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graasvoel
He guffawed outright at her stuttering apology—now realizing that he had misunderstood her. His rough laugh died to low chuckles as he saw the lovely heat creep into her pale, spotted cheeks. “I’d tell you not apologize again, but that blush looks lovely on you. And you’ve called me handsome,” his flirtatious grin grew as he teased her. It assuredly stroked his ego to hear her call him as such. His sharp gaze continued to watch her face as she continued to speak, going him a shy smile as her attention, too, left the swiftly setting sun. He returned her smile with grin.
To a man who had only known pleasure in the place of love, the sound of words meant as much as their meaning, because the sound was the sensation they gave and that sensation could be pleasure. But he was never one to outright contradict a lady, particularly a pretty one, so he simply hummed lowly in his throat in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her.
His ears tilt backwards at the mention of mothers—the vulture does not dwell on the thoughts of dams. Where Myrrine claimed that hers had taught her politeness, his had taught him passive cruelty and cold disdain. And his true mother was dead, from nothing more than vindictive jealousy. So he remained silent until they reached a nearly frozen creek.
Sharp, conflicted gaze watch her lips part to drink the icy water—he, himself, refrains as his current thirst would not be quenched by water. Instead, he listens, ears fluted forward and eyes searching her face and neck as she quietly giggled and her gaze grew soft. “Why was he terrified?” his gruff voice questions, bearded head tilting slightly to side, “And who was this friend?” His second question was gentle, even his rough vocals, sharp gaze probing her own hazel for an answer.
To a man who had only known pleasure in the place of love, the sound of words meant as much as their meaning, because the sound was the sensation they gave and that sensation could be pleasure. But he was never one to outright contradict a lady, particularly a pretty one, so he simply hummed lowly in his throat in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her.
His ears tilt backwards at the mention of mothers—the vulture does not dwell on the thoughts of dams. Where Myrrine claimed that hers had taught her politeness, his had taught him passive cruelty and cold disdain. And his true mother was dead, from nothing more than vindictive jealousy. So he remained silent until they reached a nearly frozen creek.
Sharp, conflicted gaze watch her lips part to drink the icy water—he, himself, refrains as his current thirst would not be quenched by water. Instead, he listens, ears fluted forward and eyes searching her face and neck as she quietly giggled and her gaze grew soft. “Why was he terrified?” his gruff voice questions, bearded head tilting slightly to side, “And who was this friend?” His second question was gentle, even his rough vocals, sharp gaze probing her own hazel for an answer.
the vulture feeds while it can
until there's no trace left of man
until there's no trace left of man
@Myrrine
Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.
