He traces quickly, agilely, over the curves that swell her hips and the sink of the tender flesh that connects her womanly frame. He plucks at her layers, his ashen violet eyes reading beneath the tributaries on her veins to sink deeper. He stares and does not his his gaze as the dappled mare offers her name. Murc remains quiet for a moment, relishing in the small elevation of his heart to finally exchange words with a pretty stranger.
The dark man settles near her with a mud closed hind leg casually hocked. He relaxes though his gaze remains still stoic. Her name was Namaah, the beat of a moth’s wings is the only was he could encapsulate they way is tingled in his brain. ”Namaah, it is?”He could not resist the urge to taste her name on his whiskered, cracked lips. She was far too delicate to be in the company of a man like him. She belonged somewhere warm with a beach, sunning in a golden pool.
” I’m Murc.” A slight shrug rolls his scarred shoulders but there is a hint of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. He finds himself fond of this little mare. Wish I were able to say I had a home to offer...but I don’t. I’m here looking as well.” The words are a low baritone, rich and intoxicating. ”Maybe we find a place near? See if they might take a few beggars in?” Murc finds himself jesting and it even jars him a bit. When had he developed a sense of humor? He eyes the pretty mare with his lavender eyes again, what witchcraft was she using upon him...
The dark man settles near her with a mud closed hind leg casually hocked. He relaxes though his gaze remains still stoic. Her name was Namaah, the beat of a moth’s wings is the only was he could encapsulate they way is tingled in his brain. ”Namaah, it is?”He could not resist the urge to taste her name on his whiskered, cracked lips. She was far too delicate to be in the company of a man like him. She belonged somewhere warm with a beach, sunning in a golden pool.
” I’m Murc.” A slight shrug rolls his scarred shoulders but there is a hint of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. He finds himself fond of this little mare. Wish I were able to say I had a home to offer...but I don’t. I’m here looking as well.” The words are a low baritone, rich and intoxicating. ”Maybe we find a place near? See if they might take a few beggars in?” Murc finds himself jesting and it even jars him a bit. When had he developed a sense of humor? He eyes the pretty mare with his lavender eyes again, what witchcraft was she using upon him...