it's 2am and i took 17 shots of vodka trying to forget your name
but the only name i forgot was mine. and sober —
It’s a feigned attempt to change the subject, to something more comfortable. Where there’s little to no lines to cross, no dark tunnels to burrow down into, to wallow in sadness and what if’s an uncertainty. And even if he notices what she’s trying to do, he makes no comment on it. Instead, he answers her, and her brows raise in silent question as he tells her it’s different. How different, she wonders, before the Sword tells her just how different it is.
His life drain felt more potent in Helovia. But at the cost that nobody could touch him, and she frowns with the information before a secluded memory hits her. And she gives the Sword a wry smile, head tilting as she goes to stand before him and watch his creation continue. “I might have heard a rumor that my mother touched you once.” She tilts her head with a light teasing smile, trying to lighten the air, the tension. A story her mother had told her, during a painting session, where she had managed to plant a small spot of paint on him and get away with it.
But if he asked her if she missed her own, she’d agree in an instant. She misses the flames, the tornadoes, even the armor that pierced and collapsed into her spine. She’s thankful when he continues on about creation, and she gives him a slight knowing look. “I’m sure. Instead of tearing things down you can build. I imagine it’s nice to have that… Separation, that balance?” She tilts her head lightly. “It’s like… My vulture form is nice in comparison to the Caracal one. It’s smaller, more agile. But I think the caracal one can deal a bit more of a punch.” She contemplates, despite it being different.
Each has its uses.
She stands then, when he asks her to try it, and she approaches the chainmail armor he has made for her. Giving him a grateful look, she begins with his help, to place the armor along her. It’s light enough to move, to be protected, and something about it almost makes her feel as though she’s preparing for war. Her throat tightens, memories of gods and monsters, of creatures in the night with glowing eyes chasing down burrows and tunnels of darkness with only her fire to guide her way.
The pieces link and connect perfectly, and she manages a shaky breath as the armor fits like a glove. The metal and chainmail glinting in the light as she turns to inspect it before letting her soft icy gaze linger on Deimos with a half smile. “How do I look?” She asks him, shakily and surprisingly nervous now that the armor is on.
His life drain felt more potent in Helovia. But at the cost that nobody could touch him, and she frowns with the information before a secluded memory hits her. And she gives the Sword a wry smile, head tilting as she goes to stand before him and watch his creation continue. “I might have heard a rumor that my mother touched you once.” She tilts her head with a light teasing smile, trying to lighten the air, the tension. A story her mother had told her, during a painting session, where she had managed to plant a small spot of paint on him and get away with it.
But if he asked her if she missed her own, she’d agree in an instant. She misses the flames, the tornadoes, even the armor that pierced and collapsed into her spine. She’s thankful when he continues on about creation, and she gives him a slight knowing look. “I’m sure. Instead of tearing things down you can build. I imagine it’s nice to have that… Separation, that balance?” She tilts her head lightly. “It’s like… My vulture form is nice in comparison to the Caracal one. It’s smaller, more agile. But I think the caracal one can deal a bit more of a punch.” She contemplates, despite it being different.
Each has its uses.
She stands then, when he asks her to try it, and she approaches the chainmail armor he has made for her. Giving him a grateful look, she begins with his help, to place the armor along her. It’s light enough to move, to be protected, and something about it almost makes her feel as though she’s preparing for war. Her throat tightens, memories of gods and monsters, of creatures in the night with glowing eyes chasing down burrows and tunnels of darkness with only her fire to guide her way.
The pieces link and connect perfectly, and she manages a shaky breath as the armor fits like a glove. The metal and chainmail glinting in the light as she turns to inspect it before letting her soft icy gaze linger on Deimos with a half smile. “How do I look?” She asks him, shakily and surprisingly nervous now that the armor is on.
— or drunk, you're the only thing on my mind
KIADA
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Kiada, without killing her <3
