[se] between two lungs
Amalia Chandrakant
Baker / Librarian ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 4 - Strg: 15 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 16 - Luck: 16
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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Posts: 354
MP:
#1
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
"Come with me."

Is she eager to get him alone, to find a space for them together away from prying eyes and whispering tongues? Perhaps- for the thing they have built is painfully new, delicate spun spider's silk, too precious for scrutiny and judgment and fire. She wants to hold it close to her chest, to cherish the warmth of him and wrap herself within it, to reassure her troubled mind that he has not turned his gaze away, cast his light upon another and let his flame be doused by shadows and rain.

So it is that she draws him away, coaxes him out of heartfelt reunions with a gentle touch and a whispered word. Part of her fears he will not come, but Amalia need not be concerned. Deimos is an oathkeeper, a bastion, a trusted thing, and they have already exchanged promises, vows to at least give this a try. I am yours, the behemoth told her, three words a mantra tattooed in her heart, the beat which courses through her blood, the inhale and exhale from her lungs. That day is a song woven in her mind, a lyric of longing and potential and hope. She wants to relive it, to know it was real.

She wants to replace it with so many more.

Jyoti has no such reservation. Sensing the things in her companion's heart the whale has scarcely left Deimos' side, flitting and flirting, playing and singing, trying to investigate his hands and his coat. She decorates the demon in starlight and song, an outward expression of Amalia's affection, entirely unstoppable in gaiety and mirth. At first the girl tries to quell her, sedate the starwhale and draw her away, but eventually the baker surrenders to her companion, secretly delighting in the playfulness of the being.

At last they reach their destination, and Amalia grins before leading him onward, through a hidden door at he base of the tree. Slipping in through the roots of the oak, Amalia reveals the secret she has found: books upon books, lining walls and caught in crevices, a haven carved in ancient earth. "Isn't it wonderful?" The ceilings are low, the space small and cozy, barely large enough for the tall man to stand, but to the girl it is magical. Jyoti swims out ahead of the pair, sprinkling starlight in the comfortable space, creating an atmosphere of marvelous beauty, pleasant and perfect and for this moment, theirs. Turning back to look at Deimos, Amalia's face is a picture of bashful joy, hopeful and yearning for him to approve, to find the same wonder in it she does.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Reply
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 15 - Endr: 17 - Luck: 8
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 213
MP:
#2
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
It didn’t take more than a few words to lure him away; but he’d been beguiled already, before, days and weeks ago, when no one had been captured, when apprehension, fear, and a festering rage hadn’t knotted its way through his core. Amidst this space, scaling and recoiling on the in-betweens, where he’d growled and roared, when he’d manipulated for information, when he’d quietly seethed back into the hollowed beast, he didn’t know what to do. He was inaction after discord, oblivion, and reaction, stunned and spun into too many different, conflicting routes: relief in the first, ineptitude in the second, and curiosity in the third, with congruent, flickering sentiments roaming within, blending, blurring, so he was neither swayed nor indifferent, but touched by all of them. They scorched and burned, hazed and muddled, and the Reaper stood there amidst the unknown depths like a lost soul all over again, eyes searching for the light and struggling not to mire, mar, it once more.

Did she believe they were ridiculous, for having launched themselves into this reckless liberation for them? Had it been hopelessly naïve? Had it been stupid? Had it been effective at all – when she’d been freed and untarnished, sacrificed but not? What was he supposed to convey? How much he’d endeavored to rescue her and Kiada? How angry he’d been to hear of their abduction? How he’d retreated, straight back into the forlorn, destructive King, intending to gain back those he cherished and upheld one way or another? That he would have done anything to ensure they returned? It would’ve blood and bone, violence and vehemence, in one fluid disaster after another. Perhaps it was too soon for her to see, to witness, the bleaker, more tarnished attributes to his soul, where resolution turned to iniquity, where damnation spurned and incensed, kindled and set him aflame, no longer bright and incandescent, but an infernal bastion, a disastrous sword, intending to unleash hell and havoc. Maybe she already knew and understood it, and chose not to touch upon its fragments, its heartlessness, its cruelty.

