04-09-2023, 09:48 PM
— neuna
They move through the darkness in a companionable sort of quiet, each of them peering into deep pockets of shadow. (She does it almost purely for show, as she knows that they will not find him like this. He may be lurking nearby, but he will not reveal himself unless he senses some kind of danger. Overprotective by design, he flashes his teeth at the slightest provocation. But this stranger, whose name she realizes rather abruptly she does not know, does not seem to pose any sort of threat. No, they will not find him tonight, not like this.)
And then he answers and she shifts her focus from the darkness to her companion. As they walk, she studies him more closely. The gray shot through with all that gold, the folded wings, the curve of horns. She studies him, every inch of him cast in that soft halo of white light, and blinks back her surprise.
Her expression, which had been passive, buckles. (It is not pity, though. Neuna is a thing of love, first and foremost, but she is also a proud thing. She would never sink so low as pity. Empathy, certainly. Because, for as much as the sun makes it so difficult for her to see much at all, she adores it. For as much as she loves the dark things, she finds comfort in the day.)
She is quiet a long moment in the wake of his admission, pondering. Finally, she lets loose a breath and searches his face in the dark. “That must be lonely,” she says, shifting her focus then to the moonlight filtering through the branches overhead, “that must be so terribly lonely.”
She reaches for him then. (Unaware, oblivious to the danger of it.) She does not need to touch him for the metallic taste of blood (why blood? Iron?) to gather on her tongue and she pulls abruptly away. Does not mention it. Thinks perhaps it is merely some sort of defense mechanism because there are so many forms of magic she does not understand. It had been foolish of her to try to comfort someone who had not indicated that they needed any comforting at all.
And then he answers and she shifts her focus from the darkness to her companion. As they walk, she studies him more closely. The gray shot through with all that gold, the folded wings, the curve of horns. She studies him, every inch of him cast in that soft halo of white light, and blinks back her surprise.
Her expression, which had been passive, buckles. (It is not pity, though. Neuna is a thing of love, first and foremost, but she is also a proud thing. She would never sink so low as pity. Empathy, certainly. Because, for as much as the sun makes it so difficult for her to see much at all, she adores it. For as much as she loves the dark things, she finds comfort in the day.)
She is quiet a long moment in the wake of his admission, pondering. Finally, she lets loose a breath and searches his face in the dark. “That must be lonely,” she says, shifting her focus then to the moonlight filtering through the branches overhead, “that must be so terribly lonely.”
She reaches for him then. (Unaware, oblivious to the danger of it.) She does not need to touch him for the metallic taste of blood (why blood? Iron?) to gather on her tongue and she pulls abruptly away. Does not mention it. Thinks perhaps it is merely some sort of defense mechanism because there are so many forms of magic she does not understand. It had been foolish of her to try to comfort someone who had not indicated that they needed any comforting at all.
@Nemeon