the stars lined our heartbeats
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
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#15
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
His heartbeat echoed in time of space and liberation, deliverance and providence he always knew he never deserved, but grabbed and upheld and strived to be better for. They melded and molded together in the shape of abandon, untethered, unfurled, unleashed, long lashes drawn down, eyes closed, wild and tempted, enticed and enthralled. His hands were in her hair too, climbing up and up until they were tethered and lined in gold, no escape, yearning and avaricious, souls unwinding, casting their shades upon adoration, devotion, and love. Rooted but unsettled, tongues on lips, until he might have been devoured and consumed and he’d be fine with it, with the sun burning behind eyelids and stars refraining in their entities, not even bothering to breathe, not even bothering to think.

Only when she draws back does he relent; a breathless whim shuddering through lungs and hearts, no evasion, no elusion; perhaps the only dance they simmered upon now was the notion of rapture and reverie, the infernos intertwining, piercing eyes sliding back into hers only when the sound of his name ricocheted like spellbinding syllables and phrases (and maybe that’s what he was – bound and bound and bound, intertwined and enamored, content in the way they’d found a semblance, a portion of the world not bent, not broken).

His head tilted at her question, the inclination of any other offerings bestowed (because he would argue he wasn’t worth the time) hadn’t ever settled into his mind. He couldn’t fathom the trembling notes, the anxiety brewing in the question, except thereafter, when apprehension formed itself in the pit of his bones too, the things collected in his pockets, the wares he’d concocted and created days before. “Yes,” was noted on a smile, as bright as he would allow. “I have something for you too.” If she accepted either – and it was peculiar, how insatiable their appetites, their souls, for one another, but still so utterly lost and bewildered by everything associated with it.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
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MP: 2580
#16
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
Fingers leave his locks at last, their travels not taking them very far: to ears, cheekbones, the curls of his beard. To lips and hot breath, the curve of his chin. Seeking validation, affirmation, agreement that she has not overstepped, that she is not a fool; because even after all this time she fears that he will leave. That he will see the parts of her she has always feared, the ones that burn too hot and too bright to be considered warm; that he will retreat to cooler climes, less her temperate soul burn her with a desert heat.

But no, he does not laugh at her offering, does not pull away as she carves more of her heart to lay before him (all of it, for you). His reaction is more surprising than that, takes her aback far more than rejection. Eyes growing wide with the wonder of a child, the Shield practically gasps her amazement, the 'O' of her mouth swiftly giving way to a vibrant, elated, flushing grin.

"For me?" she wonders in her rich alto voice, positively delighted to have been thought of at all. Rising excitedly on curled up toes, she bounces against the soft grass, enthusiastic and bright. Ah, but now they are on equal footing: it is not just she presenting too much, and she has more than her own anxious heart to focus on. "What is it?" - her own offering entirely forgotten in this new and entirely adolescent delight.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#17
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
He leaned into her touch, thought about closing his eyes again, about just feeling, about just knowing, about not being torn apart or mauled or condemned; rattled by how he’d managed to traverse so far with her. His breath curled and intermingled with billowing shades along curves of her fingers, orbiting, revolutions of stars and shields and swords, cloaked in something not brutal, not consigned to oblivion, not contorted into upheaval – swallowing, burying into the devotion, the ardor, the love, that he thought long since bleak, extinct. He couldn’t fathom what she saw, what she thought – but took the devotion for all the reverence, rapture, and ardor, strived to continually extend it in return.

The beast might’ve snorted at her wonder and amazement – no matter how many times he extended his created contortions towards her, no matter how many times he proffered the wake of his contortions, extended and gave and granted. Instead, his gaze sketched and traced over the foundations of those brightened, jubilant intervals, as if he was afraid they wouldn’t last, as if frightened and aware he could easily ruin, diminish them, with a fault, with a flaw, with some stupefied error. The apprehension churned to the back of his throat again, her excitement pervading and surrounding, and his misgivings, his reservations, his insecurities rampantly deigned to take over.

But so did his ferocity. So did his passion. So did his commitments, his convictions, his resolutions. So did his reverence for her, for her, for her.