He wanted to reach for her but didn’t know where or if he should – his gaze was narrowed, briefly scrutinizing, not wanton or covetous, but in the quieter fathoms of concern, intending to detect a hint of pain, a limp, a telltale sign that all was not well. When he couldn’t see anything, outwardly, his head tilted in its typical, inquisitive state, gaze holding, longing to display what words could not: Are you all right? at first, when reunions had scattered and burdens uplifted. There were a series of unsaid fires and embers resting in the lacquered blue – how he’d slay any monster to try and arrive at her side; a touch of menace in the minatory oblivion. He breathed, a vicious sigh, and let the rest of the void dissipate from his shoulders. “They did not hurt you?” The warrior’s voice grappled with too many things, a myriad of slates and paradoxes, the quandaries sizzling on his mind, scalding and clawing, wondering why that was the singular notion he could come up with; when Arduinna had promised it already. He wanted to hear it for himself though; about anything and everything, but her safety was paramount, foremost and prominent. The rest could come with time. She’d told him they had it – those minute moments, those rapacious, gleaming shards he grasped and held – and then she’d been gone.

Deimos bit down on a number of rancorous edges, and glanced to everything else: the sights, the sounds, the whale. It hovered along him, small but wondrous, glorifying in that something so small could be so potent and powerful, and much like Kiada’s luxere, he reached out, intending to softly touch along its skin – because he’d never had anything like a companion, a bond beyond those of kin and country. The smallest of chuckles pulsed through his chest and throat, the first in so many days, as it sang and didn’t seem to care that he was a behemoth, a monster, a molten, barbaric machine. “You are incredible,” he said to both of them, the pair, his heart aching in ways he couldn’t explain, eyes drifting from whale to lightbringer. Once, he’d been caught and snagged – but he hadn’t accepted it, made something out of nothing; he’d rattled his cage and threatened to beat the door down, resisted, resisted, resisted, until a maddening liberation was in sight and he botched that too, incapable of ever giving credence to anything except himself. Here, Amalia had been sacrificed and claimed something of her own all at once. He knew he wouldn’t have – it wasn’t in his soul to simply be and let the world show him. It was always upheaval and sedition. Rebellion out of habit. Revolution in his blood. Insurrection in his very core, his identity, his pattern, his ritual.

Except, for now – where he followed the light and the sun and the stars, pacing himself on the wayward path to the unknown, leading him onward towards a door nestled into the heart of a tree. He wasn’t bewildered – the Fae had already showcased their talents for woodwork and deception – but his curiosity heightened when Amalia slipped within its roots, when walls of books were scattered like the heavens amongst arcane earth. The Reaper eyed the low ceiling, because for a few seconds he thought he might have to crawl his way in, but he didn’t want to leave the haze of memories behind (libraries; tucked along broken down ruins, a mirror, a reflection, of his scattered, damned abyss – sun and onyx, temptation long before he could even name it, claim it). The whale held no such hesitation, starlight and warmth gliding into the array of curiosity and wonder, and he slid in after it, swallowing down the varnished collection of impressions ghosting across his skin.

He was a towering monolith above the old scriptures, head threatening to touch the wooden canopy, and wondered if he was out of place along its threshold. Maybe it didn’t matter, and they could simply make it theirs. The unknown closed over, surrounded, and for once, instead of growling and clenching his teeth at it (he could feel the sensation coiling behind his senses, wrapping around him, gnarled and ashen), he reached for her hands, squeezed them in his palms, breathed once more, easier, more vibrant, more steady, more present, instead of scattered along the trees and limbs. “Yes,” was all he gave in return, except for a small smile touching the corners of his lips.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Reply
Amalia Chandrakant
Baker / Librarian ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 4 - Strg: 15 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 16 - Luck: 16
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 354
MP:
#3
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
He follows, and follows, and follows. Amalia knows she should not be surprised, and yet she is, fascinated and tantalized by his willingness to pursue, to swim in her wake without questions asked, trust and accompany and find and retrieve. He braved the forest and its wiles for her- it is astounding, unbelievable, leaves her breathless and awed. Lost once more, Deimos had found her, brought his haven and light to her, unafraid of any demons, ever her waxing moon, her guiding star.

