[se] between two lungs
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker / Provost of the Loreseekers ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 25
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 753
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
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 4 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 16 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 12
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 483
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
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker / Provost of the Loreseekers ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 25
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 753
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
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 4 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 16 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 12
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 483
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
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker / Provost of the Loreseekers ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 25
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 753
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
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 4 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 16 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 12
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 483
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
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker / Provost of the Loreseekers ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 25
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 753
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
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 4 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 16 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 12
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 483
MP:
#8
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
So even companions had a mercenary, grasping pull to them; yearning to embody and understand everything, the nuances, the sentiments, the raw undulations of the kingdoms and sovereigns coming to claim their forms. Perhaps they are not so different, animals with differing features, and even as Amalia shrugged away the discomfort, the fear, she might’ve felt, locked away in their captors’ hold (he fought off another growl at the insinuations), the beast turned his head towards Jyoti again, appreciative and indebted to her for a role he could not fulfill. “Then I am grateful for her too,” he offered quietly into the nook, fingers extended should she wish to slide by for a scratch on her mission to fill the void with stars. The whale could be another catalyst for the baker, another bridge to cross, another ladder to climb, another world she could encounter, venture, grow, and prosper within; ideal and wondrous in every sense of those attainments.

She might’ve finally recognized the somber notes in his vocals, the ones buried and burrowed under legions and legacies of loss after loss, where they blended and burned, where they chiseled, marked, and scarred, raw and real, tangible and extreme – he didn’t want to recount the way his mind had pulsed and persisted in those maddening hours where he just assumed she was gone too, lost in the way of so many others along his path. He didn’t want to be one most renowned for burying his companions, for surviving when no one seemed capable, the monumental tower left to his own devices (and they would’ve been cold, harsh, and unrelenting again, sinking straight into those barbaric machinations, doom, oblivion, the chilling void pressed behind his eyelids). So he snagged and snared what he could, inhaling and exhaling with a rush of avarice, her words meandering their way down the length of his shoulders, his spine, his chest, his heart – but they could so easily been collapsed too – but he kept the intonations, the thoughts, the desperations at bay. It was impossible for him not to brood; he’d spent several lifetimes cultivating the act of mooring into his melancholies and miseries, but he had no intention of pulling these fragile, futile, finite instances back into hell and anguish. “Nor am I,” he challenged back, allowing her to tuck the strands of loosened mane behind his ears, tempted by the teases, by the promises, smirking beneath those implicit, tactic measures.

The insecurities were eternally present though; sometimes inescapable, too often corroded and enticed by the experiences they’d lived amongst, within, struggling to take a breath at the surface. Their walls might be thick and fortified, but even the tiniest of cracks could find their way through maintained structures, and he’d be the first to loathe, to admit, the unrelenting nature of apprehension and consternation – not for himself, but for her - how it’d muddled and mocked him deep in the woods, how it lacerated his ribs when Jigano spoke the truth, how it ridiculed the facets of his structure, of his skeleton, of his bones and enamel, flesh and blood, when he was completely, utterly ignorant to everything, to everyone, around him. Out of place, out of touch, and incapable of mustering anything but vehemence and resolution – and even then, he wasn’t certain how far it would’ve taken him into the copses, into the glades, with no stars to guide, with no mission but irreverence and rebellion. He reverted straight back to the coldblooded king within an instant; no matter how many times he’d raised his head and strived to overcome the denizens of damnation spread between lives and memories; the bitterness still clawed, still rampaged, still seethed and smoldered in his behemoth stance. The shame of it burned, and Deimos had half a mind to mention, once more, about his lack of worth, about how she might wish to escape, about how she should find someone far better than himself.

Then she descended with him, followed, followed, followed, all rays and beams of light along the dusty, hollowed floor, where pockets of hallowed vessels suddenly began to take up space, and he nearly bowed to the exchange, undeserving and inept. She curled in amongst his long limbs, leaned into his existence, and despite not being able to understand it, he accepted the notion with every fiber of his being, wrapping and sheltering, protecting and shielding. He leaned down, a ghostly whisper of movement and motion, lips brushing along where her nape joined her shoulder, catching the patchwork of skin with an intricate softness, as if he might have never been there.

