she's no saint but she'll take you to your knees
try her boy but she'll still do what she please
Without expectation, she stands and listens: waits and lingers by his side without evidence of jealousy or visible discomfort. Instead Aysel remains in her steadfast way, a creature spattered by gray amidst the deep red on her body, and one whose scars were not so prominent and yet? She carried herself as if she knew little more than scar tissue and wounds, as if the whole of her entire world was laid out on some impossible battlefield where the wars and clashing never ended.
Hardened, yet, capable of mutability when it was demanded or required. Still, she waited- and met his gaze. Had she the ability she might’ve offered a hand to cradle his jaw, a thumb to stroke the skin beneath the cheekbone: attention and affection; but also, understanding. His words are something of smoke and crackling embers, and she nods her head at the statement. “I still say I should be thanking you, for bringing me here.” she responds in kind and with subtle attempt to ease the air and the mood she has created.
Magnus’ voice is whiskey and cigar smoke, it is bold and honest and does not carry the overtones of subtly or some sort of manipulation, and Aysel finds herself nodding the beautifully sculpted face and head as she offers him a sumptuous purr and smile: a sparkle of wisdom and of trust. “That is all I ask, nothing more, I know the truth between us both.” she muses, but in a sobered way.
Segolene is dancing and drifting: darting between rocks and careless of the world; but she is never far.
“There comes a time in our lives when we are scarred and burned, aching and hardened: when caressing skin hurts more than a wound on our flesh. It is never easy to escape it, to get out of the void and the shadows in our minds…” she stops, looking downward with a pained and rueful stare. Her weight shifts and she passes her gaze over the small scars and all the ancient places where bones and bruises have healed.
Drawing her head back up, she reaches out to press her nose softly against the curve of his cheek, where his neck begins. As if to acknowledge something, she brushes over the area and breathes slowly before pulling back and meeting his gaze. “It’s a heavy burden, the crown and one’s own soul; but remember, Tephra chose you. Her people, the land itself… and you are not alone. You have us, all of us.”
Heavy and remaining still, she turns her gaze to Segolene who trots and cantors- the filly sliding between them and begins sniffing each nosily: bumping into them and sauntering around them with whimsy and quickness before idly laying herself down and resting against Magnus’ foreleg.
“Big run.” she chirps, tiny eyes closing as she fades in and out of sleep.
Aysel, chuckles, glancing at both and looking them over. “Ah, little jaguars tire so quickly sometimes.”
@[magnus]