One hand reached down into his pocket, withdrawing a box he’d been hiding, containing, for the entire Fiat Lux event, intending to strive, to try, to echo back everything encompassed in his essence. His words wouldn’t be enough; they never had been. So his fingers nervously brushed over the edges, the fringes, and then pulled it forth, before her – and if his palms were shaking he said nothing about it, opening the box to reveal the ring. “I -,” and then he stopped, because the discourse was going to break him apart, reverting quickly to bonds, to connections, where his voice wouldn’t quiver and his heart wouldn’t stammer and a thousand other things wouldn’t flicker into his lungs. A rumble, a ricochet, a resounding of oaths and assurances and trying to convey everything properly - not enough, not enough, not enough. Love you. The item shined in its gold and silver plated glimmer, in the drawn etchings of stars and moons and things he likely had no place in striving for – gaze fixated on her and waiting, waiting, waiting for some inevitable shift. Marry me?
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
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#18
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
His silence is longer than she is prepared to bear, because underneath it lingers something. An electric thing, an unsaid thing, a thing that has built and burnt as embers for the year since he first took her hand and placed them to his lips, since she looked into his eyes and knew that somehow - somehow - he saw her, and was not afraid. In the heartbeats that pass her smile falters, the radiant beam growing subdued as the Shield's heart quickens, her breath coming fast.

She knows what is about to happen before his hand rises from his pocket, but she does not look down. Her eyes don't leave his for a moment - not as his palms shift, not as the box opens, not as he exhales that one verbal syllable, the rest of it falling easily into her mind where it resonates and echoes and bounces and thunders, a drumbeat in the bounding of her pulse, electricity in her blood.

I love you-

Every moment replays in her mind, at once and in tandem, sunbeams and dewdrops and radiance in a year that has struck her harder than she ever dreamed possible, raised her higher than she ever feared. And in every moment, a constant theme: him, his hands, his eyes, his breath, his voice, his constancy, his devotion, his faith. Falling Spires and rising mountains; fishing for stones and hunting for tomes. Shrines were built, darkness survived, portals opened, pits escape- and through all of it, in all of it, she came out stronger for him.

Marry me--

She doesn't answer immediately, because she doesn't know what to say. Her expression is blank as a newborn lamb's, wondrous as the first time she looked at the sky. Her eyes are wide and her face flushed and her hands tremble as they stay on his face, frozen in her overwhelm--

-- and then she breaks, like clouds giving way to the brightest sun, and there are tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips and laughter in her throat as she throws her arms around him, leaping fearlessly into his arms, her mouth upon his in fervent adoration, worshipful abandon, helpless trust. Weightless, unafraid, she crashes upon him, a storm on a mountain, a wave on the shore. Without reserve she gives herself to him, the action an answer as much as her words--

"--Yes," she whispers, cries, intones, a hymn and an anthem, the answer first written on a fateful day a year before. Yes, because it has always been her answer, will always be her answer, because how could it ever have been anything else.

Because in a senseless world full of difficult choices and murky morality, in a year of changes and horrible uncertainty, here is a thing she can understand. She is his Shield and he is her Sword, and if this not right, well, she will spend her life being wrong- as long as she is with him. Yes. Always. Yes.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
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MP: 9824
#19
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
For all the value and apace he’d always put into silence, it seemed to bite and claw at him now – at the variables, at the way he’d plunged and jumped and launched, even in commitment, even in doubt, steadfast ardor. For a being who calculated, who honed sharp, keen edges, who practiced precision, who emphasized machinations, this had been a threshold to cross, a divide to wander within, straight into the specious vestiges, breath held, uncertain if he’d erred, if he’d betrayed too much or gave too little or simply wasn’t enough for her. So he stood there, with his love and ring and the hushed pinnacles staring back at him. He grew taut and rigid in the expanse, height drawn upwards, towards the sky, towards the clouds, where he might not drown in the wake of something he’d fumbled or blundered within. But the beast didn’t look away, not afraid to look into constellations or galaxies, striving to render a sign of acceptance or rejection before he could pen a reaction, before he funneled something indiscrete in his bones and fell apart in another sanction.

Deimos had always afforded himself few chances in relationships, offering, granting, convictions that were never idle, that were never half-hearted, but once torn at the seams, he hurt and burned too much, too far; more than once scraping himself back into shadows when faced with loss – quietly perishing and drifting into nothingness. Where it didn’t hurt. Where it didn’t bleed. Where it didn’t bend. Where it didn’t falter or flicker. Where he could be an absolute menace, an intimidating faction, a conflagration of soulless depravity.

Did she have any idea her effect on him? How her acceptance, her tolerance, had fueled him onward? Had brought him out of the annals of darkness? How he’d learned to be better, far, far better, than the Reaper could’ve ever been?

