you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
He stepped back smoothly, all too happy to let the grey step forward and handle the wires. The silver of the blade was bright, almost glowing, a sharp contrast to the dark handle - and with only the slightest of flourishes, the trap was disarmed. Ipomoea’s eyes followed its every movement, from the moment the knife appeared to the time it disappeared beneath its sheath.
His gaze traveled slowly to the stranger’s face. And without quite knowing why, his heart began to race.
You’re being paranoid, he tried to tell himself, even when the branches overhead began to tremble. It’s just the wind. Just a stranger. Just a walk in the woods. But still -
There was a root of suspicion burrowing down into his chest, and the tug of the blade on the wire kept replaying in his mind. Practiced, almost.
He brushes it aside. ”Thank you,” he says, but the words feel strangely hollow, falling short of gratefulness. For just a second, silence stretched in between the two stallions, a silence that failed to relent even when the grey shook out his neck and sighed with seeming ease.
”I certainly hope so,” he answered automatically, then smiled despite himself. Bending down again, he began to unspool the wire, tracing it through the undergrowth. All the while, he kept one ear turned back towards the man. ”We never used to find these traps of his - only the bodies. I hope then that this is a sign.” Had he said ‘he’? The word slipped past before he could stop it. Ipomoea paused, glancing back to see the grey’s reaction.
One heartbeat passed, then two, and three in quick succession. His eyes passed over Sarkan’s form, pausing once again at dark handle of the knife showing above its sheath.
”Is that a hunting blade? It looks -“ he struggled for the right word, while the trees shivered again overhead. In every tap and scratch and creak of their branches twisting against one another, they whispered all the wrong words to him. Silver teeth, black blood, traitor's cloak - He almost couldn’t hear his own thoughts above the collective voice of the forest.
”- well used.”
Wolf, the voice snarled.
@sarkan
His gaze traveled slowly to the stranger’s face. And without quite knowing why, his heart began to race.
You’re being paranoid, he tried to tell himself, even when the branches overhead began to tremble. It’s just the wind. Just a stranger. Just a walk in the woods. But still -
There was a root of suspicion burrowing down into his chest, and the tug of the blade on the wire kept replaying in his mind. Practiced, almost.
He brushes it aside. ”Thank you,” he says, but the words feel strangely hollow, falling short of gratefulness. For just a second, silence stretched in between the two stallions, a silence that failed to relent even when the grey shook out his neck and sighed with seeming ease.
”I certainly hope so,” he answered automatically, then smiled despite himself. Bending down again, he began to unspool the wire, tracing it through the undergrowth. All the while, he kept one ear turned back towards the man. ”We never used to find these traps of his - only the bodies. I hope then that this is a sign.” Had he said ‘he’? The word slipped past before he could stop it. Ipomoea paused, glancing back to see the grey’s reaction.
One heartbeat passed, then two, and three in quick succession. His eyes passed over Sarkan’s form, pausing once again at dark handle of the knife showing above its sheath.
”Is that a hunting blade? It looks -“ he struggled for the right word, while the trees shivered again overhead. In every tap and scratch and creak of their branches twisting against one another, they whispered all the wrong words to him. Silver teeth, black blood, traitor's cloak - He almost couldn’t hear his own thoughts above the collective voice of the forest.
”- well used.”
Wolf, the voice snarled.
@sarkan