She turned in his arms, and there was danger in the gleam of her eyes, smoke and fumes; he responded to it in kind with heedless, wanton gestures of his own, a hooded gaze, the slightest of smirks, mischief and treachery and longing tied up in ancient blue and regal onyx. He stilled only so his stare could fully rivet and entangle its reverence upon her; fingers gliding along his face, taking his head in her hands, he surrendered almost immediately. Her lips swept along his, and he took it for everything that it was worth: the stars, the moon, the skies, returning promises with promises, affection with affection, resolve with resolve. He was mighty and seditious, but in her palms, something more; moving his mouth across hers with the inferred beacons of a stalwart, steadfast heathen – closing his eyes and feeling; opening them again when she broke away, the traces of his breath unwinding, skin still on skin. Her statements were muddled in his head, and it took a second or two before reality coiled its way back into the ether, tilting his cranium ever so slightly to regard her with a mischievous, enticing grin. “Perhaps I should return the favor.” It was a tease, naturally, he never had any true regard to scare her; but knowing himself all too well, it may happen simply out of his revolutionary, or far too curious, nature.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker / Provost of the Loreseekers ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 25
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 753
MP:
#9
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
The floor does not seem dusty or dreary: it is their own kingdom, a haven into which they descend, further away from the trials of the world, from everyone else who has ever existed. They are the only ones who matter; he is the only thing she needs. It is new, and terrifying, and magical, and cruel, to be so beholden to another, to let him see the strings of her spirit and play them like a harp. Starlit and star-crossed the pair entwines, hands touching, eyes meeting, a delicate and exhaustive dance. She is on her knees in the ground, his face in her hands, and nothing else matters beyond that. The girl has never felt so completely lost yet simultaneously found, so far at sea while safe in harbor.

And when they kiss her senses fill with him, his boundless presence inundating her very fibers of her being. His taste upon her lips, her tongue; his scent, heady and heavy, earthen and chill; the feel of him beneath her fingers, rough skin and soft beard and beating pulses and heat; the sound of breath catching in his throat, of his hair against her chin, of his movement beneath her body. And when her eyes flutter open again they are full of him, brimming, fit to overflow, dark and glittering and hungry for more. She does not notice her knees in the dust: to her they rest on velvet pillows, ensorceled and enslarled as she is, captured fully by his embrace, his repayment, his eagerness to take and give and take in return, his movement against her, his avarice and greed.

It is surprising, then, when he draws away, his face leaving hers behind, craning back and peering forward. She is loathe to let him go, but relieved as well, her thundering heart and heavy lips promising mistakes if not kept in check. The Cheshire grin which slices his features is enough to entice her to kiss him again; it is with great effort the girl resists, instead sliding fingers over his mouth, onto his shoulders from his neck. The words he says are scarcely heard, gliding effortlessly over her ears, deep intonations in tantalizing baritone skirting and coiling through her mind.

Perhaps I should return the favor- And she does not have the words to tell him that he already scares her, in wild and mountainous and exhilarating ways. Every moment that they are together is newly terrifying; touching him makes her stomach drop, kissing him burns like coals on a hot day. It is the aching emptiness of his absence which scares her most of all, the black space that his presence leaves where once there had been light. All of these sit on her tongue, bite against it and crackle and pop, wanting to be shed into the world but too rough, too raw, too unrefined and insecure to withstand the vibrancy of his heat.

Settling back down onto her heels, Amalia regards him with a shuddering breath, not sure what the next step is. She wants to curl into his lap, to feel his arms about her again, her head on his shoulder, his breath on her face. But shed does not want to push, to act, to take when he may not be eager to give. Or perhaps he would be eager, and she would freeze- or she would shift, hurt, make a mistake, cause him discomfort with her awkward figure, her angular form.

