Oaks
01-20-2024, 06:42 PM
OAKS
you look well suited
like you came to win
In Oaks there is no pride or assurance; his life so far has not been a joyful one. His birth had been difficult on his mother, already sickly before he’d arrived and worsening when he was around. She had tried and desperately wanted to love him, coddle him as she had been in her youth, but his unseen powers made that dream impossible.
In a time where illness was rampant and it seemed that nearly everything was failing and fading and falling to darkness, Oaks grew up alone. While his eyes are bright, a gentle reddish gold to accent the crimson undertones of his predecessors now reborn in his rich coat, they are recognizably haunted. A sadness lies within them – not an inward sorrow that a melancholy soul might harbor, but a sort of disappointment. He seems to look upon the world with guilt and regret, all too aware of everything’s eventual end.
Perhaps that’s why he has lately been drawn toward others who, despite the bleakness of it all, seem to thrive. In this case alone, it's a wonder to him how Citadelle’s very presence has not summoned all comers from whatever depths they must linger.
He does not see her as ragged or worn – not even the chip from her horn is imperfect. He has seen creatures at their most woeful state, with the light and life fading from them at varying speeds. He finds her captivating for different reasons, perhaps, but enchanting all the same.
When she turns to him, her green eyes vibrant amid the rosy hue of her face, his heart stirs a little. He dares not imagine those eyes growing dim, that lovely coat fading to gray; she is vibrant and he is glad. Her voice, to him, seems gentle – he cannot sense the hidden blade in it – and he finds that he wants to hear more.
“Then,” he begins as she reaches for him, tucking his chin almost apprehensively (it’s not often others willingly grow close to him) but not reluctantly, “I will try to meet your standards.” Anxious to remain in her company, he tries to shirk the awkward feeling that his words might sound like cliche flirtations, the sort of sweet promises a would-be lover would whisper to their quarry. While he is quite enraptured by her, even at so sudden an encounter, there is not yet a sense of infatuation.
“Unfortunately, most others prefer to avoid my company,” he continues, a nervy sort of tone tinging his words. His wispy wings shuffle again, tucking a little closer against his shoulders and over his back as if for self-assurance. “I would hate for you to waste your time on me, so I must wonder: what does keep your attention?”
In a time where illness was rampant and it seemed that nearly everything was failing and fading and falling to darkness, Oaks grew up alone. While his eyes are bright, a gentle reddish gold to accent the crimson undertones of his predecessors now reborn in his rich coat, they are recognizably haunted. A sadness lies within them – not an inward sorrow that a melancholy soul might harbor, but a sort of disappointment. He seems to look upon the world with guilt and regret, all too aware of everything’s eventual end.
Perhaps that’s why he has lately been drawn toward others who, despite the bleakness of it all, seem to thrive. In this case alone, it's a wonder to him how Citadelle’s very presence has not summoned all comers from whatever depths they must linger.
He does not see her as ragged or worn – not even the chip from her horn is imperfect. He has seen creatures at their most woeful state, with the light and life fading from them at varying speeds. He finds her captivating for different reasons, perhaps, but enchanting all the same.
When she turns to him, her green eyes vibrant amid the rosy hue of her face, his heart stirs a little. He dares not imagine those eyes growing dim, that lovely coat fading to gray; she is vibrant and he is glad. Her voice, to him, seems gentle – he cannot sense the hidden blade in it – and he finds that he wants to hear more.
“Then,” he begins as she reaches for him, tucking his chin almost apprehensively (it’s not often others willingly grow close to him) but not reluctantly, “I will try to meet your standards.” Anxious to remain in her company, he tries to shirk the awkward feeling that his words might sound like cliche flirtations, the sort of sweet promises a would-be lover would whisper to their quarry. While he is quite enraptured by her, even at so sudden an encounter, there is not yet a sense of infatuation.
“Unfortunately, most others prefer to avoid my company,” he continues, a nervy sort of tone tinging his words. His wispy wings shuffle again, tucking a little closer against his shoulders and over his back as if for self-assurance. “I would hate for you to waste your time on me, so I must wonder: what does keep your attention?”
@Citadelle