my lover's got humour
she's the giggle at a funeral
it's a full moon. one bright and hungry, as a lunar spell glints bone-white reflections along the horizon. tonight, even the stars do not shine as bright as the moon, and euryale calantha drinks it all in; the moon, the stars, the hushed darkness that settles like a blanket over the earth, summoning the evening in a swift kiss of velvet. she watches the snowflakes drop one by one from heaven. they spin like angels lost to the wind. she feels a shiver dance upon her spine and yet she welcomes it, with a languid hiss. everything from the stillness of the river to the deep, dark shadows unfurling into a wicked forest, bewitches her. euryale loves her evening strolls, the silence and the desolation, of one's own company. everything like this makes her feel at peace, and it's a feeling she rarely enjoys. this peace. she wants it. tonight, she welcomes the solace, despite how much chaos her heart screams FOR.
her obsidian lashes slowly flutter open, to soak in the dim-lit ambience. she feels her heart pulsing, shifting like swan-wings beneath her porcelain breast. if it's excitement she feels, she does not show it; euryale is perfectly made to express little, outwardly. instead, she is an image of statuesque aesthetic and stormy calm. her crimson bodice, gleaming in all its feminine exoticism, as the rest of her, ripples over the water's surface like a red dragon. her curves seem to glow in the moonlight. the deepest of scarlet, the splashes of ivory, that highlight her slender angles like a dress made of fire and ice. when she looks down at her own reflection, however, she feels a timeless sort of emptiness. like she's lived too long in this world, and parts of her wished nothing more than a deathless death. there is a secret part of her that wants to rest beneath the earth. euryale sighs, and drinks deeply from the frost-bound river. tonight, her soul feels black and thirsty. tonight, she wants to drink the whole world and fill her emptiness with sin.
Orias knows the Moon, one would be forgiven for assuming by the gilt upon their neck and the sweeping curvature of their crown, the Sun is their deliverance. If not for that, then for the Solar Banners they wreathe themselves in, the Court of the Sun's stamp upon the leather of the tome they keep close. But the first to gaze upon them, eyes bright and burning only in the intensity of their blistering celestial blues, was the moon. She glitters, emphemereal and transcendent, winking in the reflection of the orb nestled in gold curves. Unknowable as her darker facets, and he stands in awe of her, always. Beneath her watchful gaze is where his most ardent words are committed to ink and parchment. Tonight however, it's a moonlight stroll, something quaint to alleviate the days troubles. Sundown often brings strange fellows from their dark nooks, strangers who eyes glint with a thousand untold stories that are just waiting to be told.
Forests are just a nice little change of scenery, rather than sun scorched sands and blistering whipping winds nipping at pink skin and delicate dispositions. In his homeland, drakes the colour of earthen emeralds glide from old oaks, bask upon ancient barrows of long forgotten warriors. There are rocs whose wings eclipse the sun sing their nightsong wine sweet. Melodic and haunting, as if the skies could never know melancholy other than novemeber rainfall against weathered stone. Before the Great Dragons and the Greater Unification, there had been those ancient and noble birds, Orias wonders then — considers what Novus might have in it's repertoire. What great beasts does it's beastiary hold, what noble and vicious creatures lurk both the dark and the deeps and their correlation to mythologies whispered high and low.
Stories, it's always about the stories these days. No longer a babe, and but not some wizened scholar with arthritis in his bones, supping poppy wine while skin wrinkles as well-worn clothing oft does before wash and repairs. They yearn for everything and nothing at once, conflicted on the state of their desires and what might quench them.
The Kirin looks starward, hair free of their daily binds, dressed down but never vulnerable. It would be a sound bet to declare it longer than their father's now, liquid moonlight tempered by starlight, curling and coiling as though exhaled from smoke. They breathe deeply, hold and then exhales. Speckled moonlight wrapped in gold flakes. Beaten bronze inlaid with earthen delights and ivory boned, stiller than ancient statues in druid glades. Reclaimed with each passing of the seasons. It isn't until there's commotion, that Orias' odd eyed gaze dares turn from it's posting to the celestial. Mildly curious, curiously mild — upon a maid who reminds him of sunsets in spring, impish pinks cresting clear waves. Once, what seems an awful long time ago, someone had said his odd eyes were the most beguiling feature of them all.