Her hands return to her body, wrapping loosely around her chest as though she fears that otherwise the compulsion to touch him will be too great, as though she is miming the action she desires, the things she is unable to say aloud. And so Amalia says this instead, an earnest pledge, rivers of sincerity an undercurrent to her playful tone: "If you get in trouble, I will come save you." You may scare me, but the world does not. Not with you by my side.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 4 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 16 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 12
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 483
MP:
#10
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Wholly absorbed and engrossed; thrones of dust and ash, crowns of starlight and tomes, he had no need to play the absorbed, distracted king – it was a role without pretenses, sincere, heartfelt. He was riveted and captivated, spellbound, tasting the heavens on his tongue, behind his eyes, while she etched and sketched along the canals of his heart, inch by inch, moment by moment. Perhaps it was intimidating and paralyzing, one of those instances sure to strike him down, but he maneuvered in her hold, carved and whittled again by her touch, by her strokes, by her caresses. He conceded to every one of her ministrations, welcomed them with fire in his blood and ice in his soul, allowing the sun to encroach upon the darker shards of his life, embody, infuse, stoke the coals, the embers, the inferno. The beast followed the heartlines and the illumination, prospered under its tantalizing, savoring entities, forgoing and forgetting iniquity for the shortest of occasions, not pondering how they’d come to be here, why he’d been driven to anger, to rage, to promises and oaths; taken and taken and taken again, flesh and bone corresponding with the celestial. He shouldn’t have, but she didn’t refuse him, didn’t tell him to leave, didn’t flee, didn’t evade, didn’t escape, mutual enthrallment – though he’d always wonder what made her linger in his presence, when there were so many far better, far brighter, far greater.

The Reaper breathed in her essence and stoked the coals in his ribs, felt them pervade with his pulse, reached and reached, hands tangling their way into her gilded tresses, silk on scars and callouses. Some movements were pure desperation, those unsaid anthems and fears blending into cradled heads, striving to bring her ever closer, ensure she was still there; no dreams, no nightmares, no illusions, alive and tangible and whole. It was a hungry, wanton thing, filling in his lungs, exploiting and exploding in his heart, a wild, incandescent rhythm to the insistent, imploring organ, thrumming so loudly he was certain the entire world heard its echoes, its reverberations, its sorrows and anguishes, its harmony and exultation. He take and he gave, the monster and the man, the warrior and the heathen, the fiend and the blackguard; drawing back only so he could behold and stare, sighing, breathless, laughter on his tongue, on his lips. Her touch lingered, a cadence, a crescendo, notching its way into his skin, a constant enticement he didn’t bother to deny; reaching for her fingers as they linger and thread their way over his mouth, curl and coil over his neck and shoulders, allowing him to catch a quick inhale.

When they ghost away, flickering back into the void of books and text, the beast regretted their immediate absence, fingers gliding along her hands again, bringing them to his lips as he listened to the playful tone, as the poignancy lifted its haunting tune towards his ears.

I will come save you.

“You already have,” he laughed, but tucked her promise into his imploring, piercing, penetrating gaze – haunted in the air of her veracity, because no one had ever granted him such a pledge. Sometimes he’d been the savior – striving, trying, so desperately to snag his kin back from the shadows, battle his way through steel and resolve, forge himself into iron and will so no one else ever had to. And when he fell, there hadn’t been anything there – hollow, empty, without anyone or anything; and it’s startling now, even in its comfort, even in its repose and ease, an exhilarating bite to his skin, to his heart. He thought about lowering his gaze, afraid to face a number of things clambering around his skull, but instead, left himself there, vulnerable and open along the threshold of soot and earth, coming completely undone in the wonder, in the potency, in the potential for something real and beatific. “I will do the same.”
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker / Provost of the Loreseekers ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 25
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 753
MP:
#11
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
She tries to fade away, to fall back into the black pit of her chest, but the man will not allow it, his insistent fingers upon her hands, pulling her from darkness and into his light. It is another reason she cares about him, another thing she aches for and fears: one among countless, a multiplying array, every passing minute giving more and more incentive for her to cling to him. The gilded girl lets him have her (as if she has a choice, a say - as if she is not already his), smiles as he brings her fingers to his lips, shudders at the heat of his breath upon her skin. She laughs in return, shaking her head, his declaration swimming dizzy in her brain.

