11-05-2019, 10:56 PM
The other offers a sweet calm air about her as her eyes are wide and watching, beautiful as she glitters in her gold skin and pale hair, so much that Epithet's mind drifts to even gently running her lips against the silk...but that is dangerous and should be regarded as an omen (perhaps).
Winter drifts around their capsule of conversation. Epithet relaxes before the taller woman as she does not scent a threat beyond the bright eyes. It is eerie and enchanting to have stumbled upon the lovely creature in the midst of a usually dreary day and it draws Epithet closer.
A single grey leg extends to bring her a breath near, smile blossoming upon her lips, Epithet nearly feels the blush of her curiosity warming her cheeks...but it all slips away when the mare offers her name...it's the ice of Beqanna's winter. "Craft..." Epi repeats. A state of awe, surprise, damn near fear ripples over her skin before being punctuated with, "-of the deserts.", from the shining mare.
The rest of Craft's words dissipate upon a drunken winter breeze. Epithet feels it wash over her...how in the name of all Beqanna's gods is it possible? Suddenly she feels nervous, a chill crawling through the vertebrae of her spine. This was unnatural magic. "The deserts..." She can only begin as the words fight their descent. It had been so long since anyone had spoken of the deserts.
"I-", stuttering and foolish, "I'm afraid the deserts have been gone for quite a while." Epithet tries to salvage what she can, watching the mare carefully, heightened to a display of potential outrage. "The gates, deserts and falls...gone with the reckoning." Her tongue suddenly feels thick and sluggish as she attempts to build an explanation. "How is it possible?" The question is asked with a shrillness she had not intended. "You've been gone...dead for so long...but here you stand..." The words fumble and knot but Epithet knows this mare and knows her name well and still she can not bear to rip her eyes away from the pristine features.
"I am so sorry...I'm Epithet." Surely the shock of it all will drown out her name but she would still try. The smaller pale mare would not attempt to reach out or console the honey mare for repercussions could come from such boldness but how she longed to do so. Dark eyes wet with her eagerness to understand, Epithet falls silent and allows the chilled silence to consume them.
Winter drifts around their capsule of conversation. Epithet relaxes before the taller woman as she does not scent a threat beyond the bright eyes. It is eerie and enchanting to have stumbled upon the lovely creature in the midst of a usually dreary day and it draws Epithet closer.
A single grey leg extends to bring her a breath near, smile blossoming upon her lips, Epithet nearly feels the blush of her curiosity warming her cheeks...but it all slips away when the mare offers her name...it's the ice of Beqanna's winter. "Craft..." Epi repeats. A state of awe, surprise, damn near fear ripples over her skin before being punctuated with, "-of the deserts.", from the shining mare.
The rest of Craft's words dissipate upon a drunken winter breeze. Epithet feels it wash over her...how in the name of all Beqanna's gods is it possible? Suddenly she feels nervous, a chill crawling through the vertebrae of her spine. This was unnatural magic. "The deserts..." She can only begin as the words fight their descent. It had been so long since anyone had spoken of the deserts.
"I-", stuttering and foolish, "I'm afraid the deserts have been gone for quite a while." Epithet tries to salvage what she can, watching the mare carefully, heightened to a display of potential outrage. "The gates, deserts and falls...gone with the reckoning." Her tongue suddenly feels thick and sluggish as she attempts to build an explanation. "How is it possible?" The question is asked with a shrillness she had not intended. "You've been gone...dead for so long...but here you stand..." The words fumble and knot but Epithet knows this mare and knows her name well and still she can not bear to rip her eyes away from the pristine features.
"I am so sorry...I'm Epithet." Surely the shock of it all will drown out her name but she would still try. The smaller pale mare would not attempt to reach out or console the honey mare for repercussions could come from such boldness but how she longed to do so. Dark eyes wet with her eagerness to understand, Epithet falls silent and allows the chilled silence to consume them.
E P I T H E T