06-06-2020, 03:35 PM
Nikoline
with stoutest wrists and loudest boasts,
he thrusts his fists against the posts
and still insists he sees the ghosts.
The moon has slyly cloaked herself in darkness, a cruel trick to play upon the dryad mare as she struggles to pick her way though tangled vines and cracked stones alike. Thankfully she has merged with the flora and it weaves a small path of guidance, the marks of cloven hooved deer are proven passage that she is not the only one to awaken during the witching hour.
Lids fall over her dark eyes as she halts her advancement to draw a frozen breath. A deep draw, her sides expanding, as she filters the layers of the dark night. The taste of salted sweat and fear, black waters engulfing the weak, the meager wails of an early spring born fawn. It is all overwhelming.
From a distance there comes the sound of weighted body and creaking bones. Hooves cracked and flecked are crushing stone and stick alike. Her eyes snap open with a breath captured in her throat...something is just beyond her eyes...
The plants whisper their warnings against the soft glow of her skin. They beg her to turn and flee, to melt into the bark of the cherry blossom tree camouflage, to do anything other than just stand there...
He is masculine, the taste of his scent is musk and hide. The stallion slithers near with a snaking head and unreflective eyes...dead eyes. Nikoline barely hears his words above the rapid beat of her heart. She flutters from one wooden point to the other, teetering briefly like a caged bird.
”I remember all.”
The years leech into her skin, knowledge, fear, memories are flooding her at the male’s nearness. He contours memories of demons and fear. Her skin tingles and electrifies despite her inability to make out more than a shadow in the darkness. The glow of her skin simply outlines a mouth and nostrils. ”The demons...” Niko begins as she attempts to swallow her fear but it swells in her heart. He is different...changed...dangerous.
”Wh-what happened?” The dryad stammers softly, her pink tongue flashing as she trips along the slivered edge of her own words. She knows she will not like the answer she will receive but is powerless to not inquire.
A quagmire of memories threaten to drown her just beyond the ridge of her consciousness, quicksand words slipping between gritted teeth.
Speech, @tagged