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08-06-2015, 08:28 AM
Conquered
Your fear should be my warning,
your hesitance, resistance on my part.
But even the words of beloveds are lost,
even our instincts, are conquered by kings.
ASHAMIN
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
Just as the Haruspex was letting his mind wander, just as he was considering that this was perhaps a private moment that he had intruded upon and thought to leave, the scene changed. Deimos drew closer, the faint light of the moon casting shadows and contorting shapes as the water became nothing more but a loud backdrop and the shore was made the Basin lord's domain.
Ashamin watched, lips slightly parted, ears resting, stomach in knots, as that embodiment of a dark cloth in the wind sneaked forth. How, in such an open setting, could Ashamin still feel surprised by Deimos' presence now, closer to him? The haruspex may have been on his way to becoming wise, but Ashamin took no note of Lochan's fear, of his head pressing against his bonded's chest. It would have been a smart thing to notice, Lochan's uneasiness. Lochan had not lifted his eyes from the shadows of the cloth folds, had let himself hang limp across Ashamin's narrow chest, but still the cerndyr feared Deimos' approach.
That was real fear. Fear of what you couldn't see, what you couldn't even hear or know for certain was behind you--fear of a sinister change in the air, if only for what it would bring.
But if Deimos heralded death, then Ashamin was too blind to see the banners and too deaf to pick up the trumpets. Trust had its downfalls, its narrowing of one's vision. Perhaps the young Haruspex would have to learn to trust less easily, if he had the time left in his life to do so.
Deimos' greeting was met with one in kind; the painted buck let those lips shut, let the throat swallow, and then echoed their sentiment in perfect kindness, the only way he knew how. "Good evening, Deimos," he said, following with a small comment, a quiet something, a "how strange for us both to find ourselves so far from home and yet in each other's presence."
And then the moment hung, still and impatient, as Ashamin battled with himself. What gesture should accompany such sentiment? Surely before any other a touch, an embrace, a physical recognition, but what about Deimos? Ashamin knew Thranduil as a friend, before that golden man his guard was down and the code of conduct waived. But what of Deimos, the one who'd led this herd longer than any other, and the one with the solitary, stone-cold features of a demon?
Ashamin wouldn't believe any rumors, he wouldn't let reputation belittle a man. But he knew better than to judge Deimos, for their only interactions had proven the reaper to be strong and capable in his role. So it was respect, then, that he would have. And Ashamin bowed low, the silk of his sarong and its burden brushing the sand as he bent and extended himself. He hovered beneath Deimos for the length of few breaths--staring at those hocks, a few yards away, so stiffly planted--before rising and seeking to find his lord's gaze.
Good Evening, Deimos.
Table by Jen, with help from Avis
See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
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