01-01-2018, 08:16 PM
Amidst the mists and coldest frosts
he thrusts his fists against the posts
and still insists he sees the ghosts
he thrusts his fists against the posts
and still insists he sees the ghosts
The had always bothered her. Nikoline can not recall a day that it did not. Every winter, despite the length of hair that grew on her body, she would tremble as icy caresses tangled and knotted her pale mane. Except now, the cold does not seem to penetrate this skin and the grass at her hooves, er- stems was a lush and vibrant green. Dark eyes move to look at the ground as the rustle of decayed brown leaves blew into her aura and suddenly returned to a healthy green again before blow off from the tangle of her soundless feet.
The dryad lifts her gaze, dark and shining, as she meets his eyes. They are glassy and wide and she can see the way they are dimmed by the horror they have witnessed. The pale woman studies him as though he were the alien creature with the ever approaching step drawing her slowly towards him but able to leap off he should prove to be malicious.
...but he is not and the rawness of his soul lay flayed on a slab. She would be able to deem him unholy and measured him in sins but he is a broken thing, pieces together with harsh black cord and empty promises. She knows he is marked just as she. He is impure in this cathedral of the holy righteous Beqanna. They have been touched. A tear, sweeter than honeysuckle, breaches her doe-like eye and falls to dampen her cheek a soft rabbit fur grey.
She wants him to approach, willing it silently but frightened nonetheless. They had taught about their tricks. Their gnashing teeth and wagging tongues. Their stink of excrement and decay soaking to her bones when she had awoke in the forest. She was ashamed of her folly. Broken puppet of a woman with her strings plucked until they snap and she lay in the dust to be forgotten.
His response was gentle but the sheer ferocity is enough to make the world quake. She had never felt anything as great as another willing to help her, sacrifice their own blood for a thing like her. The dryad woman, shrouded in her pale glow beneath a starless night, goes to him as she can feel his soul splintering. Niko is edged close enough that she steps to close the gap between their physical forms and wraps the length of her smooth neck around his in an embrace.
She does not know this man. She does not know is name but sounds of the voices, the tree's wisdom, whisper that he is a good man and beckon her to him. Niko grips him rightly to warmth of her slender form against his own as cherry blossom petals fall around them like pale pink snowfall.
The dryad lifts her gaze, dark and shining, as she meets his eyes. They are glassy and wide and she can see the way they are dimmed by the horror they have witnessed. The pale woman studies him as though he were the alien creature with the ever approaching step drawing her slowly towards him but able to leap off he should prove to be malicious.
...but he is not and the rawness of his soul lay flayed on a slab. She would be able to deem him unholy and measured him in sins but he is a broken thing, pieces together with harsh black cord and empty promises. She knows he is marked just as she. He is impure in this cathedral of the holy righteous Beqanna. They have been touched. A tear, sweeter than honeysuckle, breaches her doe-like eye and falls to dampen her cheek a soft rabbit fur grey.
She wants him to approach, willing it silently but frightened nonetheless. They had taught about their tricks. Their gnashing teeth and wagging tongues. Their stink of excrement and decay soaking to her bones when she had awoke in the forest. She was ashamed of her folly. Broken puppet of a woman with her strings plucked until they snap and she lay in the dust to be forgotten.
His response was gentle but the sheer ferocity is enough to make the world quake. She had never felt anything as great as another willing to help her, sacrifice their own blood for a thing like her. The dryad woman, shrouded in her pale glow beneath a starless night, goes to him as she can feel his soul splintering. Niko is edged close enough that she steps to close the gap between their physical forms and wraps the length of her smooth neck around his in an embrace.
She does not know this man. She does not know is name but sounds of the voices, the tree's wisdom, whisper that he is a good man and beckon her to him. Niko grips him rightly to warmth of her slender form against his own as cherry blossom petals fall around them like pale pink snowfall.
nikoline
barret x syntyche