05-27-2016, 11:44 PM
intrigue is the road to awe
That approach, so confident and sure. That gaze, so condescending and yet also so pure - her eyes so like the shimmer of the winter sky peeking out from behind the azure curtain of a frosted midnight. It was a gaze he willingly met, his own eyes so dull, so ordinary in comparison. A simple mahogany, flat, dark, and yet as impenetrable as the deepest depths of a muddled lake.
As she exhaled, so did he inhale, drinking in of her breath, her scent, her very presence. How fragile this moment, how evanescent, and yet also... how real, how painfully real, like shards of ice pricking at his very soul. Oricle. There was something about this child, something the grey wraith could not rightfully place, something he could not name. But it was something he could feel - and feel it he did.
Sparking against his dappled pelt. Vibrating within his very core.
Though the filly may have found his breath to be stale, rancid, perhaps an affront to her very being, Azael found a simple interest in hers, in the warmth of it, in the rhythm of it, in the way it spilled forth into that space between them, in the way it mingled with his own, in the way it curled against the dark velvet of his muzzle.
For a few moments more, the stallion lingered thus, fixed within that close proximity to the young female. So close. Too close. Close enough to touch and yet touch her he did not, for she was not his to touch.
Not yet.
Instead, the brute forged from light and shadow deigned to speak once more, his words a mere caress against the filly's ears, soft, fleeting, cryptic.
"Show me."
There did those twin syllables - so rife with meaning and yet so devoid of explanation - remain, fixed in that chill air which danced between them. A simple whisper on the wind. A command. A plea.
And all around, the snow continued to fall. Softly, softly, mere afterthoughts dusting that frigid night.
As she exhaled, so did he inhale, drinking in of her breath, her scent, her very presence. How fragile this moment, how evanescent, and yet also... how real, how painfully real, like shards of ice pricking at his very soul. Oricle. There was something about this child, something the grey wraith could not rightfully place, something he could not name. But it was something he could feel - and feel it he did.
Sparking against his dappled pelt. Vibrating within his very core.
Though the filly may have found his breath to be stale, rancid, perhaps an affront to her very being, Azael found a simple interest in hers, in the warmth of it, in the rhythm of it, in the way it spilled forth into that space between them, in the way it mingled with his own, in the way it curled against the dark velvet of his muzzle.
For a few moments more, the stallion lingered thus, fixed within that close proximity to the young female. So close. Too close. Close enough to touch and yet touch her he did not, for she was not his to touch.
Not yet.
Instead, the brute forged from light and shadow deigned to speak once more, his words a mere caress against the filly's ears, soft, fleeting, cryptic.
"Show me."
There did those twin syllables - so rife with meaning and yet so devoid of explanation - remain, fixed in that chill air which danced between them. A simple whisper on the wind. A command. A plea.
And all around, the snow continued to fall. Softly, softly, mere afterthoughts dusting that frigid night.
Azael