03-03-2018, 07:29 PM
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
They are nearly kindred spirits (both independent and untamed, both finding comfort in the silence of night, both equally interested in each other) but they are crafted from different material. Wishbone is a star — a shooting star, at that — constant and blazing in the sky. She is elegant and rowdy, confidently pushing her way through any darkness she might find. Khaedrik is fog, rolling between bodies and under legs. He is hazy and quiet, but too much of him can choke anyone who lingers in his presence too long.
Though he moves, she cannot sense him. Suddenly he is dragging himself out of the darkness and her amber eyes are dancing over the starglow lines of his face. He looks to be around the same age as her — all long legs and unfamiliar body and growing muscles — and whatever anxiety over a Tephran following her is shattered. “My name’s Wishbone.”
There’s a half-smile on her face. It disappears into a look of wonder when a shadow pulls itself away from the hoard and curls around her body. It feels cool against her skin, soft like Warrick’s feathers. The sensation brings to mind memories of swimming in the ocean (the drag of the current against her heels, the silk of the water on her shoulders) but when the darkness pulls away, her mahogany body is not wet.
“What is that?” She isn’t fearful. Even if she knew the power over life and death Khaedrik holds, she would not run from him. Wishbone has an awful habit of running back into the mouth of lion for the sheer thrill of it. The wolf growls beside them and her sunset eyes watch the interaction between master and dog. She doesn’t say anything in response, but rather gives a loud laugh that shatters the nighttime silence when he doesn’t understand her joke.
“I was messing with you,” she says, her words choppy in between the rise and fall of her laughter. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?” Wishbone knows why she’s here (she knows every inch of Tephra, but she’s determined to know every inch of Beqanna itself), but she’s full of questions and one of them is to know why he might be.
Though he moves, she cannot sense him. Suddenly he is dragging himself out of the darkness and her amber eyes are dancing over the starglow lines of his face. He looks to be around the same age as her — all long legs and unfamiliar body and growing muscles — and whatever anxiety over a Tephran following her is shattered. “My name’s Wishbone.”
There’s a half-smile on her face. It disappears into a look of wonder when a shadow pulls itself away from the hoard and curls around her body. It feels cool against her skin, soft like Warrick’s feathers. The sensation brings to mind memories of swimming in the ocean (the drag of the current against her heels, the silk of the water on her shoulders) but when the darkness pulls away, her mahogany body is not wet.
“What is that?” She isn’t fearful. Even if she knew the power over life and death Khaedrik holds, she would not run from him. Wishbone has an awful habit of running back into the mouth of lion for the sheer thrill of it. The wolf growls beside them and her sunset eyes watch the interaction between master and dog. She doesn’t say anything in response, but rather gives a loud laugh that shatters the nighttime silence when he doesn’t understand her joke.
“I was messing with you,” she says, her words choppy in between the rise and fall of her laughter. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?” Wishbone knows why she’s here (she knows every inch of Tephra, but she’s determined to know every inch of Beqanna itself), but she’s full of questions and one of them is to know why he might be.
@[Khaedrik]