10-24-2019, 11:14 PM
GRETA
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
There are rules, he said. (So silly, to list rules when he is what made her). Tell no one, show no hint, do not remind yourself. Of what? Of what? She had begged - tell her, you must! And he did not tell. But oh, did he show her the wickedness that his heart created; the curse she must wear like a heavy cloak, the secret that cannot be shrugged off.
And yet; here is Ghaul, already reading the tiny cracks in her frame. Moments into meeting and he smells that scent on her - she will do anything. And neither knows the weakness - his glory is bright with the fact his mother laid still. Greta would not hold him back, for she is too frail, a tepid and milky little thing who he could thrust through with one breath. Ghaul would not know, but he could simply ask. Lay your throat to me, little one.; and so she would. His feast stands before him, and with barely a beckon (a command, really) and she would be ripe for the taking.
How silly.
He breathes and there is a fog in the air - an autumn morning that curls before them. A masterpiece of his own making (that is just as quickly fading away). Fire, an action to the word - something tangible and true, and she wants to peek out her tongue and almost taste it, taste him. The word sounds so steady behind his lips, while fluid and smooth a word, it sounds forceful and true spilling from the fog in his throat. He says nothing more - leaving it as this, a solitary word, a moment to split, a future to see - and so she must accept.
The night stretches, and she calls out, and is almost startled to find him awake, answering - that soft humming voice that is stretched with slight sleep. She finds a nose to her cheek, and she is surprised how easily touch comes to her. How simple the night and a wavering moon and hot-bedded wing can make her feel so okay. The night can make you feel anything, really; a witch in disguise of stars. Night magic; she remembers, stars and streaks and the palatable taste of magic in the air (her father could make anything feel true).
She takes a moment to think, and an almost uncognizant lean of her face towards his nose (how rapidly we fall into the touch). A kindred moment of confusion and bleary memories - who were they before they were here? This moment seems all there is to be; a meeting in the moonlight, the hot scathe of scale on her skin, fear and trepidation soothed by the desire and comfort of the embrace of another.
“I don’t know.” There is a fringe of fury in her voice, did she ever have another life before her being tucked away in Eight’s little world?. It feels like another life - a decade ago, a yawning year of being locked away. Sacrifice - another jarring word that breaks her from her reverie. A slaughter, basking in blood, a willing act of giving. What does it mean to him? She turns her face to ask, but finds a face of frustration and fraught with thought in the face of her statement. Maybe, he too, has been here before - maybe there are things he too does not want to speak of. The thrush of heat on her cheek - and she wonders if it is the fog he can conjure from somewhere inside.
“ I don’t know.” An admittance, this time, a defeat. And she is confused, and wrecked like a ship at sea in her thoughts - a furious aggravation of things that feel so long ago.
“Can we just.. Can we see tomorrow?” It is a timid question, a doubt riddling every word - that they would see tomorrow, that he would stay wing draped over such a sad and sorry girl. And maybe the morning light will show her - maybe the land basked in a lighter glow will hinge on her memories. She was so tired, her legs so jaded from their journey from Eight’s forever bidden world, her mind so tangled with where she should be - was - is - here now.
“Just.. be here tomorrow.” Her voice mumbled and soft in the peels of his scales, as she digs her nose into the crook of his neck.
Strange - how easy it is to settle into something you have never known.
And yet; here is Ghaul, already reading the tiny cracks in her frame. Moments into meeting and he smells that scent on her - she will do anything. And neither knows the weakness - his glory is bright with the fact his mother laid still. Greta would not hold him back, for she is too frail, a tepid and milky little thing who he could thrust through with one breath. Ghaul would not know, but he could simply ask. Lay your throat to me, little one.; and so she would. His feast stands before him, and with barely a beckon (a command, really) and she would be ripe for the taking.
How silly.
He breathes and there is a fog in the air - an autumn morning that curls before them. A masterpiece of his own making (that is just as quickly fading away). Fire, an action to the word - something tangible and true, and she wants to peek out her tongue and almost taste it, taste him. The word sounds so steady behind his lips, while fluid and smooth a word, it sounds forceful and true spilling from the fog in his throat. He says nothing more - leaving it as this, a solitary word, a moment to split, a future to see - and so she must accept.
The night stretches, and she calls out, and is almost startled to find him awake, answering - that soft humming voice that is stretched with slight sleep. She finds a nose to her cheek, and she is surprised how easily touch comes to her. How simple the night and a wavering moon and hot-bedded wing can make her feel so okay. The night can make you feel anything, really; a witch in disguise of stars. Night magic; she remembers, stars and streaks and the palatable taste of magic in the air (her father could make anything feel true).
She takes a moment to think, and an almost uncognizant lean of her face towards his nose (how rapidly we fall into the touch). A kindred moment of confusion and bleary memories - who were they before they were here? This moment seems all there is to be; a meeting in the moonlight, the hot scathe of scale on her skin, fear and trepidation soothed by the desire and comfort of the embrace of another.
“I don’t know.” There is a fringe of fury in her voice, did she ever have another life before her being tucked away in Eight’s little world?. It feels like another life - a decade ago, a yawning year of being locked away. Sacrifice - another jarring word that breaks her from her reverie. A slaughter, basking in blood, a willing act of giving. What does it mean to him? She turns her face to ask, but finds a face of frustration and fraught with thought in the face of her statement. Maybe, he too, has been here before - maybe there are things he too does not want to speak of. The thrush of heat on her cheek - and she wonders if it is the fog he can conjure from somewhere inside.
“ I don’t know.” An admittance, this time, a defeat. And she is confused, and wrecked like a ship at sea in her thoughts - a furious aggravation of things that feel so long ago.
“Can we just.. Can we see tomorrow?” It is a timid question, a doubt riddling every word - that they would see tomorrow, that he would stay wing draped over such a sad and sorry girl. And maybe the morning light will show her - maybe the land basked in a lighter glow will hinge on her memories. She was so tired, her legs so jaded from their journey from Eight’s forever bidden world, her mind so tangled with where she should be - was - is - here now.
“Just.. be here tomorrow.” Her voice mumbled and soft in the peels of his scales, as she digs her nose into the crook of his neck.
Strange - how easy it is to settle into something you have never known.
@[ghaul] you can do the fastfowards to morning/pangea tour once you get whatever night talk you'd like out of the way!