Once she would have mocked the pretty words, lovers promises made in heavy whispers, meaningless and unfulfilled, little more than air. Now she clings to them, lets each syllable fill her chest with a new knot of fire, incandescent and invigorating, leaving her fit to burst. Her mother would tell her: never trust a man who chatters, for he will be out of breath when the time comes to act. Deimos is a man of silence, of precious declarations and tightly held tales. Each word he has spoken has been supported, once and again and countless times more. He promised her care, and he here he holds her now; he promised her patience, and from there has not pushed, allowed her to set the pace that they make, to guide her own ship into his harbor, to wait until she is ready to accept any more.

She is ready, ready for boldness, ready to act on another desire, to find a new frontier and brave it with him. She has tried to evade and he has not allowed it, denied and ensnared, coaxed and beguiled. Each step of the way the man has been clear, his desire left plainly, his response given free. What is she afraid of, that he will reject? Then he does- and Amalia swallows hard at this thought, steeling herself against her anxiety, the silent war which wages on beneath her slender form.

Slowly, carefully, with all the tender caution of one striding into ice, Amalia pushes herself back toward Deimos, her body shifting and curling and coiling like smoke within his grasp. Gone is the urgent blaze of earlier, the inferno which lit her to burn on his lips; this is a gentler dance, a hopeful thing, aching and eager with tender desire, more intimate by far. Slowly she lowers herself into his lap, letting her body rest lightly against him, dark eyes never leaving blue, an unspoken question at every step. It is awkward - as with many things, the girl has never done this before - but graceful, too: she is pleasantly surprised to find she fits against him, her legs draping neatly over his, her shoulder falling against the crook of his arm. One hand comes to rest on his chest, settling over his heartbeat; the other reaches up to snake around his neck, leverage and an embrace as she presses against him, painfully and beautifully aware of every point at which they touch.

She is aware of every bone in her body, how sharp she is, how angular: but there is a solution after all. As she settles in fur begins to grow, thick and luxurious upon her skin, a padding to soften the blow of her bones. Her ears change, too, rounding and rising, and the leopard tail sprouts from her lower back, wrapping anxiously into her lap as she stares into his eyes. In the end the girl is still human, her face untouched by the abundance of fur, tawny locks falling onto black-and-cream shoulders, wide sable gaze turned worriedly towards his as she chews upon her lip. "Is this okay?" It is surprisingly gentle, a child's inquest, as though she fears she has gone too far, that he will reject her revealed form. "I'm sorry I did not tell you before."
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 4 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 16 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 12
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 483
MP:
#12
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
A promise was a promise, a vow was a vow, an assurance was an assurance – mettle and determination he’d long since forged in his bones and in his thoughts – never wasting precious time on discourse and discussion when efforts could do much of the same. He’d sketched his outlines in sand, dirt, dust, and soil, pressed his sword into the earth and made everyone aware of just who he was, and not by the measures of his tongue, his voice, or his words, but the exploits, maneuvers, and endeavors. Declarations were sewn straight into his chest and sinew, detailed in the steady beat of his heart, in the constant crescendo of blood pulsing along his veins; he was not a knight, not a stalwart falcon, not a guardian, but he would always strive, try for her. She laughed at his proclamation, but it still didn’t go away – didn’t fetter, didn’t drift, didn’t dissipate into the loam, embedding itself in the heartlines of the books, in the echoes of their betters, in the triumph of his piercing gaze. I will do the same drummed against his jaw, over and over and over, and then he’d show it, with more than just wandering into pits and pendulums, with more than roaming into the unknown forest, waiting to taken to the next slaughter. A man of action and motives, of persistence and forbearing, capable of withstanding too many things all at once, driven to derision, to acrimony, to vehemence if it was required. Maybe naught would ever come to that again. Maybe it would, and time would sketch out those delicate moments of oaths and pledges with the method and means to achieve it. He’d do his best. He’d do his worst. He’d commit, because that was the Reaper, through and through.

Deimos didn’t bother to weave or tether the nuances to beatific, opulent things, there was no need, not in the glow of veracity and voracity, in the idle shifts and movements. The depths of silence crawled over them, stardust and starlight tracing over the floor, the air, the ether, and he tilted his head to regard her as she seemed to arrive at some decision, an ultimatum brewing amidst onyx and sable. Perhaps his pronouncement hadn’t gone well, despite the warm ring of laughter, the bell and peal of mischief, and she intended to evade, duck, slide away, back off into the Fae land with its beguiling, bewitching enigmas, stolen by their gilded alms and eldritch denominations. It was a touch of apprehension and consternation building along his ribs, curiosity unfolding, eyes narrowing, struggling to speculate –

At once, she rose above him, tremulous and tender, and he was frozen, rooted to the spot, love in the eyes, snared and snatched again, waiting while the rest of his figure struggled with the right motion. A smoldering flame kindled its way through his stomach and along his chest, heart pounding, an echoing, reverberating cadence and inflection set to embers and coals, no longer the chilling beast, no longer the glacial rock, rubble, and ruin. He was sure she could hear it, feel it, the wild, untamed, savage beat colliding against his lungs and senses, but wasn’t ashamed, didn’t hide it, permitted the rapture, the reverie, to ascend. His veins pulsed and quickened, swallowing down massive inhales, gaze hooded, darkening, smoke and coiled tempests building behind his stare, glancing up and up and up to regard her, lost, surrendered and triumphant all at once. Closer and closer still, his hands reach for her hips, requiring a settling point, a base, a fortification; fingers spreading along fabric and cloth, the heat of her skin underneath. A tease, a torment, a flutter, an incitement, a kindling of everything.

Then there was an abrupt switch, and his lungs bellowed a long exhale, a sharpened intake thereafter, ichor muting its previous rush: her flesh was no longer human, fur, and as he drew his head back to stare and puzzle out the complexities of the moment – bizarre, strange – her ears molded to a more rounded shape, made for certain predators, a tail following suit, and it was all he could do to lift his stare back to hers once more. For a few instances, he stayed in his stunned fixtures, puncturing gaze tracing back over her newfound features over and over again, working it out – until suddenly everything seemed to click into place and comprehension made its way over his bewildered senses. Attuned; amongst the many accustomed to altering and shifting themselves into their favored beasts – had he not seen Kiada transform once, he might’ve been a little more shaken.

But instead of dismissing, instead of tossing his cranium around in disbelief, the man was accepting; just as she’d done for him. It was easy, to regale and admire her power, her invocations, the qualities that made Amalia; and he could marvel at where the boldness had come from, the mischief, the audacity, let loose, freed. “Yes,” he breathed again, the softest of smiles coming to his lips before he loosened a laugh – realizing now just who’d been puttering around the garden as he’d attempted to plant furtive lavender. She must’ve had a decent laugh, watching him perform some more ridiculous maneuvers; but it’d been for her, only for her. He had the decency to look half-embarrassed, a dusting of rose along his cheeks in the dark, flustered by his ineptitude and ignorance. “So much for my secret.” It was polished and savored on a sigh, on a whim, his hands leaving her hips, lifting away from her form, and reaching for her ears – but letting them hover, there in the air, in the alleyway of tomes and scripture, waiting for permission. “What else can you do?” It was a challenge, it was a provocation he didn’t shy away from, a reckless nature in his eyes – temptation and enticement there too, following the lures and snares.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker / Provost of the Loreseekers ☆ Loreseeker's Guild
Age: 21 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 25
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 753
MP:
#13
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
He watches her through those dark blue eyes, deep enough to drown in, to fill her heart and swallow her whole. Anxiously Amalia shifts, her body moving in his lap, the leopard's fur rustling where her long legs touch his. This is it, then: the step too far, the door which has opened and showed too much, revealing a thing he cannot love. He did not ask for feral beasts, for half-women gowned in ivory fur. If the girl was not pretty before, what makes her think she is beautiful now, wearing the skin of the gods who abandoned him, no more appealing than a doe to a wolf? She had thought to make him more comfortable, an objectively foolish idea. Silly girl, childish thing; and as she thinks it the fur sinks back, threatening to leave her barren and bald.

Then he exhales into the space, a single syllable which stays her retreat. Yes- and his laughter is a welcome balm, luminous and lovely, the acceptance she craves inexorably, inexplicably, implicitly gifted again and again. Amalia smiles, and then laughs, too, her voice joining with Deimos', a concordant symphony in the space they have made. The flush upon his cheeks delights her, makes him more boyish, more open; she, too, blushes, half-embarrassed, realizing what he means, remembering her playfulness, the way she had pressed against his hand. Too scared as a human to see what she wanted: too bold as a leopard to stop and ask. "And now you know mine." Another laugh, bashful and soft. She settles further into his lap, just as he starts to move.

His hands off her hips, above her ears- and it is only in that moment she realizes what she has done, the thing he must have believed would happen, the undercurrent of molten fire which binds them, thick enough to slice. He had not anticipated a leopardess: it was a human woman who entered this space with him, a gentle thing which placed herself within his grasp. How wanton and willful she must appear, teasing, taunting, tilting closer only to pull away, to shift from supple human girl to furred and fanged feline fiend. Did he think she would press against him, her lips on his again, burning on the heat of his vibrant sun? And did he expect more- and if so, what? Fingers slipping below his shirt, teasing patterns on his skin; claws tearing neatly through his clothing, exposing muscles and scars beneath? Hands on his back, his shoulders, his waist, and movement, and teeth on the curve of his neck, gently insistent, hungry and heavy and searingly hot-?

She realizes she has frozen, her dark eyes hooded and her narrow face flushed, feral and ferocious and governed by something wild. The thoughts which flood her are a torrent, a rainfall of yearning kept so long contains. Rapid breathing rises from her lungs; she can feel him hovering above her head, nearly close enough to touch, a promise and question left unsaid. The wise move would be to wait, to draw a comfortable space between them, withdraw before he takes and takes. The smart choice is a quick retreat, or else he might ask her for more, might let those firm hands stroke her gently, bury and travel through her fur. Then they would travel, venture and take, drink her up and swallow her whole into the fire within his soul-

It is the slightest movement, the narrowest shift; but oh, it is enough. Amalia stretches her neck and rises, closing the space between man and beast, onyx eyes fluttering lightly closed. There is something about his hands on her ears: it drives her wild, makes her dizzy with thoughts of what could be. And oh, she has so many thoughts, thoughts that are hers, wants that are hers, a ravenous desire to take it all ignited in the space between their lungs. Arcing in his grasp, she tilts her head, an insistent purr rising from her chest as she greedily asks for more. Her hands grasp at his clothes, one on his chest, the other coiled in his hair. "Hmm?" she growls in response to his query, not quite hearing though her eyes draw open, staring down and finding mischief in his. Turning to press her lips to his palm, Amalia hums against him again, kisses dropping down his wrist as she begins to speak. "I think it is your turn to show me something." It is an invitation, and a question: do we go on, or should the fire remain banked?
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
Soldier / Mercenary ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 25 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 4 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 16 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 12
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 483
MP:
#14
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
He wouldn’t throw away anything of her, couldn’t cast her aside, couldn’t warrant or permit segments of abandonment and ruin based on feral natures – not when he was just as feral, just as wild, just as voracious and wolfish, merely lacking the rounded ears or the fur features. He was likely more savage and untamed than her, sculpted and shaped, honed and reborn, straight from the darker corners of the battlefield, kill or be killed, assault, siege, devastate, and demolish. Opponents were no longer human, but adversaries and enemies, a nonchalant venue made for his blade to lacerate and destroy; a numbing aperture once he’d come across too many fallen bodies, once he’d mauled and maimed a few of his own, once his compatriots had become part of the slaughtered, the broken, the beaten, and the damned. His judgment refused to press, his reserve didn’t raise hackles or employ detachment, admiring and reverent all the same, pondering the limitless talents and gifts she’d always managed to correspond and display. The Reaper could swing a scythe, could plunge a knife, could throw a dagger, a spear, a cutlass into acrimonious sides, but that was when his talents ended, seared, imploded. He was nothing compared to her, and she must’ve known it, must’ve seen it, must’ve sensed it – anyone could be brutal, anyone could be savage, anyone could be pushed to rapacious, seething, contemptuous means and measures. But not everyone could summon strands of kindness and benevolence over and over, could reel past glowering walls and towering infernos to accept and regard, could show chinks in armor and wait for the sign to continue, to persist, or to reel, flee away, when the enchantments and invocations dug too deep. Amalia was far stronger and better than he, and one day she’d realize it.

Their laughter chorded off the books and shelves, rang alongside starlit wonder and exploration, a comfort even on the depths and crusades of the unknown. His flush remained, poised there beneath dark lashes and piercing depths, a fraction of devilry mingling within the youthful glow, the boy there and back again, exasperating the world to no end. “Do I know all of them?” His snicker tormented and teased just as she had, a billowing pattern of mirth and folly, the silly, inane stretches he garnered and gathered with few others, and none so intimate, so pervading, so enticing. The temptation lingered there, in the corners and pockets of their hallowed sphere, in the devouring, swallowing contortions of his throat, in the pulsing sear and smolder of his fingers, but they didn’t chase, they didn’t rampage, they didn’t provoke unless she craved them – biding, waiting, endless patience brewing behind his mind. The images and refrains were wanton and longing, cravings he couldn’t have, a serpentine beat to his heart and soul; more, more, more colliding in his skull, rushing in his ichor, passionate and persistent, but only just so. Deimos could breathe them into life, the hungering movements of his hands beneath shirts, skin finding skin, molten finesse, discarded clothing, raw and real and mesmerizing, but it would be meaningless without her permission, without her agreement. So he breathed and lingered, adjusted to her tactics, to her furtive nature, ducking his head for a few seconds, hooded gaze catching on wooden beams and arcane tomes, paths of starlight, remembering what it meant to inhale, exhale, without the catch of something else sizzling below his flesh.

Then, his hands were on her ears, soft, dulcet fur lingering on his fingertips, and he bellowed a wild chuckle, deep from his lungs. The beast could feel the grasp on his chest, on his hair, tangled in sable and amber, but didn’t relent, pressed on by her purr. Lips were on his palm thereafter, fire and heat and everything coiled and contorted within him again – control, composure, a singular onset, rigid in his spine, forgiving and unrelenting, the whole realm sent to goad, taunt, and harass his frigid nature. He couldn’t feel any chill now, no remnants of the icy, mountainous behemoth, scalding and smoldering on the fringes. Her mouth drifted down to his wrist and he resisted the tiniest groan, a moan, threatening to burst from his throat, not knowing where the hell to place his hands now, one hovering along her other ear, one curled in her grasp. “Is it?” He whispered, deep and hushed at the same time, the oxygen escaping his frame as he worked and whittled on which way to sculpt an answer, a beacon, a response. One portion of his machinations replied with the notions of swallowing her whole, laying her down upon the bed of dust and earth, pleasing and tormenting, ravenous and hungry, until they were both sated and content; another knew they wandered on the borders of it, and he’d have to oblige with something else. Magic for magic? Enchantments for enchantments? Stories for stories? The war waged on in his skull, bristling and tempestuous; they’ve played this game before, but he never quite knew the right rejoinder or reaction, making it up as he went along, fettering and toying at the seams.

The demon had no transformation; only the subtle, unwinding changes in his figure, in his thoughts, as time pressed on and eroded, as she carved her way into his heart and rolled aside the anguish, the melancholy grinding there so perilously. Practically won out in the end, but just barely, lingering on the verges and boundaries of some history he hadn’t mentioned (coldblooded kings; death again, bound into the summits, peaks, and valleys along his chilling throne) – withdrawing the hand, the fingers, the palm occupying her ear, and holding it in front of his chest. The briefest glow in the hallowed shadows lilted in its refrain, creation instead of devastation (and he’d never understand it, how he could hold opposites in one vessel, in one void). The object materialized in his grip, and then he held it higher, for her to see the cloth woven and stitched suddenly; threads pooling, one seam on top of another, until it came together as an apron. Viability and usefulness for the baker far outweighed the notion of pretty, ornamental things, and truthfully he wouldn’t know the half of what was liked or not. His gaze flickered back to her, awaiting approval or disapproval; if she unfolded the contents she’d find a little starwhale molded to Jyoti’s likeness on the front, stars on the straps and ties. All of it had been in the midst of silence, hushed and poignant, the gift now settling along his grasp, extended to her, waiting.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word


Forum Jump:


Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)


RPG-D