And still, the quietude remained, chiseled into his skin while he waited, while he thought about trying to grant something else she might sink her teeth into and he wouldn’t be left alone again –

Except then she was in his arms once more, and he lifted, held tight, brought the hand not encompassing gifts and confessions to wrap along her back, the answer simple but not plain. A wave of relief tore through his lungs and chest, a crackle of laughter before her lips descended on his, something welling up in the corner of his eyes that he’d give no name to. Yes bounded along his ears, far more than a whisper, like an outcry, like a promise, like serenity, like things he didn’t deserve and still took; leaning and gliding through their bond, swords naught without shields. He didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know what else to do, but hold her there, in the beacon of their light and connections, in the reverence they’d carved for themselves. What was yours? he devised on a chuckle, on a deep, fervent reverberation, on the balance of things that were right and exact and true.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: shark Offline
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#20
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
Marry me.

The words continue to spin through her head, daffodil seeds set loose by the impassioned exhalation of youth and love to plant themselves within the soft earth of spring. Taking hold and stretching roots deep into her soul, they sprout up blades of fresh green leaves, enticed to push through the loam of her insecurities by the blinding radiance of his light. Marry me, marry me, marry me- until she breaks once more into brilliant bloom and bursts apart again.

His hands on her back and hers in his hair; his laugh undercuts hers like the rumble of thunder, weaving in a harmony of alto and baritone. She crashes upon him like a wave and he holds the explosion of her heart like a bulwark, keeping her from splitting apart into a million pieces and dissolving into mist.

Gilded and prismatic she refracts him in a rainbow; smooth and luminescent she reflects him like a mirror. His smile is met with one of her own, vibrantly ecstatic, unfettered and unafraid. It is only when he demands his own prize to be given that Amalia pulls away, only enough that she can run her hands onto his chest. I can't give it to you now! she cries with mocking indignation, pushing against him and shaking her head and utterly unable to maintain her upset. "You've official won gift-giving. I can never give you anything again."

All that, and she hasn't even looked at the ring - her eyes belong to his, and nothing else.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#21
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
For as long as he remained, existed, lived and breathed, he wouldn’t forget the sound, the resonance, the sublime acceptance of his offer on her lips. Yes, always, yes; like they’d found eternity between once-broken chords and fractured souls. Mended little by little, intertwining along the known and the uncertainties, compelled in different directions and caught in intangible ethers, eternally drawn into one another’s orbits. Sometimes difficult to fathom, just how and why and when, until it was always the sun along his horizons instead of constant clouds or brooding darkness, shifting more and more into the light. Even when it blinded, even when it scorched, even when it seared, until it comfortably kissed upon his skin and stretched its familiarity in stars and stanzas and refrains of their radiance, their reverence, for one another. Then it was friendship and family and comrades and - then it was her.

Held and held and held upon and against and within, eyes widening only to stare and absorb, only to be swarmed and swallowed in her essence, in some vivid disbelief; taking in her smile, her grin, brilliant, beaming, chiseling and sculpting it down into his memories, into the spun measures of his mind. On a tease, on a taunt, because they’d crafted something out of goading and provocations, on rising challenges and feats to the stars, she pulled nearly away – hands on his chest coiled and summoned a rumble beneath the muscles; a snort ensued after her statement.

Perhaps it’d been a joke, a hoax, an instigating measure of its own to reveal his hand, and there hadn’t been anything to begin with. He laughed, shaking his head too, enclosed in their sanction of ridiculousness, already maneuvering along in tandem to the music in the distance. “You have given me all I need,” a wink, a wrinkle to his nose, impish and devilish in his decree, cheeks dimpling slightly, grabbing hold of her left hand, lifting it to his lips. There he pressed, stoked, caressed a light kiss, over knuckles, over skin, before plucking the ring out of its box, intending to slide it along her finger.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: shark Offline
Change author:
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#22
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
Fingers to lips, the softest caresses, all the countless unsaid things sung in the breath upon her skin. Her smile threatens to year her face, months of sorrow and struggle forgotten in the radiance of this one perfect moment. She laugh again, shaking her head, her right had reaching for his chest as he continues to hold her left. "I want to give you everything. Forever." Fervent, earnest, honest and true, she makes the vow, the oath- to him.

