── and i was never sure whether you were the lighthouse or the storm ──
His voice is soft, like hers, and she thinks she can hear the light that comes from his mouth. She is used to harshness; gravel tones and words with sharp edges, things meant to break her and cut her and keep her compliant. Even the kindness that she has been granted often had ways of being deceiving. It’s why his gentleness catches her off guard in a way that it should not, and she wonders if he can see the confusion – though it leans closer towards suspicion – that passes over her face. She looks for the hidden weapon that might be wrapped in his words, and for once, she does not find any. Her head tilts in an inquisitive way, considering the stranger and his offer.
She searches for daggers, and when she finds none she is almost at a loss.
He feels like a light in the darkness, and she almost backs away.
“Svedka,” she murmurs his name in her gold-spun tone, and she cannot see the way her glow chases away the shadows as she steps into the space alongside him. Her wings brush against his side, and she reaches to touch her nose to his neck – a habit that faded when she had eyes, but always seemed to come back the moment she was left blinded. There is a coy smile hidden on her lips when they find his skin, since she secretly delighted in having a reason to need to touch someone (or, to pretend she needed to). “My name is Ryatah.”
She moves, and her lips find the healing wound on his shoulder. Something in her veins begins to hum, her lips growing warm; a need to heal, but she does not immediately offer. “You’re hurt,” she says, soft and concerned, her head tipped to fix the sightless stare on him. “What happened?”
She searches for daggers, and when she finds none she is almost at a loss.
He feels like a light in the darkness, and she almost backs away.
“Svedka,” she murmurs his name in her gold-spun tone, and she cannot see the way her glow chases away the shadows as she steps into the space alongside him. Her wings brush against his side, and she reaches to touch her nose to his neck – a habit that faded when she had eyes, but always seemed to come back the moment she was left blinded. There is a coy smile hidden on her lips when they find his skin, since she secretly delighted in having a reason to need to touch someone (or, to pretend she needed to). “My name is Ryatah.”
She moves, and her lips find the healing wound on his shoulder. Something in her veins begins to hum, her lips growing warm; a need to heal, but she does not immediately offer. “You’re hurt,” she says, soft and concerned, her head tipped to fix the sightless stare on him. “What happened?”
ryatah
@[Svedka]