12-11-2020, 12:31 AM
take my soul & make it undone
be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.
Wishbone has met her fair share of men. One was a golden boy with a smile that stoked the flames in her heart, always pushing himself into her childhood adventures to sweep her away from danger at the last moment. One was a shadow, drawing her closer with his pure intentions but constantly at war with deep darkness encouraging him to slit her throat. One was a creature of the sea with a hunger fueled by instinct, who taught her what womanhood meant and what Death looks like. Each of them has been unique in their own ways and left a different impression on her wild heart.
This man is as unique as the rest have been. The polite way his eyes find hers — without drifting to the lengthy slope of her back or the dip of her shoulders — isn’t something Wishbone had been expecting. She isn’t quite sure how to handle this novelty, as the majority of the men she encounters seem to enjoy at least a brief evaluation. Wishbone finds that remaining silent on the matter is the best course of action to take.
A heavy quiet fills the space between them, deepened further by the silence that slips across the land as night approaches. She knows that the hours past twilight will bring forth their own noises, many of which originate from the Forest not far from their riverside location. During the months Wishbone spent wandering, discovering who the face staring back at her truly was and who it was going to be, she had never ventured too far into the Forest. Its dark pines and tangled depths called to the darker pieces of her soul — pieces that enjoyed the way Ivar had dragged his teeth along her crest, pieces that enjoyed the way Khaedrik’s eyes would flash with a darker level of shadow, pieces that enjoyed the adrenaline racing through her veins when her young foot would slip on a rock during her attempted summit of the volcano.
Wishbone will never admit to the presence of fear, but there is something about the darkness of the Forest that encourages her to seek different sleeping grounds when night draws close. As if he has heard her thoughts, the stranger replies with his name and a question about the growing darkness. Wishbone looks at him closer now, noticing the way Grimjaw structures the question. He is new to Beqanna; someone born of these lands would know about the risks involved in wandering alone at night in these parts of the woods.
The dark mare moves closer as the night gets thicker still. Once the sun hides behind the treeline, the light of day slides away too quickly for her taste. “Only those who feel equipped or brave,” she answers honestly. Her dark face tips in the direction of the thicker woodlands, where the shadows seem to press tightly enough to choke life. “I wouldn’t suggest exploring the Forest at night.” Her amber eyes turn back toward Grimjaw. “Where are you from, Grimjaw?”
This man is as unique as the rest have been. The polite way his eyes find hers — without drifting to the lengthy slope of her back or the dip of her shoulders — isn’t something Wishbone had been expecting. She isn’t quite sure how to handle this novelty, as the majority of the men she encounters seem to enjoy at least a brief evaluation. Wishbone finds that remaining silent on the matter is the best course of action to take.
A heavy quiet fills the space between them, deepened further by the silence that slips across the land as night approaches. She knows that the hours past twilight will bring forth their own noises, many of which originate from the Forest not far from their riverside location. During the months Wishbone spent wandering, discovering who the face staring back at her truly was and who it was going to be, she had never ventured too far into the Forest. Its dark pines and tangled depths called to the darker pieces of her soul — pieces that enjoyed the way Ivar had dragged his teeth along her crest, pieces that enjoyed the way Khaedrik’s eyes would flash with a darker level of shadow, pieces that enjoyed the adrenaline racing through her veins when her young foot would slip on a rock during her attempted summit of the volcano.
Wishbone will never admit to the presence of fear, but there is something about the darkness of the Forest that encourages her to seek different sleeping grounds when night draws close. As if he has heard her thoughts, the stranger replies with his name and a question about the growing darkness. Wishbone looks at him closer now, noticing the way Grimjaw structures the question. He is new to Beqanna; someone born of these lands would know about the risks involved in wandering alone at night in these parts of the woods.
The dark mare moves closer as the night gets thicker still. Once the sun hides behind the treeline, the light of day slides away too quickly for her taste. “Only those who feel equipped or brave,” she answers honestly. Her dark face tips in the direction of the thicker woodlands, where the shadows seem to press tightly enough to choke life. “I wouldn’t suggest exploring the Forest at night.” Her amber eyes turn back toward Grimjaw. “Where are you from, Grimjaw?”
@[grimjaw]