beauty is not in the face
beauty is a light in the heart
beauty is a light in the heart
H
e moves, red, red, red beneath the green canopies. atop the aching swamp floors that would devour him if only they could discern every sin staining his soul (if any were left). Oh, but he moves as a snake, a cobra sliding nearer. He plunges forth as Ares, as Mars, as Phobos as Laran. Ah! but he is no God she recognizes. Glory favors the bold, and how bold this man with flashing eyes and flashing skin is. Inch by inch he comes closer, and inch by inch those green, laughing eyes eat him up as she would any other of flesh and bone. Juniper wears no shame in her perusal, in her hunt; she grins that girly grin, flashes her own crocodile smile and lets him slide next to her. When Raum is not near enough, pale wings extend until they are a blanket sheltering him from the sweltering heat and flesh is almost pressed chastely against flesh. "These swamps were mine before they were ever yours, I can smell their absence on you." A simple statement, a musical medley of words mashed into some semblance of sense and reasoning. For he does not taste of cinnamon fern or water-weed or the water-lilies she so resembles. There is no tang to his skin as there are on her sisters', there is no water running hot and cold and violently through his veins. But there is a fire, a curiosity.
"No matter," the Pegasus whispers, voice like a lark, like honey in sunlight, like a goddess bursting into the world unknown. "An eye for an eye, a question for a question. Nothing is free, but you likely already know that," she winks. Audacious and crazy and brilliant, she ruffles her feathers over him and looks to the shafts of light that glitter so close.
From beside them she plucks up an orchid, pink and marvelously vivid, and bit by bit it crumbles beneath her gaze, is shredded into strips so fine they become like thread. She repeats this, hibiscus her next victim, as she thinks of all she could say. "Our goddess teaches us the value of secrecy in these ancient groves, in the flicker of sunlight that holds a shadow - should I trust you to bear them as the Priestesses have done since our dawning?" Brows shoot up, a challenge to be met in the curve of her lips now pressed into a line. Grinning, she shreds another flesh-colored flower before them, a grave of what-was lying just ahead. There are so many marvelous choices, but what one will he choose, she wonders?
@Raum | "speaks" | notes: girl wants a pound of flesh first
