hold high in the lowlands; woolf

[woolf]

bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

His eyes spark with interest when her tail flicks and the winter responds in kind. He doesn’t bother to hide his curiosity, his heavy-angled head tilting to the side so that his sharp, emerald eyes can focus on the snow as it rises around him, encircling his barrel and then falling to the ground. His head remains where it is but his gaze flicks upward to catch her own, the edges of his lip barely beginning to lift in the corners.

“What a neat party trick.”

He wonders what it would be like to be made of such an element, to be so closely tied to the earth in such an undeniable way—or, rather, tied to the ocean. “So the sea,” he muses, wondering at everything that goes unsaid in the moment, everything that lives in the shadows of their eyes and hollows of their faces. “I would love to hear more about that.” Of course, he could always pull the truth of it from her mind himself, would probably be able to pull the pieces of it without here even knowing that they had gone missing, but it was better to hear it from herself—better to hear the words fall from her own lips.

When she asks about his own roots, he tilts his head back and the snow begins to swirl slightly around his legs. “Oh, I wasn’t spit from the land, that’s for sure.” The snow begins to morph slightly, turning starry and dusty, constellations that stick to his cannon bones and then float around him. The stars burn and flicker and his emerald eyes begin to melt into blues and purples, small galaxies that spin on its axis.

“It was an ocean, of sorts.”

woolf

I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste