03-21-2021, 03:11 PM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
He does not know why, but something about her answer to his comment about her color causes his lips to quirk into a boyish smile, a flash of amusement reflecting from his bright red eyes. “I’m not, actually,” he tells her truthfully. He has stepped forward again, ignoring the irritation that reads like a map across her face. He is half-tempted to see how far he can press that—to see how she might react to the icy tendrils of a fear aura being sent towards her, but he refrains, for now. “I was born blue roan, until the shadows took over.” He does not try to hide that he is at their mercy; that they embarked on a battle against him and they won.
He is not a master of shadow and darkness but is instead a captive forever trapped in their horrifying game. The darkness that shifts over his bones and wraps around him is a prison, not a sanctuary.
She steps forward to meet him and there is a sudden rush of darkness, and his face contorts into one of suspicion. She can clearly manipulate the shadows, and this feels like some attempt on her part to remind him. Thankfully, whatever darkness he is made of, it does not yield to anyone else—not that he has found, at least. Just as quickly as it had come, though, it then leaves, and he is surprised to find her glaring at him as though he had done something.
His head tilts, regarding her carefully. He is not very good at reading the more complicated emotions—he prefers the stark ones, like fear and rage, sorrow and despair. The kind that cannot be mistaken for anything else. She is too guarded to pick out which she is feeling, and while he is sure he could encourage something, it does not seem to be necessary right now. “I’m not trying to,” he tells her, and a short laugh rasps at the back of his throat, “if you’re already afraid, it seems it’d be entirely unfair to actually put effort into it.” He is needling her on purpose now; he thinks she is not the type to buckle beneath the fist of fear, but the temptation of implying that she is was simply too much to resist.
He is not a master of shadow and darkness but is instead a captive forever trapped in their horrifying game. The darkness that shifts over his bones and wraps around him is a prison, not a sanctuary.
She steps forward to meet him and there is a sudden rush of darkness, and his face contorts into one of suspicion. She can clearly manipulate the shadows, and this feels like some attempt on her part to remind him. Thankfully, whatever darkness he is made of, it does not yield to anyone else—not that he has found, at least. Just as quickly as it had come, though, it then leaves, and he is surprised to find her glaring at him as though he had done something.
His head tilts, regarding her carefully. He is not very good at reading the more complicated emotions—he prefers the stark ones, like fear and rage, sorrow and despair. The kind that cannot be mistaken for anything else. She is too guarded to pick out which she is feeling, and while he is sure he could encourage something, it does not seem to be necessary right now. “I’m not trying to,” he tells her, and a short laugh rasps at the back of his throat, “if you’re already afraid, it seems it’d be entirely unfair to actually put effort into it.” He is needling her on purpose now; he thinks she is not the type to buckle beneath the fist of fear, but the temptation of implying that she is was simply too much to resist.
torryn
@[Beryl]