Dark eyes flicker back to her hand as he slips the ring on her slender finger, a circle of stars and glittering stone. It is her first time seeing it properly; Amalia inhales a breath of wonder as she lowers her hand down to her eyes, turning slightly to press herself against Deimos', leaning into him, utterly enraptured. "It's beautiful," she breathes, knowing he made it, knowing that he poured into the metal his heart and hopes, his dreams and ardor.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#23
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
His eyes widened a fraction, a hint, in her forthright ardor, in the strength and fervency of such a statement – because something in him immediately balked. The same channels, the same funnels, the same rivulets curling and gnarling, the eternal fire-brigade of not enough and unworthy and she shouldn’t grant and anoint something so monumental, paramount, to him. Except; he’d carved and sculpted the identical pathways, the quiet convictions, the oaths, promises, and vows for her. Except it felt right, it felt real, it felt whole, and maybe the feeling in his form, in his figure, in his chest, was the slow trickling of acceptance: permitting himself to be cherished, to be devoted upon, to be loved. A long breath flickered and billowed from his lungs, without calculation or preamble, without machinations or methodical thoughts; mind spinning and reeling while his heart ricocheted and bounded. She would be able to hear it, tell-tale measures, eyes searching, absorbing, catching the smiles, the glee, the happiness, a laugh in his throat when he didn’t know what else to say. I am yours; a thread, an assurance, a thousand other pledges chorded and lined – she’d know them all, every single one.

He released her hand from his, only to maneuver his lips to her forehead, pressing in amongst golden tassels, glancing down, watching from the corner of his eyes as she finally took a look at the stones, the ring, the circlet. The Sword stayed within her threshold, along her orbit, her cosmos, content to merely remain there for an eternity, a calm, steady wave cording its way through his abyss. Happiness? Was that it? “You like it?” Something of a tease, nuzzling into her further, half-tempted to twist her into a dance, half-enticed to merely remain.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: shark Offline
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MP: 2580
#24
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
Always reticent, always hesitant, always anxious and withdrawn, when Amalia loves she loves with the ferocity of a floodgate at last pulled down, the torrents of ardor set loose upon her target with warmth and faith to drown. Thus it is with promises, with oaths, with prayers: for so long she gave herself only to her gods, that passion reserved in whole for them. She worshipped at their altars, sang hymns in her sleep. She breathed their air and tasted their purpose and gave them all her soul.

Now she has another altar on which to lay her love.

He presses into golden tresses and she wears him like a crown, queen of nothing but his love and happy to be so. The stones reflect in her dark eyes like stars upon a midnight sky; even with them closed she sees it, the ring a penumbra around the sun that is his beating heart. She leans into him, swaying slightly, a dance picked up without much thought; "I do," she promises, reassures, a murmur against his chest.

But she came here for a reason, and a promise remained unfulfilled. Humming softly, eyes still closed, Amalia considers her predicament. "Your gift- it's a ring, too, actually." Her cheeks color with laughter, amused by the turn of events. "Would you like it now? Or... Later?" At the wedding.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
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Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#25
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
His love had never been an easy thing to find – once, maybe, in youth, when ardor could run rampant to everyone and everything, none the wiser. But with experience came loss, and with loss came guards, walls, and reserve, a vicious nonchalance, apathy, and detachment to cover, to contort, to suppress the magnitude, the weight, of his grief. Hidden and tucked away, preferring to remain as a weapon rather than a living, breathing being – rampaging and consigning himself to certain levels of hell for a kingdom that would sooner throw him under its mountains and glaciers. No emotions, no feelings, no sentiments for the wake of the world he possessed and seized, only plots, only ruses, only deceit to ensure their safety, only intimidating factions to keep the enemies and adversaries at bay. He’d begged for the world to fear him instead of gaining access, getting too close, smothering and harpooning him into their ramparts. For a long time, it worked: he was the Reaper, the shadow of the Basin, the magnitude of mayhem and might, malicious and unrelenting, irreverent and bestial, barbaric and twisted. He had no altars. He had no hymns, save for the echoes of battle. He breathed fumes of smoke and ash, death and decay. Oaths were vows embedded in blood, and not a single pledge uttered for anyone, anything, save for those who stood beside him (and the flicker of rain; cascading in rivulets, then gone in ghostly ether), not against him, as they wandered and discarded earthly plains. Then he died, and was given a second chance.

He repeated the same patterns for a while – war, war, war, bloodshed, ruin, abhorrence, abominations, loss, loss, loss, until pulled from the roots, until sent here, where people tried and cared and he didn’t understand it at all. Where they rendered compassion and offered far more than cycles of vengeance; and somewhere between it all he managed to render his walls downward, allow a select few in, see and see and see all the broken rubble and the demolition.