He asks if they hurt her, and the girl laughs, half-mirthless, uncertain of how to reply. Ultimately the simplest answer is easiest, most correct: "No." They did not hurt her - not physically, at least. Scars from trauma and fear and wrath have yet to congeal, reveal their lasting, inevitable marks. Amalia sighs, pausing a moment, letting her fingers pull through golden hair, anxious, remembering capture and rage. But there is light there, too, a beauty unexpected and entirely welcome: Jyoti reacts to her soulmate's disquiet, pressing soft touches under her hands, nuzzling warmly against the girl's cheek.

Then he calls her (which her?) incredible, and the girl laughs again, eager and earnest self-conscious and shy. "Her name is Jyoti," Amalia murmurs, dark eyes lighting up to see the affection between whale and man, the way her bonded flutters and coos beneath the behemoths touches. "She fell from the sky. Safrin said they need to bond or else they die upon the earth. I... I don't know why she chose me." Ruefully she shakes her head, still bedazzled by the turn of events. There are no words to express her emotion, the hole the cetacean has filled in her heart.

They set back off, and he follows her again, making his way between old roots, his monolithic form easing down to her haven below the earth. Jyoti sings to encourage him on, but Amalia does not; her prayers and dreams are held close to her chest, her aching desires kept subdued by merciful delight in simply being here. Smiling, beaming, glowing with joy, she waits for the man to come to her, to tell her the words she has ached to hear with his gentle touches, his easy smile. Come, her jet eyes seem to say, Catch me. Have me. Want me. I will not run.

And oh!, he does, with painful tenderness, the most ghostly of acquiescence, the smallest of gestures and briefest of words. Palms enclose around her hands, wrapping tenderly over knuckle and skin. Unthinking, she flexes, moves to push her finger among his, entwine herself closer, give more to his grasp. Her smile widens, cheeks color and bloom; happiness is written like a story on her features, easily legible in her expressive facade. She pulls herself closer, arcs toward his warmth, lets herself give in to his orbit and pushes to decrease that lingering gap.

Jyoti pushes deeper among the tomes, illuminating corridors and forcing shadows back to the dark. Pages and spines whisper in the starlight, singing their old familiar song, tempting and entrancing and calling her on. For once, however, Amalia does not follow; the quiet librarian whose friends were all books has found solace and sanctuary among flesh and bone. "I missed you," she whispers, a bashful confession, quiet laughter in her alto voice at the foolishness of such a thing. It has been mere days, no time at all- what sort of young lover is she, to feel his absence so acutely, to count the minutes between their breaths?

She does not care. Let him find her foolish: Amalia does not care, too lost in elation to do anything but love, squeezing tightly against his palms, bare feet shifting against the earth. Chin tilted up to look in his eyes, she feels her heartbeat in her throat, wanting and yearning a fiery crescendo which thunders like hoofbeats against her ears, a question and invitation lighting onyx gaze. Too large for this cavern, too small for this world, perhaps they are woefully out of place to any who would observe, but in Amalia's eyes and heart they are perfect. She would savor the memory of this moment, this place, keep it as a constant companion through lonely nights and lengthy days for months and years to come.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Reply
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 15 - Endr: 17 - Luck: 8
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 213
MP:
#4
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
At the very core of Deimos’ being, he’d always been determined, resolved, and committed; whether or not the purpose beneath the intentions was fair, just, or right had its own connotations, iniquitous or moral, depending on which side, which line, one yearned to cross. Even when blackened, savage days had been bled dry and his sinister aspirations still pulsed, pervaded, every ounce of his movement and motion, those mutinous ambitions had been for the sake of his people, his comrades, his kin, his flesh; it hadn’t ended when he’d died. It’d come back again, full circle, rapacious and beguiling, marking itself deep in his chest, in his lungs, in the sizzling, seething void around his broken crown, his tangible fault lines. Everything he did had a purpose, had a reason, had a notion stored behind it, a push, a shove, action, action, action, I mean what I say and I say what I mean, and some worlds had respected that, and others had challenged, clawed their way through his potential, prowess, and power, and then he’d shown them too, watching last breaths as they lost, as they decayed in their dismay. There’d never been a single second where he didn’t think about rampaging his way through the woods, the forest, the massive, gaping unknown, the thorns, the nettles, the daggered blades of the void, to get them. He’d never doubted. He’d never quivered or wavered. Strong and stalwart at the best of times, steadfast and constant even in the darkest hours, when his hatred, wrath, and contempt were the only things keeping him stitched together, fraying apart at the seams. Perhaps it was bravery, daring, nerve, and intrepidity, or everything all at once, brewing and conducting its oeuvre in his vessel, so when the kingdoms sneered and roared, he howled back, undaunted, unafraid of the consequences carved ahead.

