10-10-2018, 11:06 AM
Castile associates himself as a soldier. When he looks across his back, he sees a webbing of scars and his left ear will forever remain slightly ripped at the tip from his very first battle. But to others, he assumes it may be a questionable prospect; he looks so young to have attained so many old wounds.
There will be more, he has told himself. It would be a waste for his strength to be set aside for solely diplomacy. He, additionally, inherited mother’s brash approach to life. Since the Alliance, Castile has taken a hiatus from the battle grounds, but he itches for the adrenaline rush. The lust for it blooms in his core but he suppresses it with scattered distractions, biding his time until an opportune moment.
But it still brims, waiting, wanting.
Leilan scrutinizes him, but it’s matched easily enough before Castile blinks thoughtfully, restraining the grin that wants to spread across his lips from the familiar question – Breckin had been just as interested, even Scorch. ”This was my home when it was a matriarchal society,” he doesn’t include his moot role as a prince or the role mother played – it’s irrelevant now. ”and I just can’t seem to stay away for very long.” The rocky coast always seems to call to him with a siren’s voice, singing his name on the cool breeze no matter where he roamed. ”So, Breckin assured I’m more than welcome to stay and help protect Nerine.” It had been his personal idea to return, having landed from a brief flight at Nerine’s borders where he met the spotted Queen. It didn’t take much persuasion to grant him stay.
Perhaps she was smart not to deny him.
With an idle shift of his wings, Castile takes note of Leilan’s jagged grin and flashing eyes. He could mirror it, match him step-for-step, but he refrains. Let them all remain ignorant of what he is – what he can be. With an odd coolness to his posture and voice, Castile turns the question around, pointing at the male with curious, mismatched eyes. ”And you? What lured you to Nerine?” Family? A woman? A myriad of scents coats Leilan like a layer of oil, thick as they clutch desperately to his skin. Castile notes it while searching for any familiarity; he is, admittedly, unbothered when there’s nothing. ”Or maybe a mixture of both,” he drawls with a crooked grin.
There will be more, he has told himself. It would be a waste for his strength to be set aside for solely diplomacy. He, additionally, inherited mother’s brash approach to life. Since the Alliance, Castile has taken a hiatus from the battle grounds, but he itches for the adrenaline rush. The lust for it blooms in his core but he suppresses it with scattered distractions, biding his time until an opportune moment.
But it still brims, waiting, wanting.
Leilan scrutinizes him, but it’s matched easily enough before Castile blinks thoughtfully, restraining the grin that wants to spread across his lips from the familiar question – Breckin had been just as interested, even Scorch. ”This was my home when it was a matriarchal society,” he doesn’t include his moot role as a prince or the role mother played – it’s irrelevant now. ”and I just can’t seem to stay away for very long.” The rocky coast always seems to call to him with a siren’s voice, singing his name on the cool breeze no matter where he roamed. ”So, Breckin assured I’m more than welcome to stay and help protect Nerine.” It had been his personal idea to return, having landed from a brief flight at Nerine’s borders where he met the spotted Queen. It didn’t take much persuasion to grant him stay.
Perhaps she was smart not to deny him.
With an idle shift of his wings, Castile takes note of Leilan’s jagged grin and flashing eyes. He could mirror it, match him step-for-step, but he refrains. Let them all remain ignorant of what he is – what he can be. With an odd coolness to his posture and voice, Castile turns the question around, pointing at the male with curious, mismatched eyes. ”And you? What lured you to Nerine?” Family? A woman? A myriad of scents coats Leilan like a layer of oil, thick as they clutch desperately to his skin. Castile notes it while searching for any familiarity; he is, admittedly, unbothered when there’s nothing. ”Or maybe a mixture of both,” he drawls with a crooked grin.
@[Leilan]