06-20-2017, 09:24 AM
He takes another step towards her as her voice travels to him, though he decides that he should not try to get any closer. She is not unapproachable, but Warrick can easily recognize the distraught that so heavily taints the tension in her body, though is not seen in her face. She seems to have perfected the craft of stoicism, standing before him with little emotion and a passive, yet aloof, gaze. The bay stallion watches her with kind eyes, the sultry air shifting its path and tossing the inky mass of his forelock to the other side of his face.
“You speak the truth,” he says in agreement, the rust-color of his eyelids coming down slowly over the cerulean of his irises as he blinks. “It changes everyone, too. Unforgivable, this world.” His last statement was perhaps not meant to be said aloud, but he could not help as it spills slowly from the cobalt of his lips. His eyes have left her now, roaming the dense tropical foliage that surrounds them thoughtlessly.
He snorts softly before speaking again. “Thorrun. I am Warrick.”
Silence fills the space between them, growing and yawning yet not uncomfortable. She is searching for something, a feeling that he knows all too well, and wonders if her search is as futile as his own is. Is she utterly alone, like he had been (is he still?) during his first few days in Tephra? Is she grasping for something completely out of reach, a past that no longer exists? His cobalt lips pull downwards in a slight frown.
Everyone has his or her own thief of joy. He wonders what (or who) has stolen hers.
“How can I help you?” Such a trivial question, so polite and so boring. He knows the answer – of course he couldn’t, not in the way she wants or needs, but these are the things you are required to ask. Pleasantries, right?
“You speak the truth,” he says in agreement, the rust-color of his eyelids coming down slowly over the cerulean of his irises as he blinks. “It changes everyone, too. Unforgivable, this world.” His last statement was perhaps not meant to be said aloud, but he could not help as it spills slowly from the cobalt of his lips. His eyes have left her now, roaming the dense tropical foliage that surrounds them thoughtlessly.
He snorts softly before speaking again. “Thorrun. I am Warrick.”
Silence fills the space between them, growing and yawning yet not uncomfortable. She is searching for something, a feeling that he knows all too well, and wonders if her search is as futile as his own is. Is she utterly alone, like he had been (is he still?) during his first few days in Tephra? Is she grasping for something completely out of reach, a past that no longer exists? His cobalt lips pull downwards in a slight frown.
Everyone has his or her own thief of joy. He wonders what (or who) has stolen hers.
“How can I help you?” Such a trivial question, so polite and so boring. He knows the answer – of course he couldn’t, not in the way she wants or needs, but these are the things you are required to ask. Pleasantries, right?
like the sun,
swallowed up by the earth
warrick