As silly as it seemed, Susurro Fields was special to her—for it had been where Terrastella had welcomed Cyrene with a soft embrace. Her, a broken girl with a broken heart who pretended to be so selfless, who dazzled with a starlight smile and vanished with a fleeting caress. Cyrene was not selfless. Maybe, she was doing it all out of spite, out of pity—if I save these poor creatures, it would mend my own soul. A misplaced sense of valor, perhaps. She wasn’t sure, one never could be with concerns of the heart; but in the depths of her own, a darkness lingered. That she was certain of.
Sable curls weighed heavily upon the girl’s flower-strewn crown. Gently, she touched the golden vial and single grey feather that remained always around her neck. After parting ways with the dove-coated boy, Saoirse, who had reminded her so much of Cygnus with his demure manners and quicksilver feathers, the gravity of the Earth all at once dragged her down into its murky depths. It had always made an exception for her, for the nymph who glided across the dew-soaked grass with an effortless grace bestowed upon nimble hooves. Yet now…
She traipsed soundlessly through the thin blanket of snow coating the gentle swells of the lantern-lit meadow. Inhaling deeply, the scent of sweet liquor and roasted chestnuts filled every pore of her body—and along with it, just as strong, the stench of woodsmoke. Even now, when Cyrene had smelled it all throughout the night, she still breathed it out as quickly as she drew it in. You must stop dwelling upon what has already happened, she sighed. Shaking her head sharply, the girl walked passed the sparkling liquors (she was not fond of alcohol’s bitter tang) and towards the stall where honeyed chestnuts roasted merrily on a soft flame. "I’ll take four, please,” and she smiled merrily at the vendor who swiftly handed her a steaming pouch of sweet, golden-brown chestnuts.
Avoiding the crowds gathered around the massive bonfires, Cyrene picked her way delicately towards a more open stretch of land, where only a few others lingered. Amber eyes floated towards a fallen tree a few paces ahead, only lightly dusted with snow. Its trunk makes for a perfect seat to sit and enjoy the upcoming aurora, she mused, and she made a beeline for it in case anyone else reached the same conclusion. The tail end of the trunk was hidden in shadow, and Cyrene paid no mind to it as she perched lightly upon the other end, gilded wings stretched open behind her.
A wisp of steam drifted from her aromatic treat, and she deftly popped one into her mouth, a small wince slipping past her lips as it burned her tongue. "How delicious!” she murmured, marveling at the saccharine snack as rosy lips upturned into a sylphlike grin. "Yet food tastes sweeter in the company of another.”
So absorbed was she in her cuisine, that Cyrene failed to notice the soft glint of a golden eye, the smooth satin of a metallic body as he lay, silent, at the other end of the log. It seemed she had company after all.
You're one microscopic cog
In his catastrophic plan,
It was utterly out of character for Velorca to be lounging in the shadows alone — especially when so many delectable citizens laughed and drank around the massive bonfires. There were many elegant curves and plump lips, many wandering eyes that would have undoubtedly settled upon the sleek, flawless lines of him had he been there. Tonight though, tonight he was tired. His meeting with Alaric had drained his desire to court the handsome and the beautiful, to smile coyly and offer his services.
So he lay alone upon a massive tree trunk, partially hidden by the bitter shadows, only a glass of burning Terrastellan liquor keeping him warm as he watched the festival goers with disdain. Condescension lingered along the razor sharp bones of his face, burnt butter eyes sharp and unimpressed. He noticed her through the crowd, a bobbing wine-dark head, all slim limbs and feminine grace — but his gaze continued to wander, only lingering momentarily to appreciate the beauty of her.
She was a firefly amongst shadows, the others around her unimportant and, frankly, not up to his standard. Despite his interest, Lorca dismissed her too, casually assuming she was just another Terrastellan bumbler — all they cared for was healing and helping, supposedly selfless. Lorca snorted at the thought, taking an elegant sip of his liquor, a life spent helping others was wasted, in his opinion. What of the self? What about gold and glory and being better than others? Hierarchy settled well on Velorca's slender shoulders, even better if it crowned his silver head.
His thoughts were cut short as he noted the auburn haired girl slipping fluidly through the crowd and toward his lone perch. Lorca narrowed his long lashed eyes, releasing her from his vision only to look to the heavens in a long suffering glare. When he returned his cold gaze to earth, she was perched daintily upon the end of the log, her vast wings catching the flicker and flare of firelight. Without intending to, he found himself quite enthralled with the dance of light upon her wine soaked feathers — an ethereal and ancient attraction to the basest of beauty.
"Yet food tastes sweeter in the company of another.”
An unexpected voice, not the high pitched idiocy he had come to expect from girls with bodies like hers. The scent of honey and roasted chestnuts wafted to him, the frigid night air doing its best to thieve the smell away from him. Lorca sighed again, gracefully leaning forward into the light of the flickering flames, his svelte voice cutting toward her through the dark;
"Could you try not to attract the whole of Terrastella to my log?"
A cold glare, then his golden eyes flicked down to the sweets still steaming in front of her. He curled a lip, despite the fact that his mouth had started salivating.
Cyrene almost dropped a precious chestnut as a frosty voice drifted out from the shadows.
Bless her quick reflexes, for the girl had caught it with a renewed tendril of telekinetic power mere inches from the snow-sodden ground. A spike of vexation flashed through her, and lion eyes jerked sharply towards the sour, sonorous tone that had caught her so uncharacteristically off guard. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness that concealed the source so well—but when they did, she found herself drowning in molten pools of liquid gold.
His gaze was hypnotic—as intoxicating as the wine that glimmered tauntingly by his snarling lips. Though, she was quick to notice that those aurum pools held not a fraction of the warmth that flowed freely from her own. Taken aback as she was, Cyrene's flames only fanned higher with challenge; and the girl countered his steely comment with a saccharine smile.
"If anyone comes near, I’ll tell them about the divine candied apples that little stall over there is selling like hotcakes,” and she tipped her nose towards a booth across the field. "That ought to keep them away from our log,” she replied smoothly, rosy lips quirked upwards as they deliberately enunciated the words that stifled his venom with suffocating honey. Their log, because she had no intentions of leaving. Her gaze lingered upon the planes of his fine-boned face, tracing the edges of his marble-hewn body that lounged resplendently across the wood. Light and shadow played across him like chiaroscuro, and Cyrene almost arched a brow at the sight. Did he have to pose like that?
A little voice at the back of her mind whispered—but it’s working, isn’t it? She quickly extinguished that voice.
The boy of silken shadow seemed more interested in her steaming packet of chestnuts than in her—she couldn’t blame him, it gave off a ridiculously delectable aroma—and she cocked her head in amusement at his question.
"These?” She still had three left, and though her stomach protested at the thought of sparing even one, the idea of witnessing his cold eyes lose their edge upon tasting the savory treat was too hard to resist. "Here, try them,” and she pushed the steaming packet towards him, her own slender frame gliding closer to where he lay in her effort.
Up close, his beauty was truly remarkable—and as Cyrene thought of her own untamed, wild curls in comparison to his sheet of infuriatingly perfect hair… well, she was a girl. Her own lack of presentation irked her like it never had before; a duckling next to a preening swan. Whenever Cyrene was bothered (which didn’t happen often) her wings would instinctively wrap neatly around her body; they did so now, and her golden scars shimmered like fairy dust under the moonlight.
She didn’t wait for him to try one of the chestnuts before slipping the one that she had caught earlier into an eager mouth, eyes crinkling in delight as she licked the sugar crystals off her lips. Fixing her amber gaze to his, she wondered if he would entertain her attempts at a conversation. "Are you enjoying the festival?” Her eyes dropped to the glass of liquor leaning against his side. At the very least, he’s enjoying the refreshments.
"And I’m Cyrene, by the way.” A casual introduction she offered, for it was far too festive a night for rigid pleasantries.
@Velorca | in the meantime cy will try her hardest to charm/annoy him x"D
You're one microscopic cog
In his catastrophic plan,
Her smile was so unexpected that Lorca felt his long lashed eyes widen for just a moment at the sight of it, though his face was swift to descend back into cool indifference. He didn't get caught on saccharine smiles or depthless amber eyes, though he couldn't help but to note the lioness prowling behind hers — the strength limning the fine lines of her delicate face. She looked unbroken, not untouched... but not soured by the world and the constant turn of fate, as if she'd chosen to remain steadfast against it's blemish.
