11-07-2019, 04:21 PM
That stride of his had held her captive - determined and confident with his approach - realizing that out of all the other far more interesting loners in this place, he had chosen her. A gruff Breckin is what he offers in the way of exchanging niceties - and with certainty no less - but there's no passage of recognition in her dark eyes, and his angular face is met with a vacant stare. But some silly, stubborn will stays her from swinging and peering around the trunk, or up between the dying limbs of the tree, trying for a glimpse of some lurking stranger that hadn't been there before.
Oh, but how badly she wanted to. Just to be certain.
And that expectant gaze patiently waiting for a response from her - it makes her prickle - that he would know more about herself than she did. A simple thing, just a name. But it's more than she had a moment before. It makes her blank expression sharpen and narrow, nearly accusatory in its nature, her chest swelling deeply as if she might....might what? Bark at him for asking some haggard-looking woman how she is doing?
It wasn't his fault.
That small, steely strength she had found becomes faulty - it fractures and spiderwebs, shifting and separating and weathering until it is nothing more than crumbling dust falling out of her palms between skeletal fingers. And when it's caught by the wind passing by, her gaze follows, casting back as if the question of who remained unanswered. It's a reflex of defeat, birthed from self-doubt, and the withered mare's tone conveys as much when her voice is finally found, "Do I know you?"
@[Arthas]
Oh, but how badly she wanted to. Just to be certain.
And that expectant gaze patiently waiting for a response from her - it makes her prickle - that he would know more about herself than she did. A simple thing, just a name. But it's more than she had a moment before. It makes her blank expression sharpen and narrow, nearly accusatory in its nature, her chest swelling deeply as if she might....might what? Bark at him for asking some haggard-looking woman how she is doing?
It wasn't his fault.
That small, steely strength she had found becomes faulty - it fractures and spiderwebs, shifting and separating and weathering until it is nothing more than crumbling dust falling out of her palms between skeletal fingers. And when it's caught by the wind passing by, her gaze follows, casting back as if the question of who remained unanswered. It's a reflex of defeat, birthed from self-doubt, and the withered mare's tone conveys as much when her voice is finally found, "Do I know you?"
@[Arthas]