But then Deimos gave back the convictions and devotion, the strength of his fortitude, the certainty in strength, in ferocity, in paramount promises and things he knew he could uphold. Then he saw the sun, the stars, the cosmos, and let all of her in too, and she might’ve been his faith, reverence, and veneration – in action, in hearts, in lungs, in entities, in souls. Eclipsed and not worthy of her affections, but striving to be so every day – his love was stalwart and steadfast, quiet, unfurling, unwinding passions, strong, committed, here between the silence and murmurs, picking up the slight sway, the minute movements, just giving the moments their rendered, beatific contemplations, the hushed promises and proclamations. I do slipping in amidst the acclaim, a soft sigh of relief released from his chest, eyes downcast, on nothing but her, listening to the hums, uncertain of his fortunes but willing to drown in them nonetheless.

Back to his gift, an arch to his brow that she likely couldn’t see, a smile he only hid in the depths of her golden tresses, like suns and rays, like solar flares and burning, blinding things – incapable of looking away. A chuckle shuffled over the notion of her benedictions too, like minded in today’s intensity and ebullience, the grin widening, promises and bonds laden within. Rumbling formed in his chest again, amused, loving, teasing. “Now.” Only because he had other furtive, secretive plans for wedding bands, only because if she got to wear something crafted to signify future connections, then he should too.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
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MP: 2580
#26
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
Now, he declares, an uncharacteristic impatience, causing Amalia's neck to color, her cheeks to grow a bashful red. Had it been other than it is - made by Remi, imbued with magic - she might have feared her gift woefully inadequate; as it is it merely feels a bit foolish, following on the heels of his magnificent surprise. "Okay," she murmurs, lilting, unsure, eager and hopeful and very afraid.

Again she draws away from him,  pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The fire on her face reflects her heart as she pushes slender fingers into her pocket, withdrawing with a flash of lilac-silver-gold. Slowly she raises the ring up to chest level, an invitation as it stretched between them, glinting in the sun. It is perhaps too colorful for him, too feminine, too much- but then so must she be, for the band is made of her. The qilin scale transformed to circlet is a song, a promise to always be there.

"Remi made it," the girl says softly, face upturned to seek his blue eyes. "From one of my scales. It... It will give you armor. And protect you from dark magic." It will keep him safe when next he throws himself headlong into battle, she hopes, unafraid and asking for nothing, her stalwart sword, her lover in arms.
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#27
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
A studious observer, he witnessed her neck, her cheeks burn and blush, arching a brow in response, would’ve been a challenge in goading and provoking, in instigating and playful upheavals, had she not seemed so anxious and nervous thereafter. The Sword hadn’t intended to invoke any apprehensive response, safe here, in their threshold of hearts, minds, and bonds, hands empty as she drew away.

Other than a ring, he had no expectations or predictions as she traced over pockets, and eventually extended the circlet: eyes widening, taking in the polished hues of lilac, argent, and gilded artistry, instantly recognizing the colors before she could even say. Because they were her; representations of qilin beats and preservation of life, light flames and solar qualities, rays of the sun and beacons of shields. His fingers reached out to touch, to hold, drawing them over hers for a few tender moments, before lifting the circlet closer, inspecting, cherishing, something in his chest welling and breaking; a dam maybe, those chambers and vessels thawing and clawing their way out. Sometimes he was simply overwhelmed by loving and being loved in return, surprised and bewildered by the extensions, by the notions of it, by the grandeur and wonder of it all.

He could hear her explanation as his eyes welled, as he blinked rapidly and tried to swallow down every damned emotion slinking back to the surface; but they pried and plied onwards, slinking out of the corner of his gaze as he took his empty palm to rub them away. She’d given him another guard, another force, another mode of protection, to chase away the horrors of others, to war against the darker folds and ferocities. “Perfect,” he uttered, and then afraid the choking, stammering nuances didn’t get the point across, he murmured again. “It is perfect.” Then to signify the notion, he placed it on his finger, claimed and shielded, before reaching, entangling, threading, enfolding her in his arms again, against his chest, fierce and unwinding, unrelenting and overcome. “Thank you,” a murmur in her ear, not enough words to convey any of the ambience coiled in his soul.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: shark Offline
Change author:
Posts: 3,098 | Total: 4,577
MP: 2580
#28
she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
The tears in his eyes say more to her than words: they wash away the last of her anxieties like rain upon the snow, melted down to feed the roots and seedlings of her love. Of their future- a future that now feels real, attainable, dazzlingly beautiful in the certainty it presents. Rings exchanged and vows and ardor; what need is there for a wedding, really, when she has already given herself to him in full, and taken him in return?

Against his chest, against his neck, her breath is hot with laughter and joy. Captured and held, as bright as the sun, she radiates into his embrace, her fingers returning to twine in his mane, her body molded against his. "I love you, Deimos" she whispers, murmurs, sings, a hymn of happiness, a promise, an oath. "I'll take that dance, now."

{fin}
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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