10-02-2017, 07:56 PM
No, he did not see the scars that riddled her skin, or the dark tales that swirl in the cloudiness of her silver eyes. What Castile saw was beauty, and it captured him during the span of time it took for Ciri to reach him. A glance to the left, away from her, was forced as to not deter her. He stares at the lake, but her looming footsteps were far more interesting. Her scent – sweetened by the flower buds of spring – clings desperately to the pink lining of his nostrils. It stirs everything inside him, but he doesn’t yet move, letting her finish the approach with a curious eagerness in her step.
It’s with his name that he turned to face her with a crooked, boyish grin on his face. He wants to say that it is a pleasure to meet her, to simply know her name, but the words catch his throat and recede far from his lips. Say something, he tells himself, but instead the two of them are locked in a brief silence that is broken only when someone else joins them.
Amet’s voice is familiar, but Castile can’t yet break his gaze with Ciri, not until the king’s muzzle presses to her neck. He blinks then, slowly, thoughtfully, but his expression doesn’t falter. Nothing betrays the lurch inside him at seeing the gentle possessiveness portrayed. Castile still grins even as his head finally turns to look at the gilded boy – young man? – and nods. ”I’ve been well, and yourself?” In reality, he has been lost in a void for an amount of time he knows not. Enough months have passed that Amet – and Castile – are no longer gangly colts. They are growing into themselves, maturing. A breath or two is long enough for him to overlook the king and remember the scales that covered his skin, like Ivar, like Castile when his emotions reach beyond his control. Scaled friends. How funny it is, however, that Amet is a dragon king with that singular trait while Castile is truly a dragon (though he hasn’t yet unlocked his control of the shapeshift).
The first time Castile realized what he was had coincidentally been the night that he now mentions to Ciri. Memories flash across the back of his eyelids when he blinks, remembering how horrific it had all been. The fire groped for him and yet he did not burn. He fled to Sylva for help and upon arrival, a greater part of him has shifted into a monster. Djinni’s eyes locked onto him curiously, but they returned to Hyaline swiftly and with minimal conversation. He realized only when he glanced down to see talons instead of hooves, scales instead of hair.
But they never saw him like that here. They see him as he is now – large, yes, but a horse nonetheless, with lightly-feathered limbs and the leathery wings of his alternate persona.
He is almost sheepish in the way he reacts to the recognition, his eyes cast down to the grass as he paws at it idly. They thank him and they praise him, but he still has the sinking feeling of failure weighing him down, drowning him. ”Was everyone okay? Has Tangerine healed?” He remembers her, albeit hardly, and how she had been injured during the ordeal. Amet fled to her, cradled her and adored her just as he almost does now with Ciri. ”Djinni and Nayl did the most. They were quick to arrive and try to mend the damage. I was just the messenger boy.” Another deviation from personal praise, slipping from their gratefulness like a snake in the grass despite quietly enjoying how it slips from Ciri’s tongue. She asks him then if he will stay. There had been a moment that he considered it, but he knows Hyaline to be a land of children. That’s what Amet promised once before. That’s what Castile remembers. And to replay the possessive touch between them is to sprinkle salt into a wound he didn’t realize he even had. Had he crossed a line by mistake? Had he engaged a woman he should not have? A breath is drawn into his lungs for the sake of his memories before rolling his shoulders almost in a shrug. ”I think I’m just visiting,” he doesn’t add that he’s homeless, that the field is his subsequent destination. He just lets the statement marinade with their own opinions and ideas, never bothering to elaborate.
It’s with his name that he turned to face her with a crooked, boyish grin on his face. He wants to say that it is a pleasure to meet her, to simply know her name, but the words catch his throat and recede far from his lips. Say something, he tells himself, but instead the two of them are locked in a brief silence that is broken only when someone else joins them.
Amet’s voice is familiar, but Castile can’t yet break his gaze with Ciri, not until the king’s muzzle presses to her neck. He blinks then, slowly, thoughtfully, but his expression doesn’t falter. Nothing betrays the lurch inside him at seeing the gentle possessiveness portrayed. Castile still grins even as his head finally turns to look at the gilded boy – young man? – and nods. ”I’ve been well, and yourself?” In reality, he has been lost in a void for an amount of time he knows not. Enough months have passed that Amet – and Castile – are no longer gangly colts. They are growing into themselves, maturing. A breath or two is long enough for him to overlook the king and remember the scales that covered his skin, like Ivar, like Castile when his emotions reach beyond his control. Scaled friends. How funny it is, however, that Amet is a dragon king with that singular trait while Castile is truly a dragon (though he hasn’t yet unlocked his control of the shapeshift).
The first time Castile realized what he was had coincidentally been the night that he now mentions to Ciri. Memories flash across the back of his eyelids when he blinks, remembering how horrific it had all been. The fire groped for him and yet he did not burn. He fled to Sylva for help and upon arrival, a greater part of him has shifted into a monster. Djinni’s eyes locked onto him curiously, but they returned to Hyaline swiftly and with minimal conversation. He realized only when he glanced down to see talons instead of hooves, scales instead of hair.
But they never saw him like that here. They see him as he is now – large, yes, but a horse nonetheless, with lightly-feathered limbs and the leathery wings of his alternate persona.
He is almost sheepish in the way he reacts to the recognition, his eyes cast down to the grass as he paws at it idly. They thank him and they praise him, but he still has the sinking feeling of failure weighing him down, drowning him. ”Was everyone okay? Has Tangerine healed?” He remembers her, albeit hardly, and how she had been injured during the ordeal. Amet fled to her, cradled her and adored her just as he almost does now with Ciri. ”Djinni and Nayl did the most. They were quick to arrive and try to mend the damage. I was just the messenger boy.” Another deviation from personal praise, slipping from their gratefulness like a snake in the grass despite quietly enjoying how it slips from Ciri’s tongue. She asks him then if he will stay. There had been a moment that he considered it, but he knows Hyaline to be a land of children. That’s what Amet promised once before. That’s what Castile remembers. And to replay the possessive touch between them is to sprinkle salt into a wound he didn’t realize he even had. Had he crossed a line by mistake? Had he engaged a woman he should not have? A breath is drawn into his lungs for the sake of his memories before rolling his shoulders almost in a shrug. ”I think I’m just visiting,” he doesn’t add that he’s homeless, that the field is his subsequent destination. He just lets the statement marinade with their own opinions and ideas, never bothering to elaborate.