The vibration from the laugh she presses to the golden arch of his neck seems to travel like an earthquake’s aftershock, reverberating through him until it hums in his shoulders, down along his spine, and most of all his skull. This is how easy it is for her to evoke the feelings she sought; he should be ashamed of how swiftly he is goaded. Then again, maybe everything in Solterra had been leading him here anyway (a hunt for a tiger-eyed stallion with a girl who came from the stars; a meeting with a lion and a king in a secret garden) and all he’d needed was to be shown the way.
(He has no idea that his guide is no simple shepherd, that the magic in her blood is calling to his own hungry heart, unspooling him little by little. August lives up so well to the name she has given him.)
Her breath is hot against his skin; he twists away when she speaks, teeth bared in a feral cousin to a grin, and his moon-silver eyes catch the gold of hers. Boldly he reaches forward and traces his muzzle to the white line painted along her fine-boned face, down to her lips. He finds that he wants to take one of the beads that dangle below her cheek and pull; he wants to pluck one of those white feathers for himself.
It’s the sounds from the ring that distract him. August turns his head from her at the shuddering thud of flesh on flesh; there is something glazed about his expression already and a sheen of sweat from his run across the sand as though he is already drunk, already spent. The black stallion seizes the nape of his competitor’s neck; August licks his lips as they rise together, hooves scraping for purchase. They part with a squeal only to come together again, an awful clash; even from here he can smell the blood, see it flecked in the foam clinging to their mouths and chests. He can’t tell which is winning.
For a moment he’s forgotten his companion and the way the others part around her, wiser than him. It’s not until she offers the cup that he turns back, though the chaos in the ring still calls to him. August looks at the cup, then to her. The liquor burns all the way down to his belly; he shows his teeth in half-grimace, half pleasure. August has no idea what he drank - it tasted like nothing so much as fire - but it settles like a Molotov. He already feels beyond words.
There is a ragged cheer and his attention returns to the ring, where one stallion is struggling to rise from the dust and the black is screaming his satisfaction, blood streaming from a cut along the meat of his shoulder. He watches both limp away to be swallowed by the crowd. Empty, the ring looks almost profane, a waiting altar.
Her voice startles him back into the moment; he turns to her, too raw and buzzed to be unnerved by the way her eyes settle on him as though he’s a hare. August doesn’t feel like prey; he feels like a conquistador. He feels like he could be a god.
But her words stir a warning in him. All his mind pictures when she says the belly of the beast is a snake of sand that swallowed them all up; a cavern where blood ran down the walls, a bear with half its face a skeleton covered in thin ribbons of skin and saliva. When his body shudders it is half foreboding and half desperate want. Maybe if he gives himself to that altar, maybe if he bests their blood-ritual, he forget how he felt when he came to on the beach of Denocte with the island a mocking suggestion on the horizon.
“All the way through,” he says, and his voice is low smoke from the liquor and madness. Already he wants to reach for her throat, or anyone’s. He’ll flay the beast from the inside out and leave it bleeding.
August takes a step toward the ring.
@Amaunet
(He has no idea that his guide is no simple shepherd, that the magic in her blood is calling to his own hungry heart, unspooling him little by little. August lives up so well to the name she has given him.)
Her breath is hot against his skin; he twists away when she speaks, teeth bared in a feral cousin to a grin, and his moon-silver eyes catch the gold of hers. Boldly he reaches forward and traces his muzzle to the white line painted along her fine-boned face, down to her lips. He finds that he wants to take one of the beads that dangle below her cheek and pull; he wants to pluck one of those white feathers for himself.
It’s the sounds from the ring that distract him. August turns his head from her at the shuddering thud of flesh on flesh; there is something glazed about his expression already and a sheen of sweat from his run across the sand as though he is already drunk, already spent. The black stallion seizes the nape of his competitor’s neck; August licks his lips as they rise together, hooves scraping for purchase. They part with a squeal only to come together again, an awful clash; even from here he can smell the blood, see it flecked in the foam clinging to their mouths and chests. He can’t tell which is winning.
For a moment he’s forgotten his companion and the way the others part around her, wiser than him. It’s not until she offers the cup that he turns back, though the chaos in the ring still calls to him. August looks at the cup, then to her. The liquor burns all the way down to his belly; he shows his teeth in half-grimace, half pleasure. August has no idea what he drank - it tasted like nothing so much as fire - but it settles like a Molotov. He already feels beyond words.
There is a ragged cheer and his attention returns to the ring, where one stallion is struggling to rise from the dust and the black is screaming his satisfaction, blood streaming from a cut along the meat of his shoulder. He watches both limp away to be swallowed by the crowd. Empty, the ring looks almost profane, a waiting altar.
Her voice startles him back into the moment; he turns to her, too raw and buzzed to be unnerved by the way her eyes settle on him as though he’s a hare. August doesn’t feel like prey; he feels like a conquistador. He feels like he could be a god.
But her words stir a warning in him. All his mind pictures when she says the belly of the beast is a snake of sand that swallowed them all up; a cavern where blood ran down the walls, a bear with half its face a skeleton covered in thin ribbons of skin and saliva. When his body shudders it is half foreboding and half desperate want. Maybe if he gives himself to that altar, maybe if he bests their blood-ritual, he forget how he felt when he came to on the beach of Denocte with the island a mocking suggestion on the horizon.
“All the way through,” he says, and his voice is low smoke from the liquor and madness. Already he wants to reach for her throat, or anyone’s. He’ll flay the beast from the inside out and leave it bleeding.
August takes a step toward the ring.
@Amaunet
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