Lorca felt her gaze sliding over his satin frame with equal degrees of pleasure and shame, though his face remained cold and impassive. He already knew what she would see — and it was not a lion standing fierce and proud against the world. He wondered if she could see the faded bruises and cuts, the fractures of his soul bleeding through the perfect steel of his flawless skin. He had not stayed brave in the face of life and her cruelty, he'd chosen to turn his fear vindictive, his suffering into the suffering of others. Life was cold and cruel and empty of... of the things she bled into the frigid air. She shifted closer and Lorca cut his vision back to her sharply, then glanced at the offering between them.
After a moment of silence he shifted forward on the log, the golden firelight embracing him wholly as it turned his hair into a waterfall of molten silver. Slowly, he placed the chestnut between his supple lips, chewing on the delectable treat in languid enjoyment, his long lashes brushing the fine planes of his cheekbones in a slow blink. When he returned his gaze to the lion-hearted girl her wings were raised, as beautiful and wine-dark as the rest of her — except for the... Lorca narrowed his burnt butter eyes as he realised what it was that scattered her beautiful wings. Perhaps life had not been so kind to the elfin woman.
"Are you enjoying the festival?”
Velorca watched her eyes slip over the glass of liquor at his side, thinking he'd rather buy her a thousand gallons of it than share the single glass he had, though to his dismay he found himself offering;
"Honeyed liquor. Would you like some?"
His voice was svelte velvet as he continued;
"I suppose.. Terrastella has her moments."
He hadn't come to the festival to enjoy himself — he'd come to find other Davke and overhear secrets that fell from drunk mouths. Yet here he was, the closest to a genuine conversation he'd been in so long... though he wouldn't have titled it enjoyment so much as necessity. She had a way of soothing the other irritants in his life, taking all of his honed focus and placing it upon herself, removing all thoughts but wine soaked feathers and secret golden scars. Lorca's gaze dropped to some sugar crystals Cyrene had missed on her lips, ignoring the urge to brush them off, or worse, kiss them.
"Velorca," he offered simply, returning his gaze swiftly to her too-keen eyes. He licked his own lips, suddenly conscious that he might have some sugar left there too. In an effort to refocus, he asked;
"Are you a Terrastellan? Or visiting from elsewhere?"
Tawny eyes danced in delight as she watched him reluctantly taste the savory treat she’d offered, his aurum gaze dropping from hers to blink in languid enjoyment. For a tender moment, she’d been afraid he would refuse; and she could not explain why she had felt such relief at his brooding acceptance.
As the ever-present frown slipped from his velveteen lips like an echo, an odd tingle dragged itself heavily across the girl’s mahogany pelt. Like this, his handsome visage smooth and free of the strain that had gathered at the corners of his burning gaze… he looked less like an untouchable Adonis swathed in satin and silk, and more like a boy. Just a beautiful, hurting boy who had fallen so far from the skies, he thought himself lost to the darkness below. But his flame, it flickered there. She could see it—and she would dive to the pits of Tartarus to make him realize, as well.
When her searching gaze returned to his, amber pools widened in surprise as she realized that he’d been studying her with a matching intensity. Gold-stained feathers raised higher as the girl casually brushed back a lock of hair that had infringed her field of vision for too long. Yet her curls were innocent—and her racing heart was not. If he looked at her like that any longer—
Her wings. He was looking at her wings. Quickly, too quickly, glimmering sable feathers dropped back into the darkness as Cyrene’s scintillating smile wavered like glowing embers. Had he seen? Had he detected the vile pocks in the feathers, recognized the sly, gilded constellations for what they really were? Dull pain throbbed through her chest, yet her scorching eyes remained steady and bright. For never would the nymph reveal the blackness that raged inside her, to him.
If he did notice, the chrome-kissed man offered no indication. Instead, he fluidly raised the glass of wine, still relatively untouched, towards her. Honeyed liquor.
