11-08-2017, 07:11 PM
Her touch is a lover’s whisper trailing across his skin, chilling him to the bone. With an intent stare, Castile watches as she lingers close, her lips hovering above his wings for a moment before succumbing to her looming curiosity, feeling him, knowing him. Her comments are muttered quietly, nearly lost on the wind has he not been paying close attention. While she observes, he merely stands like a chiseled statue. Instincts tell him to touch her, to pull her close into an embrace she has never experienced, but his mind is more considerate than his primal hunger. He diverts. A sigh hisses from between his teeth as he looks away from her and toward the distant horizon where trees sharpen the edges of the hills like razor blades. It distracts him enough for the moment that when he looks at her, nothing more stirs or boils in his blood.
Not until her question, prying, digging, into his soul with a tenacity and allure that keeps him reasonably close to her, never straying. The seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours, as he formulates an answer, but he struggles as though there is no feasible answer. She – and here he groans because he does not yet know her name – doesn’t want the most simple and obvious answer. She doesn’t want to hear that he is a horse, that he is a forgotten prince, that he is the only friend without a title. No, that isn’t what she is yearning to hear; that isn’t what she is trying to seduce.
Greedily, Castile draws in a lungful of air as Karaugh passes beneath his chin. He doesn’t bother to practice restraint, letting his lips drag along her spine as she slips underneath then loops around again to face him. ”A monster,” he says before pursing his lips into a thin line, ”I become a monster.” He doesn’t elaborate as to what – no, that would be too easy – but he considers the experiences he had when his body entirely shifted. It wasn’t in his control; it happened when his blood was heated with adrenaline and fire. It took him over; for a few lingering moments, he didn’t feel like Castile. He was something else.
Lifting his molten gaze to hers, he takes into consideration her demand and how easily wings sprout from her own shoulders. Would she be able to handle him fully shifted? Would he be able to handle himself? A shudder runs through him, hesitant. ”I can’t,” or is it that he won’t? He questions it himself but concludes that he simply cannot give life to the dragon so easily.
Not until her question, prying, digging, into his soul with a tenacity and allure that keeps him reasonably close to her, never straying. The seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours, as he formulates an answer, but he struggles as though there is no feasible answer. She – and here he groans because he does not yet know her name – doesn’t want the most simple and obvious answer. She doesn’t want to hear that he is a horse, that he is a forgotten prince, that he is the only friend without a title. No, that isn’t what she is yearning to hear; that isn’t what she is trying to seduce.
Greedily, Castile draws in a lungful of air as Karaugh passes beneath his chin. He doesn’t bother to practice restraint, letting his lips drag along her spine as she slips underneath then loops around again to face him. ”A monster,” he says before pursing his lips into a thin line, ”I become a monster.” He doesn’t elaborate as to what – no, that would be too easy – but he considers the experiences he had when his body entirely shifted. It wasn’t in his control; it happened when his blood was heated with adrenaline and fire. It took him over; for a few lingering moments, he didn’t feel like Castile. He was something else.
Lifting his molten gaze to hers, he takes into consideration her demand and how easily wings sprout from her own shoulders. Would she be able to handle him fully shifted? Would he be able to handle himself? A shudder runs through him, hesitant. ”I can’t,” or is it that he won’t? He questions it himself but concludes that he simply cannot give life to the dragon so easily.