— I'll break you a hundred different ways —
If he notices the way that she is watching him, he doesn’t let on. During the day, he does not seem to mind the feel of eyes upon him. He is plain enough to blend in, even with the striking dapples and the sterling wings that often lay so tensely at his sides when not in use. Their stares were easy to ignore when it was just the sun glinting off the almost black of his mane, and the sharp angles of his face – handsome, but nothing terribly unique. Not among the rainbow of colors that saturated the lands now.
It was once night fell that he grew aware of every glance that was cast his way, even though he only offered glimpses of himself when in such a state. It was rare for him to be caught anywhere that risked being seen in his skeletal form, and the only thing that kept his annoyance from boiling to a point of rage should someone be so unfortunate to cross his path was the reassurance that they would never see him again. It was fleeting seconds that he had to endure their stares, mere moments that he had to irritate himself with the questions that he is sure are poised on their tongues, waiting to be uttered. He had learned, then, that it was easier to be in absolute isolation before the sun had a chance to fully descend from the sky.
His recent run-in with Sochi was the only time he has ever spoken to anyone during the night, and while he wouldn’t say it had sparked any sort of desire to begin to change his ways, it did create a question in his mind when he looked at the red and ivory girl. There is nothing to be romanticised about him when his flesh began to rot and fall away, but when he watches the way the blood begins to pool and spread as her skin is pulled against the armor as she walks (just a few steps closer, and he watches her in cool silence), he cannot help but to be curious of what her reaction would be.
It wouldn’t be tonight, but perhaps another time. He already knows this will not be the last time he sees her.
She is closer now, slipping away from the waves, but he is still rigid on the coastline. The deep brown of his eyes, half-veiled by the storm gray forelock that billows in the seabreeze, are focused on the muted teal of her own eyes. She doesn’t seem frightened, and he still isn’t sure if she should be; still isn’t sure what it means for him to want someone (isn’t even sure in what way he wants her, yet). He can smell the tang of her blood, mixed with seawater, and even he is surprised at how intoxicating such a scent is. Her words trip something similar to a smile, though it is brief and almost empty, and whatever amusement he finds in her statement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So you are,” comes the low pitch of his voice, and he steps closer. He moves for a moment almost as though to touch her as she glances away, close enough for his breath to perhaps fan across the expanse of her bone and skin, though he stops himself inches from contact. “Wonder,” he repeats her name, as it nearly rumbles from his tongue and his eyes refuse to leave hers, “My name is Nightlock.” His introduction is punctuated by an upward quirk of his lips that is a more discernible smile than before, and though no malice is evident, the action still does nothing to change his closed off, impersonal appearance. “Why do you seclude yourself?” He is sure he knows, but he wants to hear her say it.
— and I'll make you remember my face —
