Oaks
02-15-2024, 10:23 AM
OAKS
you look well suited
like you came to win
If only everything were as carefree as this. If only he didn't have the constant dread living like a tumor in his mind. If only it could stay this way, where the only thing he is focused on is her.
That is not, however, the sort of luxury Oaks has ever been afforded.
He wants to be closer to her, wants to share her warmth in the still air of the forest. She seems like a beacon to him, something to look for through the weighted murk of his mind. She reaches toward him and, foolishly, he begins to reach out too. She stares at him as if inviting him closer, tempting him forward. For just a moment, he succumbs.
His darkened muzzle nearly meets hers again, the pitiful reach of a child deprived, and he can feel her breath against his own. She praises him and he wants to believe her, but it's that mild stirring of the air that reawakens his caution.
Stay away, he reminds himself.
With a soft inhale that carries her scent with it, he slowly withdraws again, ears turning back as if to apologize. Her request, so sweet like rain in a desert, further taunts him.
“I don't want to hurt you,” he says in a nearly strangled sort of voice, unwilling to meet her eye. “But I…” I don't want to leave you. This puerile fascination has seized upon him with a fervor he does not or cannot recognize. All he knows is that she is pleasant and mysteriously intriguing to him and he suddenly craves her attention.
Citadelle. The name is soft and strong at the same time, invoking a sense of timelessness somewhere in his mind. He wonders what sort of impression his own, simpler name lends when he presents it. “My name is Oaks.” To him, his voice sounds so much flatter than hers, plain and mundane and not at all alluring like he wishes. He's had little chance to practice such charms in his own time alone.
“I will stay,” he assures her quietly, though even as he says it, he spies a shift in one of the plants nestled in the brush near them. A simple fern, typically evergreen and hardy even in this colder weather, has begun to fade. Several of its fronds begin to sag, a brown hue creeping up their tips like a bloodstain as they curl in protest to their hastened demise. He sighs. “But I'm afraid you'll find we will not be alone,” he advises with a slight nod toward the visibly ailing shrub, “for death has always been my companion.”
That is not, however, the sort of luxury Oaks has ever been afforded.
He wants to be closer to her, wants to share her warmth in the still air of the forest. She seems like a beacon to him, something to look for through the weighted murk of his mind. She reaches toward him and, foolishly, he begins to reach out too. She stares at him as if inviting him closer, tempting him forward. For just a moment, he succumbs.
His darkened muzzle nearly meets hers again, the pitiful reach of a child deprived, and he can feel her breath against his own. She praises him and he wants to believe her, but it's that mild stirring of the air that reawakens his caution.
Stay away, he reminds himself.
With a soft inhale that carries her scent with it, he slowly withdraws again, ears turning back as if to apologize. Her request, so sweet like rain in a desert, further taunts him.
“I don't want to hurt you,” he says in a nearly strangled sort of voice, unwilling to meet her eye. “But I…” I don't want to leave you. This puerile fascination has seized upon him with a fervor he does not or cannot recognize. All he knows is that she is pleasant and mysteriously intriguing to him and he suddenly craves her attention.
Citadelle. The name is soft and strong at the same time, invoking a sense of timelessness somewhere in his mind. He wonders what sort of impression his own, simpler name lends when he presents it. “My name is Oaks.” To him, his voice sounds so much flatter than hers, plain and mundane and not at all alluring like he wishes. He's had little chance to practice such charms in his own time alone.
“I will stay,” he assures her quietly, though even as he says it, he spies a shift in one of the plants nestled in the brush near them. A simple fern, typically evergreen and hardy even in this colder weather, has begun to fade. Several of its fronds begin to sag, a brown hue creeping up their tips like a bloodstain as they curl in protest to their hastened demise. He sighs. “But I'm afraid you'll find we will not be alone,” he advises with a slight nod toward the visibly ailing shrub, “for death has always been my companion.”
@Citadelle