04-18-2017, 11:35 AM
i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
The evening is thick and obscure; the vast canvas overhead painted with the stain of dusk – a dark drape of bright, tightly knit stars that faintly illuminate all that lay beneath them. The moon is absent, tucked away within the shadow of its own enormity, and its pale, bleak light does not reach the deepest ridges and crevices of the land. There is a warm, yet insidious glow, exuding from the thin tendrils of magma smoothing over rough, molten rock – and that is where she remains; her golden skin bathed in the heat and the bright, fiery amber and crimson radiance of it dances along the taut, tense ridge of her jawline.
She is too often lost to the quiet serenity of night – the thoughts and memories, so easily buried beneath a façade of stoicism, of indifference, unveiled to the darkness. Her hazel eyes, usually cold and unfeeling, rest easy – the faint golden flecks hidden within her irises dancing along with the soft burning flames that ebb away at the dry grain along the magma’s reckless pathway. Her breathing is shallow as her mind delves into the memory of his skin against hers, of the rough baritone of his voice and the warmth of his eyes.
Her heart aches for him, for Magnus, but she would not seek him – she would not force his hand. It was a constant push and pull, one that left her both wanting and content, and so quietly she would wait – she would wait, until he sought to be found, until he longed for her company once more. It was a bittersweet torment; a test of her thin, hasty patience, but she would wait.
A flicker of movement finally stirs her away from her own nostalgia, and her gaze narrows – a figure, cloaked in darkness, with piercing eyes bluer than the sea itself – and soon, she is resting easy again. Dahmer. Bristling the pristine, finely preened feathers of her wings along her flank, she rouses from her stagnant posture and presses her long, fluid legs to carry her to him, catching his gaze along the way.
The lava bathes them each in its tepid heat and warm glow, and she forces a smile – one that barely reaches her eyes, but alas, as he continues to speak, it finally eases its way into the depths of her hazel gaze.
”Dahmer,” she says, tasting his name across her tongue. A name she had not spoken before, but one she had long since committed to memory. She knew of him, of his prowess, his humor, his wit – but she had stayed along the outskirts of his memory, observing quietly, admiring her fellow council from afar. ”ah, I couldn’t sleep.” The smile falters then. Loneliness, she doesn’t say. She doesn’t admit. ”And what of you? Why are you out so late?”
Her eyes watch as a broad grin tugs at the corners of his whiskered mouth, and she cannot stifle her own then, though it resembles more of a haughty smirk if nothing else.
”I don’t like him,” she utters, matter-of-fact as her stare lingers off to the bubbling magma nearby. ”Pollock, that is. I don’t trust him. I intend to keep an eye on him,” and then she is looking at him again, boring into him with her watchful gaze. ”He will be trouble.”
She is too often lost to the quiet serenity of night – the thoughts and memories, so easily buried beneath a façade of stoicism, of indifference, unveiled to the darkness. Her hazel eyes, usually cold and unfeeling, rest easy – the faint golden flecks hidden within her irises dancing along with the soft burning flames that ebb away at the dry grain along the magma’s reckless pathway. Her breathing is shallow as her mind delves into the memory of his skin against hers, of the rough baritone of his voice and the warmth of his eyes.
Her heart aches for him, for Magnus, but she would not seek him – she would not force his hand. It was a constant push and pull, one that left her both wanting and content, and so quietly she would wait – she would wait, until he sought to be found, until he longed for her company once more. It was a bittersweet torment; a test of her thin, hasty patience, but she would wait.
A flicker of movement finally stirs her away from her own nostalgia, and her gaze narrows – a figure, cloaked in darkness, with piercing eyes bluer than the sea itself – and soon, she is resting easy again. Dahmer. Bristling the pristine, finely preened feathers of her wings along her flank, she rouses from her stagnant posture and presses her long, fluid legs to carry her to him, catching his gaze along the way.
The lava bathes them each in its tepid heat and warm glow, and she forces a smile – one that barely reaches her eyes, but alas, as he continues to speak, it finally eases its way into the depths of her hazel gaze.
”Dahmer,” she says, tasting his name across her tongue. A name she had not spoken before, but one she had long since committed to memory. She knew of him, of his prowess, his humor, his wit – but she had stayed along the outskirts of his memory, observing quietly, admiring her fellow council from afar. ”ah, I couldn’t sleep.” The smile falters then. Loneliness, she doesn’t say. She doesn’t admit. ”And what of you? Why are you out so late?”
Her eyes watch as a broad grin tugs at the corners of his whiskered mouth, and she cannot stifle her own then, though it resembles more of a haughty smirk if nothing else.
”I don’t like him,” she utters, matter-of-fact as her stare lingers off to the bubbling magma nearby. ”Pollock, that is. I don’t trust him. I intend to keep an eye on him,” and then she is looking at him again, boring into him with her watchful gaze. ”He will be trouble.”
Ellyse