attempt at reassuring the Moon Doctor Lyanna. His black-marked brows knit slightly—though he can’t truly manage outright frustration beneath the Giving Tree’s warm, calming glow. Though the glow is starting to abate, seeming to fade with the dispersement of Helovians as the crowd began to thin.
A low, rough chuckle just managed to push out his throat as she apologies and explains (vaguely) her strangely standoffish behavior. (Rest assured that the acrobatic and alluringly exotic lilt of her tongue does not go unnoticed.) “I assure you, lovely Yael, that I am very much flesh and blood,” and, as if to prove that point, he arched and shook his neck, heavy muscles proudly leaping out from beneath his swarthy, tawny skin. He then grinned roguishly and winked at the gold woman, inviting her to laugh at his ridiculous display of faux-manliness.
He then relaxes his thick, testosterone-grown crest, the thick and now hopelessly knotted strands of his multi-colored mane settling as a while mess atop it. His gaze dances among the black specks of her plumage, before studying the soft ivory of her silken mane, and lastly landing on the warm brown of her eyes. “Are you running from this ghost?” The question was offhand, easily spoken in his slightly accented, rough voice. And the question—too serious for it to be normally asked by the vulture— was asked out of curiosity. What ghost could elicit such a response in the golden woman?
A low, rough chuckle just managed to push out his throat as she apologies and explains (vaguely) her strangely standoffish behavior. (Rest assured that the acrobatic and alluringly exotic lilt of her tongue does not go unnoticed.) “I assure you, lovely Yael, that I am very much flesh and blood,” and, as if to prove that point, he arched and shook his neck, heavy muscles proudly leaping out from beneath his swarthy, tawny skin. He then grinned roguishly and winked at the gold woman, inviting her to laugh at his ridiculous display of faux-manliness.
He then relaxes his thick, testosterone-grown crest, the thick and now hopelessly knotted strands of his multi-colored mane settling as a while mess atop it. His gaze dances among the black specks of her plumage, before studying the soft ivory of her silken mane, and lastly landing on the warm brown of her eyes. “Are you running from this ghost?” The question was offhand, easily spoken in his slightly accented, rough voice. And the question—too serious for it to be normally asked by the vulture— was asked out of curiosity. What ghost could elicit such a response in the golden woman?
the vulture feeds while it can
until there's no trace left of man
until there's no trace left of man
@Yael sorry for the delay!
Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.
