11-21-2017, 08:37 PM
the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
She welcomes his embrace (she will hardly ever shrink back from anyone), stepping forward to close the space and to allow him the knowledge, however important it may be him, that she is trusting. For a moment she thinks of her shadow prince, she wonders if he is there, just around the corner, watching her - she hesitates, but just for a moment. Her sadness and loneliness has too long been kept locked up within her, and the silver mare wishes nothing more than the physical touch of someone alive, someone with a kind and handsome face she can see. Their chests meet and she sighs (whether it is because of Ivar’s hypnosis or not didn’t matter, she wouldn’t ever know), the warmth of his skin against hers soothing the ache in her heart, even if only momentarily.
Maybe it is because Augusta truly wishes she could be happy, so the moment Ivar pushes in the tiniest bit of suggestion, she latches onto it hungrily.
She smiles into his neck, almost sheepishly at the closeness. But here is where she is able to inspect his glittering skin a bit closer, and realize that it is the scales that causes his luminescence. Without thinking, her charcoal lips touch them briefly, curiously, innocently. They are smooth and sleek, but warm. It fascinates her.
The baritone of his voice reverberating in his own chest and resounding through hers causes her to gasp softly, not realizing she had remained silent throughout their embrace. She is not sure she wants to depart from him, so for just a moment longer she lingers, her breath condensing onto the warmth of his skin. She suddenly realizes how cold she truly is (how utterly alone), and though the thought is sad, her eyes do not dim nor does a frown find her face, for she does not know it, but she was told to only be happy.
She would not question it - not now, maybe not ever. Just like she never questioned her shadow prince. Ivar is no shadow, though. He is no invisible entity that leaves her wanting and waiting, a mystery within a mystery - no, Ivar is a presence that is anything to be ignored, not meant to be hidden within shadows or darkness; his whole being demands attention, but he is gentle and kind and sympathetic, even to a little stranger like herself.
Augusta pulls from him, but only enough so that her stormy eyes could look up at him in curiosity, her meekness permeating throughout the gentle, sloping angles of her face. “Oh,” she replies breathlessly, the news of her childhood home bringing her eyes downcast, staring absently into the gurgling waters below them. But he continues the conversation and she is thankful. His voice is smooth and robust, it lulls her soothingly. “Oh Ivar,” she muses with awe, her gray eyes searching his. “It sounds like your new home is lovely,” She thinks of the myriad of colors he had just described, the warmth of spring and the golden sun on her back - oh, she is sure the sunsets are wonderful, and that the starry sky is brilliant and dazzling without large and looming trees to block them out.
Without knowing it, she had stepped forward again, and had been thoughtfully staring into the rushing waters of the river with her head beneath Ivar’s neck.
Maybe it is because Augusta truly wishes she could be happy, so the moment Ivar pushes in the tiniest bit of suggestion, she latches onto it hungrily.
She smiles into his neck, almost sheepishly at the closeness. But here is where she is able to inspect his glittering skin a bit closer, and realize that it is the scales that causes his luminescence. Without thinking, her charcoal lips touch them briefly, curiously, innocently. They are smooth and sleek, but warm. It fascinates her.
The baritone of his voice reverberating in his own chest and resounding through hers causes her to gasp softly, not realizing she had remained silent throughout their embrace. She is not sure she wants to depart from him, so for just a moment longer she lingers, her breath condensing onto the warmth of his skin. She suddenly realizes how cold she truly is (how utterly alone), and though the thought is sad, her eyes do not dim nor does a frown find her face, for she does not know it, but she was told to only be happy.
She would not question it - not now, maybe not ever. Just like she never questioned her shadow prince. Ivar is no shadow, though. He is no invisible entity that leaves her wanting and waiting, a mystery within a mystery - no, Ivar is a presence that is anything to be ignored, not meant to be hidden within shadows or darkness; his whole being demands attention, but he is gentle and kind and sympathetic, even to a little stranger like herself.
Augusta pulls from him, but only enough so that her stormy eyes could look up at him in curiosity, her meekness permeating throughout the gentle, sloping angles of her face. “Oh,” she replies breathlessly, the news of her childhood home bringing her eyes downcast, staring absently into the gurgling waters below them. But he continues the conversation and she is thankful. His voice is smooth and robust, it lulls her soothingly. “Oh Ivar,” she muses with awe, her gray eyes searching his. “It sounds like your new home is lovely,” She thinks of the myriad of colors he had just described, the warmth of spring and the golden sun on her back - oh, she is sure the sunsets are wonderful, and that the starry sky is brilliant and dazzling without large and looming trees to block them out.
Without knowing it, she had stepped forward again, and had been thoughtfully staring into the rushing waters of the river with her head beneath Ivar’s neck.
@[Ivar]