Rapturous and ancient, she recalls each note and sound: the sharp whistle of air between teeth and lips- and all the harmonies of the lullaby. It carries and while not directly drawn to it a songbird responds to the harsh pitch and flutters away. It's nothing that draws Aysel’s direct attention; but rather, something she sees in the corner of hers eyes, and something that causes an ear to flicker atop her own head. Hoofbeats are a familiar sound and more so the heaviness of them, and it provokes her to turn and to watch: to stare in such a way that she seems to be sizing up the approaching figure. Slow to respond she lowers her head and neck, not out of respect, but as a means to make it more impacting as she raises them back up and comes to full height with her body stretched and posture drawn defensively.
Subtly she moves a leg back, scratches the surface of the ground and presses that hoof down with her weight shifting. That voice she possesses is deep, smoky, and accented strangely: to our ears it was a bizarre mixture of German and heavily eastern French; but to hers she knew it as the sound of the voices from her birthplace. “Salut,” she pauses to inhale, to relax slowly and allow her posture to ease itself back down. “Hello, Magnus.” mangled only slightly she blinks, considering the differentiation in their manner of speech. “I am Aysel.” short and to the point she turns the whole of her body, stretches it and moves towards him with little more than an aloof and sobered expression.
Closer to him she stops, studying the scarring and the muscle well beneath the buckskin coat: her own tail snapping to and fro and the length of red hair allowed freely to drape to the very ground. Her mane was much the same, long and endlessly red, and covering the throat with ease; but it parts enough to expose the eyes: dark and strange, flecked with golden spots. “Wolf,” she remarks, gesturing to his body. “Warrior, protector: you seek battle or it seeks you but for what do you fight? Is it for your home, your women, children… or do you enjoy war.” without mind to reason of why she asks, Aysel turns slowly and shifts her weight enough to expose parts of her chest and sides: her legs. Scarred and strained, she smiles; but only in feign- in some strange allure.
“You do not have to sate my curiosity if you do not wish: I know it is impromptu.” she chuckles, wolfish in her smile.
Subtly she moves a leg back, scratches the surface of the ground and presses that hoof down with her weight shifting. That voice she possesses is deep, smoky, and accented strangely: to our ears it was a bizarre mixture of German and heavily eastern French; but to hers she knew it as the sound of the voices from her birthplace. “Salut,” she pauses to inhale, to relax slowly and allow her posture to ease itself back down. “Hello, Magnus.” mangled only slightly she blinks, considering the differentiation in their manner of speech. “I am Aysel.” short and to the point she turns the whole of her body, stretches it and moves towards him with little more than an aloof and sobered expression.
Closer to him she stops, studying the scarring and the muscle well beneath the buckskin coat: her own tail snapping to and fro and the length of red hair allowed freely to drape to the very ground. Her mane was much the same, long and endlessly red, and covering the throat with ease; but it parts enough to expose the eyes: dark and strange, flecked with golden spots. “Wolf,” she remarks, gesturing to his body. “Warrior, protector: you seek battle or it seeks you but for what do you fight? Is it for your home, your women, children… or do you enjoy war.” without mind to reason of why she asks, Aysel turns slowly and shifts her weight enough to expose parts of her chest and sides: her legs. Scarred and strained, she smiles; but only in feign- in some strange allure.
“You do not have to sate my curiosity if you do not wish: I know it is impromptu.” she chuckles, wolfish in her smile.
A Y S E L
have you seen blood in the moonlight? it appears quite black.
@[magnus] <3 oh boy