paint it black; any

[Nayl]

She spun the stars on her fingernails He says her name, his voice gruff, and she doesn’t resist the temptress smile stretching the corners of her lips. It isn’t often that she finds herself in the company of a male; she has always considered them a distraction to her wants and needs. They served no purpose to her because as an Amazon she didn’t need to bring them to the Jungle. Mother failed in the sisterhood because she was smitten so easily by stallions. Nayl, ever much like her grandmother, told herself that she wouldn’t fail as Myrina had. She wonders now if she is falling short of her promise, or is her lust for conversation so great as to bring her across the self-imposed barrier she forged years ago? ”Lior,” she tastes his name with intrigue, her autumn eyes aflame. She doesn’t yet search for questions to submerge them in idle talk. The brief pause is comforting as the snow falls around them, but his gravelly voice reaches her through the thick blanket of white. Somehow hearing him speak brings heat to her skin and warms her even as the frigid wind kisses her. ”Not from around this new Beqanna,” this is new to them all – the sights, the smells, the lands – but she understands the motive behind his question and idly adds, ”I was from the Jungle.” That explains why her coat is still fairly thin and not entirely adapting to freezing temperatures; it’s why she carries herself as a soldier would and with an air of fiery confidence. ”But now I’m living on the coast,” she doesn’t call it home because it doesn’t yet control a piece of her heart. It’s just a geographic location where she periodically sleeps and nothing more. A bitterness seeps across her tongue when she mentions the coast. She doesn’t say its name or even mention it with a radiant smile. Her expression is coy and somewhat disinterested in her personal whereabouts. ”And you, burly Lior? Where are you from?” A brow lifts as she draws in his scent, ever curious to know more about him. Nayl covet and myrina's creation