their celebrations carried; their carousal was not something of great import to the witchling. but their voices carried, and enticed nevertheless. something of a loner, she'd been far more enticed to remain beyond their reach, their eyes. but, of course, there came a needling within.
a worm of discontent.
it burrowed and writhed, it seeded within an urge in her heart to join the raised voices, the laughter. the glowering little stormcloud was not a being who took joy in such behaviour, but it was her place among their court that bade attendance. so it went, she approached them. quietly, and without much aim. perhaps, it would have been better to approach their sovereign, offer him many of the best wishes. but, there was hesitance still that blighted the sage. her steps faltered, and came to a halt beyond the jubilant crowd -- and though they weren't many, they to her, were still a faceless crowd. a murder of crows, sired by night and pride. pride, perhaps her most prized possession aside from the gruesome trinket beneath the generous cut of her cape -- a companion, that seemed strangely quiet now that she stood among her peers, her tribesmen, her... kin?
no, she had a very keen dislike of such a word.
of even the idea.
still, there had to be some manner of kinship with these beings, their boisterous and absolute living creatures. they, in their entirety, shades brighter than her own constellation of quirks and ideals. unmoved, she allowed her brumous eyes seek those of their king, offering but a nod of acknowledgement out of her (begrudging) respect of him and his position in denocte.
ooc: late to the party as always, don't mind cool kid d'va as she glowers from afar.
a worm of discontent.
it burrowed and writhed, it seeded within an urge in her heart to join the raised voices, the laughter. the glowering little stormcloud was not a being who took joy in such behaviour, but it was her place among their court that bade attendance. so it went, she approached them. quietly, and without much aim. perhaps, it would have been better to approach their sovereign, offer him many of the best wishes. but, there was hesitance still that blighted the sage. her steps faltered, and came to a halt beyond the jubilant crowd -- and though they weren't many, they to her, were still a faceless crowd. a murder of crows, sired by night and pride. pride, perhaps her most prized possession aside from the gruesome trinket beneath the generous cut of her cape -- a companion, that seemed strangely quiet now that she stood among her peers, her tribesmen, her... kin?
no, she had a very keen dislike of such a word.
of even the idea.
still, there had to be some manner of kinship with these beings, their boisterous and absolute living creatures. they, in their entirety, shades brighter than her own constellation of quirks and ideals. unmoved, she allowed her brumous eyes seek those of their king, offering but a nod of acknowledgement out of her (
ooc: late to the party as always, don't mind cool kid d'va as she glowers from afar.