But these were not the moments produced and exploited by vicious enemies or barbaric opponents; more devious and ensnaring, perhaps; Amalia had come away without visible scars or adornments. However, Deimos knew and understood the web of trauma, the way it lingered and divided in the most random of times, or within slumber, when one closed their eyes and relived it over and over again (the screams, the wails of the dying, his sword not enough, not enough, rain closing in on him, drowning while he stood amidst the decaying flesh and the swansong of so many broken, battered lives). Even as she said no, he wondered, had half a notion to chase the wounds down, try and stitch them back together himself – but he was no mender, no assuaging, soothing constituent, just as beaten and cracked as the rest of the world. You can tell me he wanted to say, as if he could somehow entangle other things amidst the talons, cloaks, and daggers; but he also didn’t want to force her to replay it, return to demonic figures and capturing hands. His eyes said it without the words though, blue and imploring, giving her the opportunity – he’d share the time he was abducted too, if she wanted to trade pleas and bargains. He’d never forged his way through a beneficial expanse in his experience though, banged and rattled his cage, tried so desperately to avenge his wounded pride, made to bow his head.

The laughter returned, warm and sunny, forcing him to break away from the latter nuances, to become immersed in the murmurs of affection, retelling the story of the starlit Jyoti. Bond or die; never allowed to be completely alone, dependent on another to ensure survival – his eyes briefly lingered on the work of celestial bodies and maneuvering whale-tails as they flourished along the room, content to witness Amalia’s conquest and triumph, the silver lining in this entire affair. At her last insinuation though, his lips formed a more Cheshire grin,  the mischief returning briefly, the devil-may-care entanglements bordering on his arched brow. “You do not?” He acted as if he did, and truthfully, he could form a thousand different reasons why the whale would seek her out: beneficence, might, a growing, prospering boldness, eager to set herself apart from shells and shackles. Maybe the greater question would be why anyone would think she was incapable of bonding with such a creature. The Reaper thought about snorting away the notion, but conjured something else altogether, his eyes roaming, watching, consistently following the paths the whale made – little stars, little heavens, exactly as it should be. “Do they communicate with you too?” In his infinite curiosity, he’d often pondered and wondered about the bonds between animal and man; he’d never had one, not in any life, but he’d seen them all – dragons, hellhounds, kitsunes, and a myriad of other creatures, intricately woven into another character’s heart, body, and soul. Maybe he’d been too far gone for any of them to give him a second look.

He hadn’t pressed her, not knowing, not comprehending, how far or how much was overbearing, overwhelming; but she lingered back, stepped into his presence despite the darkness, despite the abyss. She was welcome – her fingers clung and intertwined into his, and he took anything, everything, she offered, Jyoti’s illuminating figure a somewhat, distant haze, and he suddenly forgot what they were there for at all – tilting his head at laughter in harmonic bells, echoing and reverberating along the books and shelves. I missed you coiled itself near his heart, and he chuckled in response – almost sardonic and satirical, because what was there to miss (he was a tower, but not much else; unworthy, undeserving)? He accepted it nonetheless, tucked it neatly in the pattern of his memories, to recall, to recite, that he was luminary in someone’s life, even if he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t give wholly to himself. He leaned down, piercing stare catching hers, daring to fall deep into their sanction, before pressing his lips to her forehead, along her gilded hairline, soft sigh billowing from his mouth, whispering and entangling too many unsaid things; too early to mention, too late to turn away. “I fear I was very grim in your absence.” Jigano had met the brunt of it – those regrets could come later, when he wasn’t beguiled and allured by the creature in his hands. “What else did you discover?”
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Reply
Amalia Chandrakant
Baker / Librarian ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 4 - Strg: 15 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 16 - Luck: 16
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 354
MP:
#5
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
It is Deimos' turn to ask the questions, Amalia's to answer - an unusual situation for the curious girl. She blushes beneath his pointed stare, drops her head as though to say Yes, I know, you have some reason, something you see to which I am blind. She does not - cannot - understand his affection, but she nonetheless blooms within it, beams and broadens and aches for more.

The second query is easier to reply to, though the answer remains an amorphous sort. "Sort of?" the baker muses as she walks, thinking about communication, the way she can know Jyoti's intention without a passage of literal words. "It's as though I feel her emotions next to mine." She shrugs, unsure how to better describe it, if there even is a way. She had read countless things about companions, devoured the lore and history of bonds, but no set of words could have prepared her for actually sharing her soul with another, feeling the closeness of a mind against hers. Perhaps it is not unlike being in love.

Perhaps it is entirely different

She lets his fingers tighten against hers, lets herself fall into his orbit, drift closer against his offered embrace. Or perhaps she is pulling him to her; it does not matter, in the end, because the result remains the same. Amalia fits into the curve of his embrace, closes her eyes and surrenders to the moment. His laughter rumbles like thunder against her, the soothing wave of a summer storm. "Is that so unbelievable?" she hums in response, letting her head fall down, pressing to her cheek against his breastbone, smiling as lips ghost over her head. His declaration of grimness earns more laughter; pulling back to look at his face, it is the girl's turn to arch and eyebrow, a teasing smile at her mouth. She raises a finger to brush his nose. "So serious, Mr. Shade. I am sure your enemies quivered in fear."

The index finger continues traveling, tracing a path along his beard line, up his jaw and behind his ear. Tilting her head, she lets her hand continue to wander, cupping up against his cheek. "Please don't be angry with Jigano. It wasn't his fault. I should have been more aware." A frown pulls tight between her eyebrows, regret and shame making her glance away. She should have been careful, have listened and watched, not been made complacent by her reckless abandon. Sighing, Amalia drops her hand down, letting it fall down his shoulder as she thinks of her flaws.

His question draws her back up slightly, restoring some earnestness to deep black eyes. "So many things," is the wistful answer as she categorizes experiences in her mind. "We climbed to the tallest tree and spoke to Safrin. I met a creature who carried a world on his back, and thrives on the memories of people's lives. I learned how to fly and caught a falling star." Smiling mildly, Amalia chuckles, shaking her head with wonder and awe. "It has been a busy set of days."
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Reply
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 15 - Endr: 17 - Luck: 8
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 213
MP:
#6
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Perhaps he was biased, but he revered her because of those virtues and flaws that she didn’t seem yearning to express. He had half a notion to air them all out to the forefront so she could see, so she could know, so she could catch the emblazoned stars for herself. Maybe she wasn’t ready though, had yet to visualize or comprehend the light bending and swaying from her form, how when it caught in the right context or conjecture that it filled the room with sunbeams and radiance. He smirked at her blush, and kept the Cheshire grin aloft, mischief entangled in most of their encounters; a convergence and confluence of boldness and audacity otherwise cloaked and hidden. The beast allowed her shroud, her veil, but arched his brow at her regardless, made her all too aware of his preferences and thoughts on the subject, even in the hushed, tremulous ventures of silence.

