01-09-2018, 11:41 PM
She jests with him (rolling eyes and laughing lips and craning neck) and he is not offended. He hadn’t realized, truth be told, that the words he had spoken were the words of a compliment until she pointed them out. His shoulders roll into an uncaring shrug (bruised eyes twinkling with similar amusement at the situation).
They move deeper into the territory and the trickster takes it in with one ear craning in her direction. Although his eyes follow the lay of the land, he occasionally finds his gaze trailing back to the sloping curves of her body (the swell of her back, the crest of her neck, the curve of her ass). He listens to her introduction with mild interest. Although the beach-fronts and scattered islands are beautiful, they are not what he finds comforting (they are not the foggy dips of the Valley, they are not tightly-packed forests, they are not creeping shadows and thick undergrowth).
She speaks of Silver Cove and his ears prick. The herdland had been under the reign of the Valley (perhaps the only place he would consider a home) before Beqanna had ripped apart the world beneath their feet and sewn it back together hazardously. “You grew up under the eye of the Valley?” There’s a lilt of unnatural curiosity to his voice (a sort of interest that hadn’t otherwise been heard from him in decades).
She calls him an old fart and his thoughts drastically shift. He had ripped out and eaten the heart of an immortal to absorb her beauty and agelessness into her own. It had stopped the deceleration of his body from the whims of time, but did not age him back years either. He’s dashingly handsome still (angular cheeks and bruised eyes and scarred pelt) but he is not without the signs of years (graying around his muzzle and eyes and thinness to his body and joints that ache come winter).
“Watch your mouth,” he croons (there’s no sign of amusement but also no indication that he would attack). She would do well to learn who he is and what he’s capable of, if she weren’t so caught up in the illusion of their supposed friendship. “You might be a queen, but you hold no power over me.”
They move deeper into the territory and the trickster takes it in with one ear craning in her direction. Although his eyes follow the lay of the land, he occasionally finds his gaze trailing back to the sloping curves of her body (the swell of her back, the crest of her neck, the curve of her ass). He listens to her introduction with mild interest. Although the beach-fronts and scattered islands are beautiful, they are not what he finds comforting (they are not the foggy dips of the Valley, they are not tightly-packed forests, they are not creeping shadows and thick undergrowth).
She speaks of Silver Cove and his ears prick. The herdland had been under the reign of the Valley (perhaps the only place he would consider a home) before Beqanna had ripped apart the world beneath their feet and sewn it back together hazardously. “You grew up under the eye of the Valley?” There’s a lilt of unnatural curiosity to his voice (a sort of interest that hadn’t otherwise been heard from him in decades).
She calls him an old fart and his thoughts drastically shift. He had ripped out and eaten the heart of an immortal to absorb her beauty and agelessness into her own. It had stopped the deceleration of his body from the whims of time, but did not age him back years either. He’s dashingly handsome still (angular cheeks and bruised eyes and scarred pelt) but he is not without the signs of years (graying around his muzzle and eyes and thinness to his body and joints that ache come winter).
“Watch your mouth,” he croons (there’s no sign of amusement but also no indication that he would attack). She would do well to learn who he is and what he’s capable of, if she weren’t so caught up in the illusion of their supposed friendship. “You might be a queen, but you hold no power over me.”
LOKII
