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08-17-2015, 02:48 PM
The nymph’s eyes glanced delicately towards the opposite beast, studying, examining, and analyzing the reaction to her inquiry. His sigh was evidence enough of trials and tribulations, a series of discoveries, discernments, and suffering twisted and layered through his life; her smile dimmed for a fraction, ears listening, catching, the enamel distorted between his words and phrases, amongst venomous contortions and streamlined torrents. If the pain had grown, dauntless and ferocious, what was the cause? What was the root, the meaning, behind the feverish, brutal armaments condemning the Stygian stag? What happened if he was maimed severely during a battle, during a war, during an onslaught outside of his own making? How had he come to live with it for so long? Was he the same as so many of them upon the mountain: daring, enduring, and persevering, fervent on their desire to live, to maintain, to press and soldier on? Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and she glanced towards the open aperture, then to the flickering embers of Imogen’s fire, brushing a subtle glance towards the ivory vixen. The fox, for her part, managed a calm equilibrium, remained complex and composed by the light of the swirling blaze, puzzling over the architecture of this newfound rune. Try?, the little kitsune muttered across their silent connection, as if there were any doubt at all that Lena’s profound determination, stalwart, staunch, and steadfast presence wouldn’t have fought tooth and nail for the mere endeavor – so her eyes peered back towards his, strong and resolute, speckled with the honeyed undertaking of florets, of blooms, designated and designed for tenacity and defiance. Surely there was no harm in attempting the task? Would the ticking of her hours, of her minutes, of her seconds, bring further infidel persuasion? Would her lyrics and sonnets announce more foreboding, more overwhelming pain? She never doubted the art of compassion, the will of virtue, or the capacity of conviction. “If you’d like, I can try.” If permitted, she would sing, she would court, she would anoint a symphony, and if not, she’d continue where they started, and wonder how far he’d fall, how he’d spring from the fiendish wreckage, how he’d prevail when melancholy clasped him again. But then he distracted her – prospering his eyes towards the back of the cave, where nestled herbs dried from their wintry haze, and she was all aflutter again, a butterfly on the wind, and poised down into the avenues of dancing, flickering light. She arched further into the cave and stared upon the illustrious wares as if they were more precious than life: a smile stretched back across her mouth in equal fervor, bending her maw towards the painted leaves. “Healing, mostly. It depends on the plant.” Her muzzle extended along white petals and daisy exposition, drawing her eyes towards Mortuus Nox for the briefest of moments. “Like this chamomile. It can be used for all sorts of things, including inflammation, insomnia, and ulcers.” Her stare pinpointed back to another series of tender shoots, lined with fuzzy stems and light, purple flowers. “Or peppermint! It can assist in any digestion issues, and we can use its oil for muscle aches.” Given a lengthier period of time, she would have spiraled across the entire wall, calling and rattling off names of the herbs, their uses, their foundations, but a portion of her soul worried the visitor may not have invested appeal in the subject, and she didn’t dare bore him. Instead, she traced her gaze back along his features, and tilted her head in curiosity all the more. “Do you have an interest in mending?” her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
@Mortuus Nox
