12-25-2019, 03:50 AM
sometimes I'm terrified of my heart;
of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants —
“Are you lost?” Her voice rings clearly into the crisp autumn air, stepping from the knoll she had been standing on and in the direction of the stranger. The grasses of the field are tall, though their colors have grown dull the further they drug into fall, and they sway like a dim sea in the cool breeze. She shakes her head as the shockingly white tendrils of her forelock obscure her impossibly black eyes, letting herself take in the stallion better.
She is young, just hardly on the cusp of adolescence, but the boldness in which she approaches him is unfitting for most her age. A few months shy of being two years old, there was little that had ever been childish about her. Her very genetics and upbringing only allowed for so much naivety, and with each passing day more and more of that childlike innocence continued to shed. There was an ever-growing intensity left in its wake, a thing that was almost unsettling when it was coming from one still so young.
And yet, there is still a sweet, girlish delight that softens the otherwise sharpening angles of her face, especially once she draws nearer and she offers him a smile. The motion provides a warming depth to what would otherwise be unreadable eyes, eyes that now linger across the scars that mark his face. For a moment there is a look of concern that flickers across her face, but since they appeared to be healed, she is afraid it would be insensitive to ask.
“I’m Desire,” is what she says instead, tilting her head so that she might level her eyes with the bright blue of his. “You’re not from here,” and it comes out as a statement rather than a question.
She is young, just hardly on the cusp of adolescence, but the boldness in which she approaches him is unfitting for most her age. A few months shy of being two years old, there was little that had ever been childish about her. Her very genetics and upbringing only allowed for so much naivety, and with each passing day more and more of that childlike innocence continued to shed. There was an ever-growing intensity left in its wake, a thing that was almost unsettling when it was coming from one still so young.
And yet, there is still a sweet, girlish delight that softens the otherwise sharpening angles of her face, especially once she draws nearer and she offers him a smile. The motion provides a warming depth to what would otherwise be unreadable eyes, eyes that now linger across the scars that mark his face. For a moment there is a look of concern that flickers across her face, but since they appeared to be healed, she is afraid it would be insensitive to ask.
“I’m Desire,” is what she says instead, tilting her head so that she might level her eyes with the bright blue of his. “You’re not from here,” and it comes out as a statement rather than a question.
Desire
@[Soran]