04-28-2017, 09:34 PM
life is like an hourglass; glued to the table
Youth is etched into every fine line of her soft, feminine face – her eyes wide, curious, the corners of her mouth turned up with the slightest smile, her limbs long and slim and not yet filled with the supple muscle and fat that would eventually cause her to sway to and fro with each deliberate step. There is a whisper of age outlining her frame – the delicate slope of her spine, the width and length of her neck, the faint curve of her widening hips – but she is caught betwixt, nary a child nor a woman yet. Alas, her heart pounds eagerly against the tight confinement of her chest as his voice rises – a rumbling baritone, not too unlike her own father, in fact, but interlaced with an almost contagious glee that causes her faint smile to remain despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. With an almost comical combination of agile movements, he is upright, towering over her – she, a mere fourteen hands at best, with her bright, analytical gaze following every crease and edge of his broad, masculine features.
Breathless, a nervous huff of laughter emerges from her throat, and if it weren’t for the naturally deep russet of her skin, he would certainly see a reddened tint along the hollow of her cheekbones. Her gaze follows the glimmering flakes of ice as they are shaken from their perch, fluttering to the ground below and melting before her own eyes. Snow. With a thoughtful hum, she moves closer to him with an outstretched neck, pressing her lips against the dampened ruddy root of his mane, feeling the bristling ice liquefy beneath her warmth.
Then, a layer of frigid ice crystals suddenly drapes across the length of her neck, interlacing with her long, carefree tresses, stirring a shiver that surges along her vertebrae. ”Snow,” she murmurs softly, teeth bared slightly with a half-hearted smile, watching the unrestrained delight become sheepish chagrin, and she can barely stifle the laughter bubbling beneath her breast. ”you talk, a lot.”
”I’m Prevail,” she utters softly, studying the mottled red and white of his coat and the remnants of ice that lay precariously on the edge of his skin. Eventually, her inquisitive stare boring into his, her attention settles. ”These old things?” she says, feigning indifference to his compliment, giving a faint shake of her head and lightly prodding the side of his neck with them – smiling all the while. ”Thank you, Fox. I like your .. snow magic. I’ve learned something new today.”
Prevail