The discussion of companions seemed to knock away the flush from her cheeks, and he wondered if he should attempt to paint the rosy edges back on for the simple sake of amusement; but he listened too, the scholarly intentions still there while the rest of his attention were riveted on gilded highlights and onyx hues. Bondeds sounded as though they were two halves of the same whole, souls guided together in a stalwart, enlightened path, combining and intertwining to share similar sojourns – to blend, to merge, to impart those either forsaken, desolate, or craving those parallels. He nodded his understanding, but knew he wouldn’t be able to place it altogether without his own experiences or comprehension of the subject – the world was so vast, so overwhelming to his ignorant follies, but he strived just the same. It was better than drowning or sticking his head in the muck and mire, waiting to be snagged and torn apart, fettered and withered, decayed and reborn again in his next mess, unless the realms decided he wasn’t worth a third shot. Amalia always appeared to make the most out of everything – no matter the situation: caught and abducted, but in place, capable of sharing memories and connections she otherwise wouldn’t have forged. What an ability to have; more than sheer perseverance, endurance, or fortitude, because he could do that for eons and decades based on nothing but spite or vitriol. She glided to it naturally, with faith and fortune, with virtue and exuberance. Deimos stifled a bitter laugh; pondering what on earth she was doing here with him, stuck beneath boughs and roots, pillars filled with books, wisdom beyond their wildest imaginations, and he so thoroughly ensconced and entangled amidst inadequacy. “What emotions does she convey?” It was half a tease, but also genuine intrigue, watching the gliding little whale pulse her way along edges and fringes, harmonic and mellifluous.

It was his turn to be mocked thereafter, the revolution and twist of his formidable, stony nature, the walls he’d so carefully carved and molded around himself. Very few had ever been given the keys towards entry, and even fewer still had bothered to try. He kept her hum though, tucked it against his chest, and lifted his smile slightly, as her finger brushed his nose, as he breathed in unison, the calm well after the storm. “I was concerned,” was his subtle, barbaric reply, but it held the weight of too many losses, ghosts, and devastations rattling around its deepened tones. It was amusing now, with everyone safe, sound, and seemingly no worse for wear; but there’d been all those instances of sacrifice clawing and rampaging its way down the length of his spine, and he’d believed her gone, just like everything else in his life. He was too little, too late, a pattern lacquered in eternity, emblazoned and scarred across his flesh.

Her movements and strokes traversed, sketched an outline of his beard, jaw, and ear, and he leaned into it much like a cat, turning so the depths of his piercing, puncturing stare were placed vividly into hers once more, blue and black, savage and gentle, teasing and encouraging, allowing her to find her way along his frame. Deimos thought to roll his eyes at the mention of Jigano, because that was full of foils and trials he wasn’t ready to face; he only agreed to it for her. “I will try to make amends.” Try being the operative term, when apologies and atonements had never been up his alley; kingdoms had known what it meant to cross the Reaper cycles ago. He glanced at her frown and intended to smudge it away with fingers, grasp and pull her back, away from the specters and wraiths pulsing within the refrains of so many unexplored, unsaid quandaries. She fell into his shoulder instead, and then he was just a bastion, a guide post again, sighing, believing, in all the big and little things she’d become and would always be. His hands were escorting pieces of the darkened threads, where the moon laid in wait, pulling her towards him as he finally sat amidst tomes and grimoires, absorbing and uniting amidst the columns of history.

