 Though she observes him with a suitable amount of caution and from an appropriate distance away, she makes no effort to disguise her reaction. She wears her satisfaction on her angular face, though she’d have preferred him wearing a leopard’s claws to its spots. He remains quiet and still, much the way she’d have responded had Rhaegor done the same.
That he doesn’t flinch away is appealing as well, though in a different way. Celina enjoy frequent reminders that she is dangerous, though as she has grown older and more aware of relationships beyond those of a child, she’s found she likes other reminders too. The scaled woman is aware that she is not beautiful, but that has not precluded her exploration. Perhaps this is an unexpected chance at an entertaining morning in an otherwise chaotic world. Celina has always followed her father’s advice to live in the moment, and as she takes another step nearer that is exemplified.
The answer is gives is not one she understands. The garbled noises that emerge from his mouth are not things she can make sense of. But she does recognize them; she is sure of it. They are the noises Ghaul made, that windy afternoon in Nerine. Intrigued, Celina moves forward again.
“You don’t look much like a dragon.” She tells him, seemingly unbothered by the lack of an answer to her question about his identity. He is neither scaled nor horned, and his blue patterned sides are wingless and smooth. Soft too, Celina finds as she runs her chin along his shoulder. She pauses near the charred wound, her breath clouding it with little puffs of steam not unlike the dragons she’d spoken of earlier.
She would like to know where it came from, but she does not expect an answer. Instead, she draws back and frowns, her own inventory of the man in front of her running through her mind. It’s far simpler than the one Rhaegor does, and ends with her deciding he is not a threat. Celina is not sure what else he is, but it is difficult to do so beyond getting him to answer questions. Does he even understand her words at all, Celina wonders? Or does he not speak because he is a primitive creature, like the trout whose scales still line her teeth? Could she eat him, she wonders, like she eats the trout? But what else is she to do with him? They are alone by the river, and doing nothing seems like looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Live in the moment, she remembers.
Celina looks him over a second time, and finds that while he is an appealing enough creature, he lacks that particular something that draws her to a lover. Celina likes her men quivering and her women demanding, and the buckskin in front of her is neither of those. So she can’t fuck him and she (probably) shouldn’t kill him, which leaves few other options.
“Do you know what I’m saying?” The dark haired mare asks, leaning back as the fireflies that ringed her neck drift now instead to where her teeth protrude over her lips. The effect is rather Cheshire-like, even in the soft shadows of the trees overhead, but Celina is not thinking of that.
@[Rhaegor]
celina
i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type
make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type
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