EVERCLEAR
If he could sense the shift in the mare, her internal struggle between beast and beauty, he may have retained some of his well-practiced caution. Having lived so long, he is not a stranger to wolves in sheep’s clothing (nearly literally, in fact) and he would have shifted his amiability to the side, shuttered in a separate bastion within a grander wall of vigilance.
The moonless darkness, however, and her well-worn mask prevent his perception of any potential harm. She is but a wayward maiden along the beach; he is but a nightwatchman on patrol. The ocean plays their soundtrack, a steady gasp and sigh of waves against the shore, its faintly glittering surface yawning like a spectral void at their side. Everclear’s wariness lingers, foggy in his mind as he gauges this stranger’s intentions from her body language alone; his greeting is merely a verbal probe meant to engage and elicit some form of affirmation.
Her response is neutral, though it is nothing overt enough to lead him into believing she carries ill intent with her. Still, her subtle shifts and the opaline luster of her scales leave him with that sense of uncertainty. At the very least she doesn’t seem hostile – her muscles do not flex as if preparing to spring at him – and her delicate face seems trustworthy enough in the gentle golden glow of his halo.
He exhales gently and edges a smile to his lips, pressing a kindly expression through the apprehension he maintains.
Undue judgment is not becoming of an angel of Heaven, he reminds himself inwardly, and if he were ever to become a true angel as is his desire, it would not be right to look upon others with such doubt before their purposes are known.
So he nods to her, shifting his weight to relieve some of the tension borne in his back, and shares in her appraisal of the shadowed lands spanning north of them. “For me it is home,” he says rather plainly, obviously, and he snorts almost gruffly. “It is the kingdom that was once called Heaven’s Gates, long ago. These days it is known simply as The Gates.”
He looks back to the stranger, a minor tilt bringing his gold-gilt brown eyes to study her again. “And my name is Everclear. May I ask yours?”
The moonless darkness, however, and her well-worn mask prevent his perception of any potential harm. She is but a wayward maiden along the beach; he is but a nightwatchman on patrol. The ocean plays their soundtrack, a steady gasp and sigh of waves against the shore, its faintly glittering surface yawning like a spectral void at their side. Everclear’s wariness lingers, foggy in his mind as he gauges this stranger’s intentions from her body language alone; his greeting is merely a verbal probe meant to engage and elicit some form of affirmation.
Her response is neutral, though it is nothing overt enough to lead him into believing she carries ill intent with her. Still, her subtle shifts and the opaline luster of her scales leave him with that sense of uncertainty. At the very least she doesn’t seem hostile – her muscles do not flex as if preparing to spring at him – and her delicate face seems trustworthy enough in the gentle golden glow of his halo.
He exhales gently and edges a smile to his lips, pressing a kindly expression through the apprehension he maintains.
Undue judgment is not becoming of an angel of Heaven, he reminds himself inwardly, and if he were ever to become a true angel as is his desire, it would not be right to look upon others with such doubt before their purposes are known.
So he nods to her, shifting his weight to relieve some of the tension borne in his back, and shares in her appraisal of the shadowed lands spanning north of them. “For me it is home,” he says rather plainly, obviously, and he snorts almost gruffly. “It is the kingdom that was once called Heaven’s Gates, long ago. These days it is known simply as The Gates.”
He looks back to the stranger, a minor tilt bringing his gold-gilt brown eyes to study her again. “And my name is Everclear. May I ask yours?”
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Deiti