Nyxa
In the moment his eyes stray (that’s all it takes, right? Just a look … just a single look and they really see) Nyxa wishes desperately to become invisible.
Or even just returning to the state she was in prior to this, back when she was but a blur on someone’s peripheral vision in their eye’s quest to find something more appealing, more attractive. It hadn’t been hard to be Nyxa, back then. Now it’s something she clings to with bloody nails; scratching, clawing at the identity that’s not hers to claim anymore. There’s nothing about her body that she understands - the girl is unaware that she’s actually in a shift presently - Castile is privy to a spirit trapped in a foreign temple.
The ‘before’ Nyxa rears her head from inside, a knee-jerk reaction to his casual step forward, and the ‘after’ Nyxa physically takes a step backwards. “Castile,” She tries the word, her voice hovering for a note over the ‘a’ before gliding like silk through the sharp ‘st’ and dropping off his last vowel. It comes out sounding like Cast Steel, but with one brisk glance to his coat Nyxa finds it appropriate.
“Fancy.” She follows up. Despite the hesitance, an arresting smile ghosts her lips. “I’m Nyxa,” The pale mare admits, sighing gently before making a conscious effort to try and relax. The stallion had been startled, that’s all. “and I thought I was heading somewhere with a purpose.” She riddles, confusion muddying her expression again.
“But now I feel like I’m running away - and that’s not what I want.” Or is it?
She’s not sure. For the second time, her jewel-like gaze searches for his but she finds herself lingering on the hard planes of his cheeks, where it looks as if his jaw has been clenched since birth. From there her eyes travel along the supple bend of his neck, hidden power straining against the mottled skin, and they come to take in the overall picture of ‘Castile’ - something shyness had prevented during their initial run-in.
He’s very … commanding, presence-wise. The shape of him seems to loom in all four corners of her vision, like a black tower overshadowing a frail lily. (Ugh, her mind rejects that word, “Lily”. It’s what Maugrim had named chained her with.) “Where are you heading?” The seamare tries, comfortable enough to regain the distance she’d kept between them and shortening it by another full step. “Maybe that’s where I should try next.”
-I'm sailing right behind, like a bridge over troubled water-