as the world comes to an end
i'll be there to hold your hand
i'll be there to hold your hand
And just like that you emerge from the moonlit water, not unlike a fucking mermaid.
Ok, somewhat unlike a fucking mermaid. For one, you've got an oil-slicked bag clenched between your teeth. A cleverer man may have tied it to his waist, but you hadn't managed to think that far ahead when you went on this diving expedition.
Another thing that sets you apart from the folk who live beneath the water is, of course, the manta stone you've got pressed against your throat. On a choker of leather that looks surprisingly well maintained, it clearly distinguishes you from any natural water-breather. It also looks pretty cool.
And then there's the legs.
They become more visible as you move forward through the water, pressing toward the ladder that hangs down into the sea. When you'd jumped off the pier half an hour ago the dock had been empty; now you're surprised to see a man sitting above you, his pale feet dangling overhead like sweet temptresses. It's obvious he's not from here, if only for that: every self-respecting Torcher knows that waving your feet about like that is just begging for someone - or something - to pull you in.
You're not really in the mood to deal with outlanders (you rarely are), and if the circumstances had been different you may have simply found another ladder to ascend. Thing is, your shit is all in a bag on the very dock where this stranger has decided to sit. And by things I do mean clothes: not expecting any interlopers this late you did indeed jump into the water buck-ass naked, a choice you now regret.
Transferring the bag to your hand, you consider your options. You could climb the ladder naked, definitely scandalizing the damn outlander... or you could ask for him to pass your clothes, resulting in wet pants and a scandalized outlander. Lose-lose for the outlander.
Might as well score a win for you.
"Comin' up." It's the only warning he'll get before you begin to ascend the ladder, your bare body glistening in the silver moonlight... not unlike a fucking mermaid.
Ok, somewhat unlike a fucking mermaid. For one, you've got an oil-slicked bag clenched between your teeth. A cleverer man may have tied it to his waist, but you hadn't managed to think that far ahead when you went on this diving expedition.
Another thing that sets you apart from the folk who live beneath the water is, of course, the manta stone you've got pressed against your throat. On a choker of leather that looks surprisingly well maintained, it clearly distinguishes you from any natural water-breather. It also looks pretty cool.
And then there's the legs.
They become more visible as you move forward through the water, pressing toward the ladder that hangs down into the sea. When you'd jumped off the pier half an hour ago the dock had been empty; now you're surprised to see a man sitting above you, his pale feet dangling overhead like sweet temptresses. It's obvious he's not from here, if only for that: every self-respecting Torcher knows that waving your feet about like that is just begging for someone - or something - to pull you in.
You're not really in the mood to deal with outlanders (you rarely are), and if the circumstances had been different you may have simply found another ladder to ascend. Thing is, your shit is all in a bag on the very dock where this stranger has decided to sit. And by things I do mean clothes: not expecting any interlopers this late you did indeed jump into the water buck-ass naked, a choice you now regret.
Transferring the bag to your hand, you consider your options. You could climb the ladder naked, definitely scandalizing the damn outlander... or you could ask for him to pass your clothes, resulting in wet pants and a scandalized outlander. Lose-lose for the outlander.
Might as well score a win for you.
"Comin' up." It's the only warning he'll get before you begin to ascend the ladder, your bare body glistening in the silver moonlight... not unlike a fucking mermaid.
you're a king and i'm a lionheart
ZEPH
