06-27-2017, 10:21 AM
Ellyse
I know some things that you don't; I've done things that you won't
there's nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home
there's nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home
The sun is warm, and soothing – the humidity is kept at bay by the gentle stirring of the breeze, caressing the length of her wing and weaving its way through the pristine, finely preened feathers. She had already taken to the sky, as the tepid haze caressed the length of her body, lifting her higher and higher – but now she grounded and encased in a thin layer of perspiration, glimmering beneath the pale light of the sun. Her eyes are settled upon the roaring, tempestuous sea, her mind somewhere far off in the distance – but she is soon jarred from her own thoughts, with her cheek turned towards the shadow of the looming volcano.
Warrick.
She does not waste time tucking the wind beneath her wings; he is too close and her legs carry her quickly – churning powerfully beneath the feminine façade of her slender figure. The air is stifling as the morning sun fades into midday, and she is moving against it – an unwavering force against an unruly tide, but she can see the outline of him lingering in the distance (a vivid auburn against the gleaming gold of the wild grass), and to him she goes.
Her pace eventually tapers off into a saunter, and then she is before him, her lungs heavy and her throat dry, but there is a shadow of concern within her watchful eyes. Her heart is pounding, thrusting against the confinement of her chest, but she ignores the gentle rolling of butterflies as her gaze catches his – urging the unusual sensation down, swallowing it. There was a darkness hidden within the tension of his cheek, where his teeth clench tightly, anxiously – something was amiss.
”Warrick, what is it?” she breathes, reaching to touch his cheek – a gentle, and fleeting touch; her heart warm and grateful for their mended bond.
Warrick.
She does not waste time tucking the wind beneath her wings; he is too close and her legs carry her quickly – churning powerfully beneath the feminine façade of her slender figure. The air is stifling as the morning sun fades into midday, and she is moving against it – an unwavering force against an unruly tide, but she can see the outline of him lingering in the distance (a vivid auburn against the gleaming gold of the wild grass), and to him she goes.
Her pace eventually tapers off into a saunter, and then she is before him, her lungs heavy and her throat dry, but there is a shadow of concern within her watchful eyes. Her heart is pounding, thrusting against the confinement of her chest, but she ignores the gentle rolling of butterflies as her gaze catches his – urging the unusual sensation down, swallowing it. There was a darkness hidden within the tension of his cheek, where his teeth clench tightly, anxiously – something was amiss.
”Warrick, what is it?” she breathes, reaching to touch his cheek – a gentle, and fleeting touch; her heart warm and grateful for their mended bond.
head of war of tephra
daughter of elysium & speck
daughter of elysium & speck