"Thank you,” she breathed. "Though just a bit—I’m rather terrible at holding my liquor.” Delicately, she brought the glass to her lips and tipped it back, eyelashes fluttering as the wine burned slow and steady down her throat. True to her word, she drank only half its contents—though it was wonderfully fragrant, and Cyrene’s expression brightened as she set it back down.
"I hope Terrastella has been as good to you as she has been to me,” she hummed, lifting her chin to the starry skies above. ”… Velorca,” she repeated, silvery voice light as it glided across his name. She would memorize the way it felt against her tongue.
"I come from a place across the sea; and I have traveled a thousand days and nights until at last arriving here, at the court of Dusk.” Lion eyes twinkled as she turned to peer at him, her voice a storyteller’s echoing across a blazing fire. "And I plan to stay—partially for the sweets, but more so for the people.” Though teasing, as she leaned absentmindedly towards the man’s svelte frame, her expressive eyes grew solemn.
"I do not think you hail from here, either,” she stated, simply. It was nothing more than conjecture, really, but Velorca looked as compatible with the Terrastellans as a panther among sheep.
You're one microscopic cog
In his catastrophic plan,
Subtle amusement turned Lorca's eyes bright as she admitted her tolerance to liquor, a smooth voice murmuring within him, You don't say?
He'd come across many hard drinkers in his time amid the sheets, and Cyrene didn't look like one of them. The thought stole the hard-won light within his golden eyes, though they still studied the lion-eyed girl as she drank — slowly, sensually. Velorca tried and failed not to watch, his focus lingering on her beautiful mouth and the way her eyes closed in pleasure, lashes fluttering delicately against soft cheeks. He'd always been more inclined to spend his time with men, had found his desire lay with broad shoulders and strong chests, hard lines and handsome smiles.
But it had been so long since he'd had an emotion like that to himself it was likely he'd forgotten the difference between what he liked and what he received. Cyrene certainly didn't fit the description of his usual client, so perhaps that was why he found himself so inclined to continue speaking with her — or maybe it was the way her auburn skin caught the firelight, how her long lashed eyes went beyond kind and into territory Lorca wasn't sure he was quite ready to venture. She was too genuine, too... accepting?
His name on her lips was too innocent. Lorca looked away as she looked to the sky, staring instead at the far off bonfires even as he savoured the sound of it, felt almost inclined to ask her not to use it again... for though it was his name and had at one time been the only thing he'd owned, it had been tainted by too many lips, too many rough hands.
A place across the sea,
She mused, and Lorca allowed himself to consider that there were other countries, other worlds out there that hadn't seen the cruelty he had — or that had suffered their own cruelties.
And I plan to stay..
He shouldn't have felt anything for her yet, shouldn't have cared whether or not it would be the last he saw of her but... Lorca felt a small kernel of gladness flutter to life within his gold flaked ribs, that she would be here even when he returned. Perhaps when the Davke tore down the Day Court he would return, and be better for it. When she leaned closer he didn't pull away, only settled himself with a small, wry smile.
"I don't."
Velorca was tempted to leave it at that, but she was trying so hard to be friendly — and for once he didn't feel inclined to laugh at the effort. After a breath he continued, his voice svelte and lovely;
"I'm from Solterra — The Day Court, North-East from here."
Another moment passed and Lorca loosed a quiet, dark laugh;
"I'd suggest you visit but it's not the most welcoming Court... not like Dusk"
Velorca tried to make the word sound contemptuous, and succeeded a little — but not quite. He didn't want Cyrene stepping into Solterra with her lions eyes and dancers grace, her kindness like a target upon her slim back. The thought of the men that sneered and ogled at him looking at her that way...
"Did you come alone?"
The thought occurred to him slowly, the feeling that her confidence and kindness might be a result of someone else watching over her. She was strong on her own account, that much he saw, but she was beautiful, and of all men, Lorca knew what beautiful things attracted. The thought of a Dusk suitor for her was laughable — but not impossible.
She used to think that there could be nothing more beautiful than the night sky, nothing more lovely than the moon’s caress as it painted the world quicksilver bright. She was wrong. Because he existed. And unlike the elusive moon, the taunting stars—he was right there; a feather’s touch away. So close. Too close. Was the liquor working already, for her to lean so carelessly towards him like a foolish, giggling maiden?
