06-13-2017, 01:28 AM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
The heat is stifling against his skin, with humidity hot and slick against the puckered pink scarring that lay strewn across the blank canvas of his form – but he does not flinch; not as he once might have. No longer does he pine for the frigidity of winter, nor its spindly fingers touching the surface of his skin, soothing the embers flickering deep inside of him. The everlasting burn of the growing fire trapped within his chest, enveloping his lungs with every rise and fall of his steady breathing, plucking at his heartstrings with every perpetual beat of his heart – it is as much a part of him as the thick lining of sinewy muscle in his body.
Time had whittled away at his resolve, and where he once felt bitterness and self-loathing for the blistering fire, there was now indifference – not acceptance, but tolerance. He could not deny the way his skin burned hotly, even beneath the cover of darkness, nor could he suffocate it as he had before, forcing a façade that was simply not worth the effort, nor worth his time.
His mind is preoccupied, focused elsewhere and anywhere, with the solid, fine ridge of his brow line furrowed deeply in thought, his stern gaze set somewhere off in the distance where the unyielding, still too-bright summer sun is still bathing him in its warmth (but he is warmer inside, and so he does not notice). His attention is only drawn from the setting sun by the slightest of movements to his left; a subtle shifting of a slender, yet defined figure – as vividly crimson as his own eyes, which stare pointedly.
Inside, the fire burns – and he tries to suppress it, tries to rein it in, as he always does.
No longer looking towards the bleak haze of the western sunset, his heavily muscled legs carry him towards the familiar face and source of the echoing call to attention. Rivulets of sweat trickle down the length of his body, and his dark, matted tresses cling to the hard, defined line of his jaw, as his gaze searches his – and though there is no outwardly warm and sociable greeting, there is a warmth within the gleam of his eyes – an understanding shared between them; a familiarity of a different time and a different place.
”It’s been a while, Nymphetamine,” he murmurs carefully, casting a glance towards the looming shadow of the volcano, and its lustrous plumes of smoke. ”I miss Killdare, as I am certain that you do – rest his soul,” he pauses, a straying red eye settling upon him again. ”I have entrusted you with diplomacy because I know that he trusted you. I am giving you an opportunity. I do not desire to ally with anyone at the current time – it is too soon, and our structure is not yet settled. ”
A low, rumbling grumble stirs from his throat.
”There have been rumors of an empire building, crafted by a once-Amazonian. I want information, as to who is involved. I’d like to also find out the affairs of the other lands, kingdoms or what have you. Meet with the emissaries, and dispatch those you trust to go alone, and take those you do not with you. Make it clear no alliances are to be made at this time.”
His burning red eyes are boring into his, then.
”Will you do that for me?”
Time had whittled away at his resolve, and where he once felt bitterness and self-loathing for the blistering fire, there was now indifference – not acceptance, but tolerance. He could not deny the way his skin burned hotly, even beneath the cover of darkness, nor could he suffocate it as he had before, forcing a façade that was simply not worth the effort, nor worth his time.
His mind is preoccupied, focused elsewhere and anywhere, with the solid, fine ridge of his brow line furrowed deeply in thought, his stern gaze set somewhere off in the distance where the unyielding, still too-bright summer sun is still bathing him in its warmth (but he is warmer inside, and so he does not notice). His attention is only drawn from the setting sun by the slightest of movements to his left; a subtle shifting of a slender, yet defined figure – as vividly crimson as his own eyes, which stare pointedly.
Inside, the fire burns – and he tries to suppress it, tries to rein it in, as he always does.
No longer looking towards the bleak haze of the western sunset, his heavily muscled legs carry him towards the familiar face and source of the echoing call to attention. Rivulets of sweat trickle down the length of his body, and his dark, matted tresses cling to the hard, defined line of his jaw, as his gaze searches his – and though there is no outwardly warm and sociable greeting, there is a warmth within the gleam of his eyes – an understanding shared between them; a familiarity of a different time and a different place.
”It’s been a while, Nymphetamine,” he murmurs carefully, casting a glance towards the looming shadow of the volcano, and its lustrous plumes of smoke. ”I miss Killdare, as I am certain that you do – rest his soul,” he pauses, a straying red eye settling upon him again. ”I have entrusted you with diplomacy because I know that he trusted you. I am giving you an opportunity. I do not desire to ally with anyone at the current time – it is too soon, and our structure is not yet settled. ”
A low, rumbling grumble stirs from his throat.
”There have been rumors of an empire building, crafted by a once-Amazonian. I want information, as to who is involved. I’d like to also find out the affairs of the other lands, kingdoms or what have you. Meet with the emissaries, and dispatch those you trust to go alone, and take those you do not with you. Make it clear no alliances are to be made at this time.”
His burning red eyes are boring into his, then.
”Will you do that for me?”
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING