LYSANDER
Oh, he has always been drawn to the affairs of mortals because of this – how fiercely they felt, loud enough to rattle the stars. The emotions of the gods he knew (he supposes nothing of the gods of Novus) were always oversized, overwrought, and in the end meaningless because nothing, for them, was permanent.
It is the brevity of life that makes it beautiful. Each betrayal, each sigh of longing and lingering look, each little hurt – all of them felt as deeply as a wound. He wonders, even as he draws regretfully away from the little Anthousai, what he might feel if he stayed. To grow old, to fall in love, to fall then into despair, to rage, to die – ah, what mysteries they were. A shiver wends its way down his dappled skin and he shakes his head, turns his gaze back to the kirin.
His companion only adds to the feeling that the night entire is a reverie. With Isorath ahead of him, gleaming like starfire in alabaster and gold, and the rising, laughing voices of the festival-goers, he can almost imagine he is back home.
Oh, but those nights had always turned twisted come dawn. Lysander expected no madness here, none of the ecstasy that ended so often with blood –
But after meeting that dark-haired king, he wonders. And smiles.
He turns that smile on the kirin at the sound of his name, meeting the violent eyes beneath their snowy lashes. Around them the night is no longer cool; bonfires shed sparks and heat and they are caught up in the warmth of a hundred celebrating bodies. He leans nearer, to hear and be heard over the music, over the madness.
“A dangerous question,” he says with a grin, “for I am an insatiable man, when it comes to learning, and would know anything you’d care to tell me.” He’s close enough that the kirin’s adornments glitter like stars; close enough the scent of the lilies he wears mingles with the smells of woodsmoke, of wine.
Perhaps Lysander is as much a creature of habit as they – he can never resist flowers. It is what drew him to Florentine in the first place.
His attention is caught again by the dancers around and above them and he leans away as Isorath walks on, the question he intends to ask heavy on his tongue. For now he puts it aside; he is too hungry, still, for the party around them.
So he laughs when the kirin whirls, ethereal and kingly, and he does not miss the gazes caught fast by the Dusk regent, they way they call for him. He inclines his head, watches shadows and sparks dance around them, meets again those distractingly lilac eyes. The quirk of his lips is half-hidden by shadow. “Another weakness of mine,” he says, and already he can feel the pull of it in his heartbeat, in the rush of his blood, in the heat of the fires and the jumble of bodies. “I am sorry you lost your earlier partner – I’m no companion in beauty or status.” His green eyes glimmer with laughter, with firelight, with something sharper, darker, more keen.
@Isorath
It is the brevity of life that makes it beautiful. Each betrayal, each sigh of longing and lingering look, each little hurt – all of them felt as deeply as a wound. He wonders, even as he draws regretfully away from the little Anthousai, what he might feel if he stayed. To grow old, to fall in love, to fall then into despair, to rage, to die – ah, what mysteries they were. A shiver wends its way down his dappled skin and he shakes his head, turns his gaze back to the kirin.
His companion only adds to the feeling that the night entire is a reverie. With Isorath ahead of him, gleaming like starfire in alabaster and gold, and the rising, laughing voices of the festival-goers, he can almost imagine he is back home.
Oh, but those nights had always turned twisted come dawn. Lysander expected no madness here, none of the ecstasy that ended so often with blood –
But after meeting that dark-haired king, he wonders. And smiles.
He turns that smile on the kirin at the sound of his name, meeting the violent eyes beneath their snowy lashes. Around them the night is no longer cool; bonfires shed sparks and heat and they are caught up in the warmth of a hundred celebrating bodies. He leans nearer, to hear and be heard over the music, over the madness.
“A dangerous question,” he says with a grin, “for I am an insatiable man, when it comes to learning, and would know anything you’d care to tell me.” He’s close enough that the kirin’s adornments glitter like stars; close enough the scent of the lilies he wears mingles with the smells of woodsmoke, of wine.
Perhaps Lysander is as much a creature of habit as they – he can never resist flowers. It is what drew him to Florentine in the first place.
His attention is caught again by the dancers around and above them and he leans away as Isorath walks on, the question he intends to ask heavy on his tongue. For now he puts it aside; he is too hungry, still, for the party around them.
So he laughs when the kirin whirls, ethereal and kingly, and he does not miss the gazes caught fast by the Dusk regent, they way they call for him. He inclines his head, watches shadows and sparks dance around them, meets again those distractingly lilac eyes. The quirk of his lips is half-hidden by shadow. “Another weakness of mine,” he says, and already he can feel the pull of it in his heartbeat, in the rush of his blood, in the heat of the fires and the jumble of bodies. “I am sorry you lost your earlier partner – I’m no companion in beauty or status.” His green eyes glimmer with laughter, with firelight, with something sharper, darker, more keen.
@Isorath
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
