when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Oh, she’s a devilishly interesting character, Epithet. That keen hitch to her voice, hovering on a high note as the word you escapes her black-rimmed lips mid-phrase when she prys into his whereabouts, rouses an especially sedate, yet amused, smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He taunts, equally willing to match her wit with his own. It seems, ironically, that she brings it out in him. That reason alone sparks enough interest to keep the languid male rooted to his spot while he watches her own gaze follow the dips and curves of his form. “I made it to Pangea,” The shifter begins slowly, not as eager yet to pull back the blinds on the time in between their meetings. He huffs, rolls lazily onto his back so that his ribs might stretch, and wriggles ungracefully to scratch those hard-to-reach places. Satisfied, the big lion flops upright once again and pulls himself up with a start.
“A lot of good that did for me.” He rumbles, speaking of the recent area’s descent into the sea. A tragic end to such a promising land but useless to worry over now. What was done, was done. His head, hooded by a sleek, thick mane, turns about so that he might pin her with an unnaturally green stare. “What about you, hmm? What trouble have you been stirring up?” He asks, padding forward slowly to bump the crown of his forehead against her own. They make a rather foreign sort of scene, out here where horses normally roam, and it can’t be helped. They are creatures that know no boundaries, no sort of fear - and that leaves them reckless and bold.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