If so, then the girl’s utterly pitiful tolerance would very well be the death of her hard-won dignity. The two meager chestnuts Cyrene had consumed soaked up the wine about as well as two pebbles would have—and as she shifted away, she cursed her swimming mind and her traitorous, floundering heart.
Though Cyrene could not deny her relative inexperience in… romance, relationships—anything of the sort, really—she was well aware of the weapon any shapely, giggling thing wielded over the fantasies of men. Especially ones with stones for brains, and she had met far too many of those in the span of her year-long journey. Not a drop of guilt had dared to stain her honeyed lips as she strung them sweetly along; a wink here, a light brush of teasing feathers there. A girl traveling alone was a dangling invitation for disaster—and Cyrene had needed all the knives (metaphorical or not) she could pluck to survive as well as she had.
Yet Velorca, it seemed, would be her grand undoing—with just a glance, a tilt of velvet lips, and the finely spun threads of caution the girl laid out like a spider’s web disintegrated within his burning gaze. Unwilling to face her mess of tangled feelings, she blamed his catastrophically good looks instead.
As his voice dragged like cool fingers through her too-keen ears, Cyrene waved her swarming thoughts away like a nagging mosquito. "Solterra…” those keen, crimson ears of hers did not miss the irony that curled itself sleekly inside his dismissive words. "Dusk is welcoming, perhaps too much so—though it is nice to have it easy, for a change,” she murmured softly; not quite rebuking his comment. Yet all the same, Cyrene wondered at the weight his toneless utterance held. "Though if I ever knock upon your Solterran door, I hope you’ll return my greeting.”
Regardless of his intentions, she would doubtlessly visit the Kingdom of Sun one day. For Cyrene did not expect him to come to her, and the thought of never seeing those golden eyes again jabbed sharp and frigid against her chest.
“Did you come alone?”
Sable lashes blinked in momentary surprise, as the question caught her unawares. The travel-worn lass had gotten so used to going anywhere she pleased unescorted, that the thought that proper ladies never did so appalled her. Did he see her as a poor, companionless girl, then? A creeping embarrassment bled subtly into her amber eyes as she doled out a bold answer.
"If I had not, I wouldn’t have seated myself upon this lonely log, and I wouldn’t have met you—it would have made for a dull evening.” A silvery chuckle spilled from her lips as she realized the truth in what had originally meant to be a jest. Infuriatingly enough, her head spun as she did; staunchly though she resisted, her body remained adamant in protesting liquor’s unwanted intrusion.
And so when wine-red feathers glided softly, swiftly, across Velorca’s lounging, storm-kissed frame, the touch transpired from fumbling limbs than conscious seduction. Meaning to steady herself upon the wood, Cyrene’s wings had opened of their own accord—much too widely, to her horror. Quickly she jerked them away, the spot where she had touched him burning like it had been singed. "My apologies,” she breathed. What a way to sober her instantly.
@Velorca | notes: tipsy cyrene has made contact ;D
You're one microscopic cog
In his catastrophic plan,
The strangest urge to laugh tugged at his silver lips as Cyrene grew noticeably drunker, an impressive feat with the sip she had taken — though perhaps there wasn't much of her to soak up the drink. Lorca let his golden eyes travel over her slim body, so elegant and yet so obviously capable, her limbs knotted with sleek muscle that proved she did more than flit and flirt with festival goers in her spare time.
Her voice was a lullaby... not the kind the Davke mothers would sing, all blood and glory and tales of success but.. the kind Velorca would want to listen to now. It was a gentle reminder that the world did not stop for anyone, that sometimes strength could be proved in stoicism, in peace.
"Though if I ever knock upon your Solterran door, I hope you’ll return my greeting.”
Something like dread washed swiftly through him, an internal cold gripping him at the thought of Cyrene walking through the sun-bleached Court. She would look lovely gilded in sunlight, her wine-dark hair loose and shining, those tawny eyes like a pool of liquid honey for him to fall into... Velorca blinked, realising that he had been staring. It would be best if he sneered and dismissed her now, flicked her away like an insect upon his skin in the hopes that she would be so offended she didn't think to visit him in the desert but... one of two thoughts stopped him.
One: Cyrene didn't seem like the type of girl that would allow his callous behaviour to stop her from going where she wanted.
And Two: He really didn't want her to hate him. For whatever reason, he couldn't stand the thought.
So Lorca settled for a noncommittal half-smile, searching for words but finding none to express just how much he wanted her to avoid the Day Court. Night, too. Dusk and Dawn really were the finest examples of civility in Novus — Solterra full of savages and Denocte full of... well, nobody really knew. Only that they were gypsies and thieves, undisciplined and utterly, dangerously enchanting.
The silvery chuckle that spilled from her velveteen lips was so lovely that Velorca felt his eyes brighten, a smile playing elegantly about his own soft mouth. So she was alone — in more ways than one. He didn't want to think about the pleasure he felt at the admission, that she would choose to sit with him rather than search for another suitor — forgetting of course that she hadn't even known he was there when she sat down.
He wasn't ready when her feathers brushed his skin, the touch like the softest kiss or trailing fingertips.
Velorca went rigid, not moving an inch but stiffening so that he appeared almost like a silver statue perched upon the log, his golden eyes and the shift of his silver mane the only evidence that he lived. Too soon that touch was gone, leaving only an insistent tingle, an ache.
Lorca released the breath he had been holding, lashes brushing his razor edged cheekbones as he blinked languidly, trying to recover a semblance of control. She looked more abashed than him, shame creeping like a blush along her graceful face. What was she ashamed of? The scars? He tried not to look at them, though he longed to trace the broken pieces of her with gentle fingers, to tell her that all scars could heal — hypocritical as that was.
Instead, even as she breathed an apology, he shifted tentatively closer. He wanted to ask, Can I kiss you? Because he wanted to know what it would feel like — but at the same time he didn't want to touch her, didn't want to stain her with his blasphemous, used body. She was a spark of light, a dancing flame — extinguishable and precious and altogether too good for him.
Still...
"I don't mind.." he breathed, inching closer again. They were so close he could smell her, the scent of those sugary almonds imbued amongst the cedar and pine that seemed to linger upon her red skin. She smelled free. She smelled like getting lost in the woods. Not the desert, flame and blood of a Solterran, but peace and serenity and forgiveness.
It was so foreign to him that he couldn't let it go, couldn't turn his burnt-butter gaze from her lions eyes as he murmured huskily;
The wine would either be a curse or a blessing—she couldn’t decide, for her reeling mind refused to work more than it deserved in the state she’d subjected it to. Still, Cyrene wished desperately to regain some semblance of control over her lethargic limbs. As if on cue, her mother’s words floated to the forefront of her muddled thoughts: “Keep well away from liquor, Cyrene. Those with our blood do not recover from its effects well.” She wanted to laugh. Too late.
In the swirling, undulating vortex of colors, the only hue that kept her tethered to the present was yellow. Golden, butter yellow. Casually, loosely, her amber eyes skimmed along the shadows of Velorca’s sculpted cheeks, lingered at the golden chains that dangled from his silver hair. He had not responded to her noncommittal wish to visit his court—Cyrene wondered at the reason, yet refused to linger upon it long. For her next words, whatever they had been, had amused him; and the soft smile that bloomed across his satin lips dazzled her utterly with its rarity and transient beauty. Those divine lips opened, surely to respond to her jests, when—that’s right, she had touched him.
Horror at her careless error acted like a much-needed slap to her kaleidoscopic mind. Yet just as strongly, just as puzzling, was the delight she felt at how still he had become from her brief, feathered touch; like a marble Adonis, a majestic, somber sculpture.
If he had not offered his drink to her, if she had not accepted, would she have ever touched him? Certainly not—as bold as she presented herself, Cassandra’s solemn upbringing had driven all habit of casual touch from Cyrene’s spirited limbs. And after the sickness, after she had not known the warmth of a living body for a dreadful, ashen month, to caress the face of another felt like a sin. Because all she could think of, all she could see, was how glassy their eyes became when they were dead.
“I don’t mind.”
Velorca’s murmured, sonorous words stripped her wavering constitution to the bone.
“I don’t mind at all.”