Royal purples of House Solaris' most noble burned line, of Galahalt's surest and determined mark upon their child. Kharos' golden burning gaze in the other. A remnant of yesteryears and the first steps towards greatness. Orias is the past and the future blended together, perfect in their father's eyes. How lucky, how virtuous, how blessed.
As they observe the lilac and cherry marvel, determine her most remarkable features from ones that would slip into oblivion in comparison, they drift closer. Her eyes and her tattoo strike out the most, for those who may have cared to know. Let their cloven hoovies dip into the shallows, enough that the water wets the tips of their white hairs, begins to draw the long tendrils of their mane out into the river current.
"Nice night." They intone, mild, testing. Back in Sunsyia, their tongue would be pressed firmly against their cheek as they said it. But sour lemons do not make for pleasant company, and you catch more delights with honey. If they're to get anything worth writing about, it pays to be kind. "Your tattoo, I don't think I've seen one quite like it. So many go for spirals, painted lines, suns and moons — rather boring, but a serpent. It is a warning or a meaning?"
"dialogue"
@euryale — I'm so rusty so I hope this is okay.
my lover's got humour
she's the giggle at a funeral
the icy, mystic wind feels like making love beneath the moonlight; cold, effortless kisses. its arctic zephyr whispers through the maiden's too-long lilac curls; make me your winter angel, they all but hiss. when unfiltered moonlight descends upon the huntress' wickedly slender figure, her body seems awashed in metallic afterglow. she is the crimson heart, burning against the barren wastelands of eternal snow. the frigid rays of moonlight, make a bridge for her slender spine and come-hither hips; how their silvery moon-fingers, rake down her svelte waist. teasing skin, tracing the female silhouette, with all the hunger of a vengeful lover.
how cold is the night? how dark the velvet skies, so full of wanton stars and glittery galaxies? full of snowflakes, as starlights dot the diamond-crisp aurora in visions of feral splendour. an evening of ethereal calm and wonder. an evening made just for intimacy and closeness. an evening made for euryale and them, as an elegant being enters her icy frontier like a blazing trail of ivory stars. euryale turns towards the source of undeniable, unabashed elegance. they gleam like a pale dragon in the night; perfect skin of blushing porcelain, dappled in the finest of silks. they are slender, too, fine-boned and avian in their gracefulness. their hair is too-long, just like euryale's, dipping well into the black water as spider-webs come undone. loosely pulled, and infinitely feathered. for a moment euryale says nothing, only allows the silence to draw between them like a frigid kiss.
"a beautiful night, for me. i love winter," her silken words overlap their own; venomously wild, feminine and husky syllables falling from her lips with each electric whisper. her hot, crimson gaze nestles into this white angel of a creature; burrowing into their soul like teeth might bury into bone and flesh. running her penetrative stare over their own form; studying, observing the moon and sun lit from within. euryale calantha lifts her graceful skull heavenward, twisting up so that her maw seems to reach out to them, in a passive motion of feral curiosity.
"they hide the vulnerable sides of my flesh; my snakes, my companions. like covering scars with art, they offer both vengeance and beauty and venom," her whispered lyrics fall deeper between them; euryale searches their eyes, sinking deeply within their dual-hued irises. "most of all, they offer me repreive from my past," her eyes blink slowly, lengthy lashes unfurling over wickedly blushing cheekbones. "why are you out here in the cold? a graceful being like you? i can't imagine you running away from something," euryale on the otherhand; she runs from her past.
![[Image: 11661096-Irhl-F8-TOJSYd-DA1.png]](https://i.ibb.co/yYZGBpD/11661096-Irhl-F8-TOJSYd-DA1.png)
