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06-28-2016, 04:20 PM
hellsparkle
He's used to mortal sins and folly. He has lived long enough to learn of these things, greed, love, lust, kindness. He knows what gritty darkness can lurk behind radiance. He knows he can't trust anyone—but himself.
So it doesn't surprise him, not really, that it turns to chaos. Subtle, social mayhem, as the old lanky man cries out in foul language, and the pearly wraith on her wide wings laugh even as hell chases after her, and a stranger marches onto the scene with a kind of confidence and dedication that is, in a world such as this, admirable. In the gentle snowfall he seems nearly white, and he doesn't stop until he is face-to-face with the beast itself; Hellsparkle stares evenly into those eyes of pale blues, refusing to be cowed. "I am Cem," he says as dragonfire scorches the little sprite's pristine tail and sends her away.
And thus, it has been laid in his lap, a choice he did not expect but now has to make; the lanky girl makes her way away from them, leaving the men alone, and his black eyes roll over the stallions present. They are tall, both of them. Is that a perquisite here? White smoke plunges from his nostrils. Surely this Cem, bold and brazen, represents another nation.
Aurora Basin, or a land of courage?
He does not want to make this choice, not with his bones gnawed clean in such a way. The blunt offer is appealing, it calls wickedly to the darker sides of his soul—come, come away, and it is almost as if Cem knows that He isGod.
But to give that game away, or not?
His pet settles back onto his snow-laden haunches, giving her fur a shake and the tall, pale Cem a disconcerting grin. He stalls; she knows. He tries for caution, for tempering, for not tipping his hand so soon—she is a beast, her heart yelling for the hunt, her senses roaring out her conviction.
It is like a black storm rising inside of him, brought into life from bloodstained pages, a hymn bleeding out from the slit throats he has left behind. Black wings ruffle against his sides as he grapples with himself; does he dare to whisper an oath of allegiance so soon? Does he dare to follow one who sets his blood running in such a wicked, wicked way? He doesn't know this land; he has no plans, not yet, but...
"Yes," he responds, mere inches from Cem's face that he is. His voice is white smoke and bleeding little drops of arrogance, and black lips curve into the ghost of a wicked smile—he is trying, oh how he is trying, to contain that which bubbles deep in his prideful soul. "Let us go."
[ I'm sorry this is very late, my life really, really hated on me for a long time and I chose to prioritize Mauja. Sorry if this throws some weird kinks in a timeline. @Albrecht @Knox ]
So it doesn't surprise him, not really, that it turns to chaos. Subtle, social mayhem, as the old lanky man cries out in foul language, and the pearly wraith on her wide wings laugh even as hell chases after her, and a stranger marches onto the scene with a kind of confidence and dedication that is, in a world such as this, admirable. In the gentle snowfall he seems nearly white, and he doesn't stop until he is face-to-face with the beast itself; Hellsparkle stares evenly into those eyes of pale blues, refusing to be cowed. "I am Cem," he says as dragonfire scorches the little sprite's pristine tail and sends her away.
And thus, it has been laid in his lap, a choice he did not expect but now has to make; the lanky girl makes her way away from them, leaving the men alone, and his black eyes roll over the stallions present. They are tall, both of them. Is that a perquisite here? White smoke plunges from his nostrils. Surely this Cem, bold and brazen, represents another nation.
Aurora Basin, or a land of courage?
He does not want to make this choice, not with his bones gnawed clean in such a way. The blunt offer is appealing, it calls wickedly to the darker sides of his soul—come, come away, and it is almost as if Cem knows that He is
But to give that game away, or not?
His pet settles back onto his snow-laden haunches, giving her fur a shake and the tall, pale Cem a disconcerting grin. He stalls; she knows. He tries for caution, for tempering, for not tipping his hand so soon—she is a beast, her heart yelling for the hunt, her senses roaring out her conviction.
It is like a black storm rising inside of him, brought into life from bloodstained pages, a hymn bleeding out from the slit throats he has left behind. Black wings ruffle against his sides as he grapples with himself; does he dare to whisper an oath of allegiance so soon? Does he dare to follow one who sets his blood running in such a wicked, wicked way? He doesn't know this land; he has no plans, not yet, but...
"Yes," he responds, mere inches from Cem's face that he is. His voice is white smoke and bleeding little drops of arrogance, and black lips curve into the ghost of a wicked smile—he is trying, oh how he is trying, to contain that which bubbles deep in his prideful soul. "Let us go."
[ I'm sorry this is very late, my life really, really hated on me for a long time and I chose to prioritize Mauja. Sorry if this throws some weird kinks in a timeline. @Albrecht @Knox ]
