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06-14-2015, 10:33 AM
Nymeria
IF I HAD A HEART I COULD LOVE YOU \ IF I HAD A VOICE I WOULD SING
AFTER THE NIGHT WHEN I WAKE UP \ I'LL SEE WHAT TOMORROW BRINGS
AFTER THE NIGHT WHEN I WAKE UP \ I'LL SEE WHAT TOMORROW BRINGS
Already dead.
She stares at the pegasus, unabashed by what she considers to be a joke in poor taste. Her head tilts, lilting to the side in a way reminiscent of a snake sizing up its prey; she shifts her weight, back and forth, and takes a step away, body language kept quite carefully neutral. The vantage point differs only moderately, but it brings her closer to her dragon, burrowed away above her head. I am unnerved. Neurons fire, thoughts ricocheting from her to Lil; his mind, full of darkness and emptiness, only echoes the sentiment, not understanding the words. Nym sighs, a long, slow exhale through her nares, and curls up her neck, sending a second image (something not quite describable) communicating only her emotions. The black reciprocates, and from his emptiness swells a bulbous sensation of wariness, of caution, and worry for his mistress.
The stranger's eyes are wet and steamy, moistened by his illness. There's a certain dampness to them—an ugly, distasteful dampness—that remains her of things rancid and swollen, bloated animals decaying in a fetid swamp.
It makes her ill. Lilomiel stirs in his temporary perch, his tail's silhouette becoming briefly visible against the backdrop of white and gold lighting. His claws tighten on the sill, grating against cold ice, and steam rises from his transcendent nostrils, smoke and ash carrying upwards to trap against the ceiling.
Still, hismaster commands, flexing towards him a barbed premonition of punishment. Reluctantly, the black quiets, his heart slowing, the flames gathering on his tongue receding. Ever since his discovery of flame, he had been eager to burn and ever more excited to slaughter. Soon, Nymeria always told him; soon we will be destruction itself. She would've felt foolish saying phrases like that outloud—but in her head, all was fair game, especially caricaturist promises of carnage.
Too much time has passed for her answer to be a quick quip of repose, but she says it anyways.
"If you're dead, why are you still breathing?"
A smile graces her lips, faint and waspish pride caressing her gleaming red eyes. A question indeed; she hopes he'll be interesting enough to bother engaging with her. Theoretical conversations (even stupid and foolish ones) always tended to be more interesting than "what's your name?"—"my name's aliska!"—"how are you?" dullness.
She stares at the pegasus, unabashed by what she considers to be a joke in poor taste. Her head tilts, lilting to the side in a way reminiscent of a snake sizing up its prey; she shifts her weight, back and forth, and takes a step away, body language kept quite carefully neutral. The vantage point differs only moderately, but it brings her closer to her dragon, burrowed away above her head. I am unnerved. Neurons fire, thoughts ricocheting from her to Lil; his mind, full of darkness and emptiness, only echoes the sentiment, not understanding the words. Nym sighs, a long, slow exhale through her nares, and curls up her neck, sending a second image (something not quite describable) communicating only her emotions. The black reciprocates, and from his emptiness swells a bulbous sensation of wariness, of caution, and worry for his mistress.
The stranger's eyes are wet and steamy, moistened by his illness. There's a certain dampness to them—an ugly, distasteful dampness—that remains her of things rancid and swollen, bloated animals decaying in a fetid swamp.
It makes her ill. Lilomiel stirs in his temporary perch, his tail's silhouette becoming briefly visible against the backdrop of white and gold lighting. His claws tighten on the sill, grating against cold ice, and steam rises from his transcendent nostrils, smoke and ash carrying upwards to trap against the ceiling.
Still, his
Too much time has passed for her answer to be a quick quip of repose, but she says it anyways.
"If you're dead, why are you still breathing?"
A smile graces her lips, faint and waspish pride caressing her gleaming red eyes. A question indeed; she hopes he'll be interesting enough to bother engaging with her. Theoretical conversations (even stupid and foolish ones) always tended to be more interesting than "what's your name?"—"my name's aliska!"—"how are you?" dullness.
IF I HAD A VOICE, I WOULD SING \ DANGLING FEET FROM WINDOW FRAME
WILL I EVER EVER REACH THE FLOOR?
MORE, GIVE ME MORE, GIVE ME MORE
WILL I EVER EVER REACH THE FLOOR?
MORE, GIVE ME MORE, GIVE ME MORE
tatiana gettelman on flickr
larfsalot on deviantart
@[Gull]
Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions
