the devil is not as black as he is painted
For a moment finger tips trailed along Ronin's back, from one shoulder to the other. Should Ronin open his eyes, he would find Safrin holding the picture of the stars Aoife had made, her plump fingers having made the most wonderful swirls and impressions of light. "And here I was led to believe artistry was not hereditary." The starlit lady mused, almost more so to herself so soft was her voice. But that was merely the blight talking (or not, as it happened). Out of everyone, Ronin would understand the strength it took simply to speak at times.
Turning her gaze towards him, where once Safrin had been the paradigm of beauty, now she was pale and weary looking. Eyes that once sparkled with the infinities in her grasp were now hollowed and sunken like long forgotten craters on some distant moon.
Turning her gaze towards him, where once Safrin had been the paradigm of beauty, now she was pale and weary looking. Eyes that once sparkled with the infinities in her grasp were now hollowed and sunken like long forgotten craters on some distant moon.
