from crib to coffin - open

[magnus]

although this world is made of fearsome beasts that bark and bite
we were born to put these creatures through one hell of a fight

In a lot of ways, coming to the field is a like a dance—one that Magnus has long ago memorized.

He knows the way you dip and the way you twirl. It’s a courtship, a greeting, and everything in between. He enjoys the grace of it, the ease of it, and the rhythms that are new with each passing day. He finds the conversation relaxing, and his handsome face shows just how at ease he is, his scarred lips spread wide, one corner lifting higher than the other as his gold-flecked eyes glint out from beneath his inky forelock.

“Belle it is then,” his whiskey-voice lingers on the syllable, letting it draw out on his tongue, enjoying the simplicity of it. There is something about her that feels of another world, a texture different than Beqanna’s own, and he wonders if she was one of those rare souls who was not born and raised here.

He cannot help but hunger for stories, for news, for the world beyond.

But he doesn’t ask, doesn’t push demands on her when he isn’t even sure why she’s here. Instead he just considers her with a tilt of his head, that roguish smile never leaving his lips, something like a secret in the undercurrent of his eyes. “What brings you to the field today?” Such a normal question—obvious, even—but he can’t help himself. He loves hearing what everyone has to say, and he’s in no rush.

magnus

@[Lunabelle]