So close did he draw to her. She could see every detail of him in radiant clarity; the golden flecks that shimmered in his chrome-kissed skin, the polished golden ring that rested in his velvet muzzle. Gold. He was flaked in it, embellished at every angle with the color that had marred Cyrene’s weary wings and clotted her pounding heart. Her life, it seemed, was carved and sealed in gleaming gold.
Keenly did she observe the way he looked at her; how his eyes rested upon every line of her face with silent, ardent attention. Soon, there would be nothing left of her that remained unscathed. I do not know anything about you. Mesmerized by the swells of his lavender perfume, she ushered her wide, empyrean eyes closed. Tell me, is it foolish?
But it was too late. Far too late. The skies above, the earth below, all lowered their vast, somber eyes as Cyrene brushed her soft muzzle against Velorca’s silken nose. Warm skin, cold metal. The seconds passed her by like minutes, years, as she rested her weary head against his. Her past, her sorrow—all melted into a wisp of silver smoke, as she wished the moment would last just a bit longer.
It took everything left in her to draw away again, and already her crimson skin mourned the loss of contact, sighed as its warmth was stolen by the jealous night. "Is it too late… to ask if you came alone?” she exhaled, amber eyes half-lidded as a somber smile played across parted lips.
What troubled her, was that whatever his answer may be—it would not change anything within her heart. Not a thing.
@Velorca | notes: AHH these two will be death of me x.x
You're one microscopic cog
In his catastrophic plan,
She looked at him so intensely it felt almost as if she were scouring his soul, those amber eyes swallowing him until all he could see was deep, warm, luxurious gold. If he hadn't been so completely lost in that moment, her touch scattering him to the breeze, he might have leaped up and away and ran as fast as he could from the tentative trembling of his frozen heart. Would this be it? His first kiss? The first kiss he actually wanted to give, the first kiss that didn't taste of lies and betrayal.
Lorca felt his breath catch in his throat as her eyes fluttered closed, those divine lashes brushing her cheekbones so lightly, so softly. He'd never found anyone as beautiful as her, had never considered that he might actually be attracted to someone, to anyone after... after it all. Usually at this stage his skin was crawling with revulsion, the sense of actually touching anyone marred completely by Zolin's selfish caress.
But —
Her blushing lips pressed to his and the world changed.
All of a sudden. Just like that.
Velorca leaned into the touch after but a moment, pressing his supple lips to hers as his carefully encased heart began to crumble. She leaned her head to his and he allowed it, his own liquid gold eyes remaining closed as he breathed in the scent of pine and primrose — memorising it, blending it together with the vision of her wine-dark skin. He ached all over, whether from fear or from desire he could not tell — though perhaps it was a little of both.
He'd thought he was entitled to only one beginning, yet here lay his second, the chance for Velorca Ludimyr to have something good in his life.
She pulled away and he mourned the loss of her curls against his satin skin, mourned the casual brush of her breath mingling with his own.
"Is it too late… to ask if you came alone?”
Lorca would have laughed if he wasn't still so lost, still reeling from the touch of her velveteen lips. Instead he rallied himself, pulling in those pieces of him that had fallen apart at her touch.
"I came alone"
He confirmed huskily, though his aurelian eyes moved and caught on a lone figure in the distance. Even from so far he knew the sharp line of his Queen's body, thanked whatever Gods still listened that Avdotya would think of Cyrene as just another of his customers. Regardless, her appearance was signal enough that the night should end — that there would be consequences if Cyrene found herself entangled within Davke webs.
Fear turned the warmth she had given him to ice and Lorca stood suddenly, towering above the lion-eyed girl still lying upon their log. He backed up a step, two, and subtly checked to see if anyone was watching them — Avdotya wasn't the only Davke here tonight.
"I have to go."
Was his only explanation, his voice low, silky and unnervingly full of promise. Lorca made to leave swiftly, elegantly finding his way to the ground — but turned back, hesitating.
"I'll find you again.."
Was his lingering promise, a slight reminder not to try and enter Solterra and a quiet reassurance that he would see her again.
He couldn't bear not to.
@Cyrene the ending was a bit poo but I figured once Cy responds we can end this one here and start up a new one when she visits Solterra??
