you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.

  The warmth is stifling, and the air is thick with fallen ash – a haze is lingering heavily between the swaying vegetation and the bright, vivid sky, encapsulating all beneath it in its tepid clutch. He has grown used to it – perhaps, because of the stirring, flickering flame that is burning so brightly within him; the heat and fire are as much a part of him as his wild and powerful heart, churning within the thick of his chest. A thin sheen of perspiration causes the otherwise dreary and dull blackness of his skin to shine, while unshaken beads of sweat line the gentle slope of his spine. He is still – quiet, watchful, waiting.

  The sun lay just beyond the horizon, but it is far from fallen, bathing the rich soil in its light, and reflecting over the ravenous but unbroken sea. He is nearest to the shoreline, cheek turned towards the shadow of the looming volcano in the distance (and he can almost feel it rumbling, almost) – with thick, luscious plumes of smoke rising from the top, darkening the atmosphere. He is content, with the updraft of the ocean breeze raking over the scalding heat of his skin – he is content, if only for a moment.

  He is not alone, however, and with a careful sweep of his thick neck, he is peering out into the water – and emerging from the haze, a set of bright, burning red eyes, not unlike his own, meet his. The tension coils within his muscles, but appear as no more than a flinch of shifting bones. The fire is stoked, crackling and burning within him, and a low flame courses the length of his spine, wary – and though he cannot pry into his mind, he cannot probe his innermost thoughts, there is a roiling discontent stirring within the pit of his stomach.

  He could be trouble.

  Gryffen is still, watchful, but he does not see him lingering along the eastern border, and so he emerges from the shadow of the sea, observing him as the sun finally dips down beyond the horizon. Quietly, his rumbling voice rises above the crashing, churning waves of the sea, as his dark eyes settle upon him.

  ”You’ve found Tephra, and I am its overseer, Offspring,” he pauses, considering him, as his dark and heavy eyes bore into his own. ”what can I do for you?”

you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.

OFFSPRING

 
  He can see the discomfort roiling beneath the surface – he is flinching and shifting in his discontent, a sneer of thinly veiled disdain settled upon the terse tension of his face. He is hardly bothered by it; the stifling humidity had nearly been enough to suffocate even him, long ago, but he had not only become accustomed to it, he had thrived within it.

  The restrictive heat and inhibiting dampness of the rumbling, churning volcano is cut only by the gentle caress of the soothing, salty sea breeze, but the festering, brightly burning flame licking the surface of his dark, marred flesh is a much more commanding presence, and he does not notice much else.

  Though the fire had once scalded him from within, it had since become a deeply intricate part of his very fiber, with fire blistering within every nerve ending, every twitch of thick and coiled muscle – even the tender marrow of his broad frame. A faint edge of unease has already begun to descend, settling over him in a thick drapery of uncertainty, while the dark ember of his crimson gaze is settled intently upon the stranger, who is not able to disguise the slithering serpent beneath the poorly constructed façade of sincerity.

  Beneath the surface of his contrived virtue, there is a glimmer of mischief and danger (he has lived too many lifetimes not to recognize trouble, even when cloaked), and the blistering flame from within has surfaced, setting the darkness of his skin ablaze in a thick, flickering haze of fire.

  His gaze is laden with suspicion and doubt, skepticism agitating his rapid thoughts.

  In between each sweetened, longing word, there is a gleam of falsehood, and though he is altogether disbelieving of the rapidly spun tale he has begun to unravel before him, he cannot merely spurn him based on his instinct alone. Softly, his voice rises above the churning sea, his iron eyes never leaving his.

  ”Your name is familiar, Gryffen,” though he cannot say from where, nor from whom he had heard it from. Unlike Gryffen, his own words are not insincere – there are many wandering the volcanic isle – he knew of Amorette, but not of her name – she had drifted to and fro, as wild and as unwieldy as the open sea, and thus he has nothing to offer the wraith. ”alas, those you seek are not. You will not find what you are looking for here.”