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For moments you simply watch them, your eyes warily focused on the black and blue man you know only for his leadership, and even there it is mostly assumptions made from the few and far between instances that you had spent with him, the lack of discontent that you have noticed within the group of Basiners. Despite promises you had made yourself you had chosen to stay as deep in the folds of obscurity as you could manage, venturing out only when you were needed, too uncertain of your ability to hold your tongue to feel comfortable in the midst of those who could take away everything. Your growing discomfort with the golden lord (your face darkens as you recall him, the eerie calmness that had befallen him when you had cut into his pride, not trusting it for a single minute) had put you on edge with the other two, uncertain of whether it is all a game between them, everyone their pawns, or whether they are truly unaware of the less than forthcoming intentions that you pin to the wolf-lord. But looking to the girl that accompanies him, lithe and young and lovely, you do not recognize her; do not recognize the lines that tie them together. Suspicion rises in your heart as she whistles, a flash of white drawing your mismatched eyes to the sky as the bird lands on flesh colored between purple and blue. You watch as he weaves together flowers picked from the woman’s hair, deftly intertwining their delicate stems, as the maiden takes his creation and, with fluid motion, places what you now see to be a crown on the Reaper’s masculine head. You laugh from your place beneath the pines as she admires her work, no doubt finding as much humor as you do in someone so utterly unfeminine wearing something so very delicate. It is then that another joins them, her easiness in the midst of the unknown somehow still taking you by surprise. Her cherub face is smiling, as it is always smiling, even as she darts away as quickly as she came. When she returns she is carrying little blue and white flowers, holding them out for the girl to add to her makeshift crown. It inspires you to forget your self-loathing, swooping up young stems of wintergreen as you make your way to them, slowing as you grow near enough to make your contribution to his crown. You push the flowers through the weave that the ashen bird had made as precisely as you can manage, stepping back when you are certain that they will not fall. Only then do you offer a quiet smile to the spindly girl, one that grows as you look to Tia and begins to fade as your eyes rest on the roan man. |
@Deimos
