.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
His ears twitched as he strained, waiting to hear anything from her; his gaze could have plucked every feather of Khairi’s the obscured Kiada’s face from his. He needed to see her. His body leaned forward, golden skin a taunt tapestry over tense and straining muscles. He knew nothing more than the snakes and wolves told him with their fiery tongues and jaws along her spine.
But when he finally did get to see her face, a sharp breath sucked in through his nostrils. She wore her mask.
She work her mask for him.
His ears, which had been painfully straining forward, tilted backwards and his gaze, already fractured by pain and fear and guilt, closed into a dark, shuttered, distant place. His dark lips twisted into some sort of pained, remorseful, resentful grimace. “Wewe ni siri,” his low voice was still hoarse--but now despondent, strained by the many, strong emotions that pulsed through his chest.
He fell silent the moment she spoke, some shadow of reprieve ghosting through his mind that she used his own foal-hood name. His ears twitched as she spoke—she was hurt. He had hurt her. Something he vowed to never do.
His head tilted back, long limbs slowly carrying his larger body towards her. His dark hooves joined hers in the digging of the reprehensible log—though he remained silent as he glanced towards her; trying to see beyond the mask she had put in place.
But he could not. Despite knowing her with every fiber of his being, she also knew his. So her ability to hide from him was absolute, if she wanted it. Only the flaming elephants along her back gave him any indication that she was pained and sorrowful. Slowly, his digging hooves stopped as he watched the bruised, freshly scarred skin of her shoulder work tirelessly.
And then, with a quiet and wordless utterance, he slipped his gilded and striped neck over hers, tightly. “Nakupenda sana,” his whisper was hot and fierce, spoken from a tight throat and burning eyes. “Samahani, Miali. But I want you for me, so much ni machungu yangu,” the rush of his hot words came in a mixture of their language and the common tongue. He paused only for a shaky breath before continuing, “I know it is selfish, but—” he broke off, burning his muzzle painfully deep into her shoulder and deeply inhaling all that was Kiada, “You are apart of me. Sehemu nzuri.” It was only with that last, Dorobian sentence that all of his fearful defenses fell and he was laid bare. Without her, he was nothing but prey for all the darkness that loomed within him. With her, he had direction, center, purpose.
Without her, he had nothing.
wewe ni siri. = you are masked.
nakupenda sana = i love you so much
Samahani, Miali = I’m sorry, little flames
ni machungu yangu = it hurts me
sehemu nzuri = the good part
But when he finally did get to see her face, a sharp breath sucked in through his nostrils. She wore her mask.
She work her mask for him.
His ears, which had been painfully straining forward, tilted backwards and his gaze, already fractured by pain and fear and guilt, closed into a dark, shuttered, distant place. His dark lips twisted into some sort of pained, remorseful, resentful grimace. “Wewe ni siri,” his low voice was still hoarse--but now despondent, strained by the many, strong emotions that pulsed through his chest.
He fell silent the moment she spoke, some shadow of reprieve ghosting through his mind that she used his own foal-hood name. His ears twitched as she spoke—she was hurt. He had hurt her. Something he vowed to never do.
His head tilted back, long limbs slowly carrying his larger body towards her. His dark hooves joined hers in the digging of the reprehensible log—though he remained silent as he glanced towards her; trying to see beyond the mask she had put in place.
But he could not. Despite knowing her with every fiber of his being, she also knew his. So her ability to hide from him was absolute, if she wanted it. Only the flaming elephants along her back gave him any indication that she was pained and sorrowful. Slowly, his digging hooves stopped as he watched the bruised, freshly scarred skin of her shoulder work tirelessly.
And then, with a quiet and wordless utterance, he slipped his gilded and striped neck over hers, tightly. “Nakupenda sana,” his whisper was hot and fierce, spoken from a tight throat and burning eyes. “Samahani, Miali. But I want you for me, so much ni machungu yangu,” the rush of his hot words came in a mixture of their language and the common tongue. He paused only for a shaky breath before continuing, “I know it is selfish, but—” he broke off, burning his muzzle painfully deep into her shoulder and deeply inhaling all that was Kiada, “You are apart of me. Sehemu nzuri.” It was only with that last, Dorobian sentence that all of his fearful defenses fell and he was laid bare. Without her, he was nothing but prey for all the darkness that loomed within him. With her, he had direction, center, purpose.
Without her, he had nothing.
wewe ni siri. = you are masked.
nakupenda sana = i love you so much
Samahani, Miali = I’m sorry, little flames
ni machungu yangu = it hurts me
sehemu nzuri = the good part
@Kiada
Please tag Kianzo in all replies.
