Simple lies, strange eyes; Epithet

[Wyrm]

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

His paramour rises, a creature unbound by laws of Nature and time, and Wyrm turns a sordid smile to greet her. The gentle prick of her lips over the high point of his hip sends arcs of electricity dancing beneath his skin. “I never go far.” He says, enjoying the moment of solitude while she trapezes along his topline.

Settled comfortably into the curve of his shoulder, Epithet paints a lovely picture. Wyrm rather likes the way they meld perfectly, it’s so easy for them to simply adjust in order to find the right mesh of skin. He does so now; filling out the girth of his chest bit by bit, smoothing his ribcage flat, tucking the bit of muscle behind his elbow further in so that his pale counterpart might truly fall into him.

“Been keeping busy?” He asks with nonchalance, bright green tendrils of his tail swiping along her hindlegs with the subtle flick of his bone. He tilts a curious eye in her direction, angles his head so that he might catch every word, and then he says, “I was unsuccessful in my search for Heartfire. She was nowhere to be found in Nerine.”

He grimaces; altogether finding the ordeal painfully slow and quiet. It was unlike Heartfire to be so … absent, especially when her gaze travelled mind-to-mind. “I have this feeling - and instinct is turning it sour.”

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

@[Epithet] @[Gunsynd]