She smiles at him as he approaches and closes the distance between them. Her body heat fans across him and he is able to decipher so much from that tide of scent as it floods into his nostrils with a single breath. The deciduous trees have already laid their claim on her, but there are remnants of the meadow clinging to her skin. There are males and females alike that she has been near, seeking comfort in her herd and friends. Victarian inches nearer, drawn to her, and glides his muzzle down the length of her neck. Autumn is thickening her coat, but her skin is still not entirely buried beneath her seasonal coat. They touch and although it’s brief it sends his mind reeling as he takes a step backward.
His scarlet eyes meet hers but quickly flicker to the birch trees scattered throughout the forest. ”Sylva,” he murmurs curiously with a thoughtful expression. He then glances toward the mountain ridge just nearby, shadowing parts of the land. It’s where the magic lies, he has heard, but never intends to investigate. He has no interest in the alterations of his body, of having an ounce of magic in his blood. That’s when his attention funnels back to Ygritte just as her name amiably coats her lips. ”Victarian,” he says when prompted. It’s strange to say his name; his has spent a majority of his life in solitude, content by keeping to himself. His voice is raw, neglected for months. His eyes, however, are alight with curiosity even as they are veiled behind an obsidian forelock. ”How affected were you by Beqanna’s renewal?” Had she had a perfect life that came tumbling down as quickly as the mountain peaks?
Victarian is one of the few that it barely touched. His life continued, aimless and lawless. He had no ties to anyone or anything. It spared him from the sense of loss and defeat. It spared him of being lost in his own home.
Victarian
just because we check the guns at the door
doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades