rhonen
molten eyes and a smile made for war
The sound of movement draws his frown away from the giant rock (he still wants to know if it’s natural, or perhaps dragged from the ground by the hand of magic?) and he puts dark eyes on someone who is not a stranger. Not yet anything else, but no longer a stranger. Rhonen turns from his geology contemplation to face her, waiting for her to notice him. Only once she has looked at him, recognition in her face, does Rhonen speak.
“Karaugh,” he lets the word fall from his lips in an easy manner, not as rigid as he had been in the Field. This is different – something about the dappled, warm light filtering down from between the trees puts him at ease. A smirk follows the name, still all sharp edges and fierce. He remembers the way she had pressed against him, and he remembers the feeling of the sharp nip he had delivered. It had been new the violence, but strangely satisfying.
(A part of him hates himself for it, but the anger in his chest revels in it and he pushes that part away).
“Well, I’m here.” he continues after a pause, glancing idly around. “Care to show me around this great land of yours?”
