[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Jyoti swims and jumps around them, checking in to ensure her safety, a note of reproach in her Elysian call. There is no sign of guilt upon his chiseled face, no hint of well-deserved remorse or regret for his mischief. Amalia thinks perhaps she should glare, jut out her chin and pull away, deprive him of his prolonged rescue, his role of boyish hero and knight. And she tries to - she does - but his laughter is contagious, his gentle mirth an addictive thing, permeating her deepest fears. Hands meet shoulders, floats in the stream; the girl clings to her troublesome anchor, knowing he will not let her drown. Slipping her fingers in the grooves of his bones, she lets his grip surround her once more, relaxes into his embrace. "Not very well," the baker confesses, abashed to admit another flaw. "There weren't very many places to practice. And nobody wanted to teach me." Shrugging lightly, the girl debates curling closer into his embrace. The fire she thought the river might douse still smolders ravenously in her gut, hot coals ignited by his hands, his skin, the way the water drips from his hair. Reaching up, she gently brushes a droplet off his forehead, hoping to spare those lustrous eyes, to keep him comfortable in the cold. They have made it into shallows he can reach, but she is still at sea, her feet suspended above the bed of the river, her weight entirely in his hands. She can feel him acutely on her back, her front, enveloping her, threatening to press beneath her every shield, to make his way into her core. She wonders what would happen if she wrapped him in her legs, brought her lips to his and sated her hunger, devoured him beneath her teeth-- She is grateful when he turns away, his attention captured by a glitter of sunlight far below the tides. She is grateful because her gaze is hooded, her dark eyes glistening with more than moisture, her high cheeks flushed with riotous, heated blood. Reluctantly she looks away from the cosmos of his face, following his gaze to the thing which entrances him, a quiet, heady "Hmm?" exhaled across his cheek. "A fish?" His curiosity has met a magnifier in her: pulling away, she gently drifts back until pointed toes brush the ground below, letting her begin to support her own weight. It is a double-edged sword: without him she feels the frigid nature of the water, the biting cold of loneliness at her bones - but she feels safer, too, unable to act on that roaring fire, to do the things she does not know how, to burn him with her wanton blaze. "I bet you can't catch it." It is another challenge, another dare, a callback to that day in the meadow when they rioted and danced and re-wrote their world. Slipping away so that only their hands remain locked together, Amalia grins brazenly at Deimos, mischief vibrant in her smile. The saturated shirt clings gently to her shoulders, billows around her in the tide, heather grey mixed with the gold of her hair. Now that she can reach the ground she is more confident in the water, comfortable with the way it holds her, the feel of it upon her skin. She knows, too, that once she leaves it she will become frigidly cold, and so she keeps herself submerged to the shoulders, walking back on bended knees to sit in the shallows and the sun. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding