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08-09-2015, 10:06 PM
Quietly, he stalks forth, eyes expressionless, a face of stone. His hooves falls with each step heavily, flinging sand outwards, as if he doesn't care enough to place them carefully, diligently. His wings are loose at his sides, the longer feathers brushing the tawny sand, being dragged mercilessly, though he doesn't care enough to pick them up. For the first time in Helovia, Caleb is tired, but cannot fall asleep. His tail, normally writhing like a viper, drags behind him like a limp carcass. His hound is not present, off doing something Caleb could care less about. An ivory body up ahead does spark his interest however, and his feet begin to move quicker as he begins a steady lope, powerful, yet oddly calm. Horned skull hangs low and his the loud thuds caused by his hooves on wet sand echo through the silence, mingling in with the thunderous crashes of water beating the sand. Salty mist is sprayed at him with every broken wave, resulting in him smelling of the sea salt and pine from the north. His tresses dance in the wind, swirling and twirling like a ballerina dance perfected.
Then he is upon her, but he does not attack her, for he has already attacked this maiden once. He halts, instead, noting her sandy appearance, her ivory hide spotless otherwise. The grogginess of earlier diminishes as a curiosity blooms within. His roaring tenor voice vibrates out of his chest in a raspy morning-voice. "Elsa?" It's a question, not a statement. The simple asking of her name means more, are you okay? Can I stay? Can we talk? The cold bite of the air is not lost on him, his eyes closing briefly, stung by the wind. The grass at his pattern flicked back and forth, tickling the ivory hairs that make up his for stockings. "Are you cold?" He asks, lids flickering open once again, their molten silver focus intently on Elsa's own gaze.
Then he is upon her, but he does not attack her, for he has already attacked this maiden once. He halts, instead, noting her sandy appearance, her ivory hide spotless otherwise. The grogginess of earlier diminishes as a curiosity blooms within. His roaring tenor voice vibrates out of his chest in a raspy morning-voice. "Elsa?" It's a question, not a statement. The simple asking of her name means more, are you okay? Can I stay? Can we talk? The cold bite of the air is not lost on him, his eyes closing briefly, stung by the wind. The grass at his pattern flicked back and forth, tickling the ivory hairs that make up his for stockings. "Are you cold?" He asks, lids flickering open once again, their molten silver focus intently on Elsa's own gaze.