Her experiences were all the more, and he was content to know that beyond even the beatific whale, there were pieces and slivers of this world that weren’t haunting or poignant, but remarkable, and she’d discovered their traces. “And what was your favorite?” A great contortion to his mind wanted to hear more of the tallest tree, but also the creature with the world on its back, who hungered for memories and lives lived; how she’d flown, how she’d opened her arms wide to catch stars. All he’d ever done was rebel and seethe; these stories were more favorable, more enchanting, more alluring and beguiling.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Reply
Amalia Chandrakant
Baker / Librarian ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 4 - Strg: 15 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 16 - Luck: 16
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 354
MP:
#7
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
What emotions does she convey? Amalia hums as she considers, not quite certain how to reply. What emotions does anyone feel, and how can they possibly be distilled? "Curiosity, mostly. She wants to know everything." A little bit rueful, a little bemused; Jyoti's endless thirst for knowledge is not unlike her own, and in their two days of shared existence she has come to appreciate the world through the eyes of an innocent, to rediscover the beauty of the mundane. "But also everything else. She can feel mine, too, I think. When I'm scared or angry she comforts me. She kept the Fae from hurting me, when I got out of the pit." Another shrug of narrow shoulders, a deepening line to her frown; she would rather not dwell on those moments of fear, not remember Delah's fury, the warchief's claws around her neck.

There are better things to think about, the primary of which stands before her, living and breathing, gentle and mischievous, his skin warm and his smile wide beneath her questing fingers. An eyebrow raises at his rebuttal, teasing yet happy, remorseful yet pleased. Guilt gnaws equally with strange satisfaction: it is marvelous to have been missed, a minor miracle in her time on the earth. Yet she knows that he has lost and lost, ached and hurt and wanted in the dark. She had not meant to cause him worry, to make him think he was once more alone. "I am not so easy to be rid of." Color blossoms back in her cheekbones; she tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, black eyes glittering from below long lashes. Half tease, half promise, with much more unsaid: I am yours, remember. I will always come back to you.

She wonders what occurred in between the men, what harsh words and admonitions might have been exchanged. Try is all the girl can ask for, more perhaps than she deserves. Amalia sighs, her fingers falling from his shoulder, regret at last rising higher than mirth. She ought to have been more careful, ought to have been aware. She ought to have come back when Delah bid her, to reassure and soothe their feathers, to assuage and ease her family's fears. But how was she to leave Kiada, still lost down in the depths of the pit? How to abandon the world to chaos, to do anything but stay and fight? Every decision is double-guessed, every option heavy with unintended consequence. Trapped by her choices, Amalia falters, the walls of anxiety rising tight about her, threatening to cut off all light and air.

Only she is not trapped, because he is there, her brazier, her lighthouse, her bastion in the storm. With relentless force he beats against her, gentle vibrancy creeping stalwart through the cracks of her injured soul. One by one he tears her fears down, inviting her closer, unbearably forgiving; and what is she to do but lean against him, succumb to his guidance and let herself fall? He sits and she descends in kind, following, flowing into his embrace, finding a place on the floor against him, her head on his shoulder, her back to his breast. She reaches and wraps his arm around her, his presence a shield against anxiety, her mind lost to the patterns of his palm. Tension has made her a trembling bow, one prone to making discordant sound. It is strange and wonderful to have found someone who can play her, pluck harmony from her heartstrings, see music in her words.

She wonders how she lived without it, all those lonely years.

When she looks back up her eyes are softer, the ghost of a smile back on her lips. "My favorite?" she echoes, gently teasing, a demure mischief in her onyx gaze. Turning toward him Amalia rises, moving onto bent knees, her head tilting to the side. "It's hard to say-"

-and she smiles slightly, chewing softly at her lip-

"-but if I had to narrow it to only one-"

-hands on his shoulders, fingers on his cheeks, heartbeat a thunderstorm in her chest as the space between them narrows to a breath-

"-I would probably say this."

And Amalia leans forward to close the space, her lips a whisper and then a flood, gold and sable brought together beneath the light of the glittering stars. She is miserable at flirting, woefully out of depth; the kiss is raw and young and graceless, a million promises in this perfect space. It is lingering, longing, aching, tender; it is more than she has ever offered and an iota of what she has to give.

It lasts a moment (it lasts forever), and it is reluctantly that she breaks the exchange, her nose still on his, her hands in his hair. "I'm sorry," she shudders against his cheek, exhales onto olive skin. Obsidian eyes flutter open; her eyes are ardent as they gaze into beryl, falling and floating in cerulean skies. "For scaring you. But I'm so glad you're here."
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
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