04-27-2017, 02:43 PM
life is like an hourglass; glued to the table
The air is warm - thick with humidity, as the still tendrils of dried vegetation sway to and fro in the wayward breeze - the soil beneath her humming with vibration. The volcano is rumbling, not for the first time, and though it should unnerve her, it does little to disrupt the stoic tension of her features. Her thick, draping tresses fall in the way of her bright emerald eyes, as her gaze searches the heavy, hazy horizon. The heat from the nearby spring is palpable, and a faint sheen of sweat has begun to bead along her youthful form - still gangly, still spindly - caught within the clutching grasp of her own youth; too young to be taken seriously, but too old to have fickle, fleeting thoughts of a child. Instead, she is tucked within a thicket, its pointed and sharpened thistles pressing into the russet of her skin - the discomfort of a too-warm autumn has already left her feeling somehow numb, and so she remains, quiet and thoughtful as the bristling points poke and prod at her.
Delicately framed in a mask of indigo, her cheek turns towards the east, towards a faint but discernible sound. A low, rumbling groan piques her curiosity and tugs her out of her patch of thistles and thorns. A winding, wiry branch somehow entangles itself with one of her growing, winding horns, and with an irritable tug, she is freed and her long legs are soon carrying her petite frame through the wavering grain. Coated in something bright (it shimmers beneath the sun) - she had never seen it before, this odd blanket of white that lay across his pale red skin.
Quietly, her gaze trails the languid curves of his long legs, of his sloped spine and heavy, muscled neck. Softly, almost cautiously, "What is that? I haven't seen it before - and how are you doing that?"
Prevail