|| LIKE A MOTH DRAWN TO MY FLAME

[Maribel]

Who cares if hell awaits? We're having drinks at heaven's gate. Quite truthfully, the young mare does not know what to make of the stallion. He is as though he is made of fire forged obsidian. Black and hardened...but brittle as well. He does not seem to truly see Mari before him or remark on her slight awkward humor. He reminds her of the sleepy giants in stories that were told to her as a foal but her mother, Isle. Large creatures with a vast amount of cravings whether it be food, sleep, or drink. Blue eyes peer upward at the slivers that seem dulled to her existence but then the jaw creaks open and few words are produced. The mare moves in a practiced pivot (having already made things weird) to better hear the hulking stallion. Lobes are flickering between the low rumble of words and the sounds of the night that wrapped around their dark bodies. Mari cranes to hear his words, the sour of the atmosphere was choking but the lass did not pull back. In truth, the stallion frightened her. Dark and looking far over her with pale pewter pools that seemingly wrapped their slender little fingers around her and held her tight by the mane. "Perhaps not." It is all she can murmur while in the grip of those eyes. Her own jaw slacking slightly despite the dank scent of mold and decay enveloping them. "Oh, uh..." Mari gives her head a shake, the dark tresses whipping against her brow before she is able to regain her focus, her purpose of being there. "What's your name?" Perhaps her voice is to light, too feminine for him. Perhaps her eyes are too blue. The dark skinned mare remains cloaked in the black satin of the night as she still remains by the man with the silver eyes and the scent of death. Maribel has begun to question if she, herself, was standing in the presence of death as she suddenly quivered against a chill in the spring breeze. The unnamed man makes her feel small, vulnerable. She faintly notices her skin prickling for some unbeknownst reason. M A R I B E  L