02-24-2022, 12:04 AM
Though Frey often takes herself too seriously, she can’t repress the small smile that splits her lips when Mesarez offers a quick reply. She tilts her head subtly, now dragging her neon gaze over every part of his body she can see. Suddenly noting he is transparent, her cheeks heat and she sharply looks away. It’s not for disgust but for the intimacy of knowing where each vital organ resides. Where she might strike with her sharp fangs.
Clearing her throat and blinking away the shock, Frey turns back to face Mesarez with a straight—but not entirely uninviting—face.
“There aren’t many like me,” Frey states plainly, as if unique is not the compliment it's delivered as. She only knew vaguely of her father, the little snippets of words her mother offered before abandoning her. Scales, serpent, tail. There is so little she can recall, and yet she knows from those words that she is like him. It fills her with a longing she does not yet—and may not ever—understand. She's never met another that reminded her of him.
To know the intricacies of another’s life. Their intimate ticks. Their gentility and their hostility. How one might predict their day just on how the weather is. Frey swallows back the tightness in her throat. There is so little she knows, and yet so much she knows she must mourn for. What are those ticks of her father? Of her mother? Did she have siblings to think of? Love is only a fairy tale spun on the wind of a distant nomad Frey doesn’t even engage with. Always in the shadows of the crowd, never within. She wonders where Mesarez might stand, amongst that crowd. She thinks he’d be welcome within them.
“Yes,” Frey whispers. All the light empties from her face as she slowly lifts her tail and shakes the rattle. She peers harshly at Mesarez, flashing the slightest glimpse of her fangs. Wonders if he can infer the poisonous promise that lies within them.
As quickly as she tenses, Frey releases her posture.
“But you do not seem to pose a threat. My name is Frey,” she says as she chances a few steps closer, keen eyes locking onto Mesarez.
“Are you a threat?”
@Mesarez
Clearing her throat and blinking away the shock, Frey turns back to face Mesarez with a straight—but not entirely uninviting—face.
“There aren’t many like me,” Frey states plainly, as if unique is not the compliment it's delivered as. She only knew vaguely of her father, the little snippets of words her mother offered before abandoning her. Scales, serpent, tail. There is so little she can recall, and yet she knows from those words that she is like him. It fills her with a longing she does not yet—and may not ever—understand. She's never met another that reminded her of him.
To know the intricacies of another’s life. Their intimate ticks. Their gentility and their hostility. How one might predict their day just on how the weather is. Frey swallows back the tightness in her throat. There is so little she knows, and yet so much she knows she must mourn for. What are those ticks of her father? Of her mother? Did she have siblings to think of? Love is only a fairy tale spun on the wind of a distant nomad Frey doesn’t even engage with. Always in the shadows of the crowd, never within. She wonders where Mesarez might stand, amongst that crowd. She thinks he’d be welcome within them.
“Yes,” Frey whispers. All the light empties from her face as she slowly lifts her tail and shakes the rattle. She peers harshly at Mesarez, flashing the slightest glimpse of her fangs. Wonders if he can infer the poisonous promise that lies within them.
As quickly as she tenses, Frey releases her posture.
“But you do not seem to pose a threat. My name is Frey,” she says as she chances a few steps closer, keen eyes locking onto Mesarez.
“Are you a threat?”
@Mesarez