To hold my tongue except when I try to pray...
Prying eyes, snapping teeth. Shadows coil, eager to cloak the street child in their solace. She follows him like the sun, wearing that gilded cage around her throat. It warns him that she cannot be trusted. Not because she has caught him making off with a valuable trinket, but because her persistence gnaws on the conscience he works hard to bury. He does not miss the way her brows knit with irritation. A fleeting glimpse inside the gilded cage. Reinhart takes this glimpse for granted, he has been thrown to many wolves before. She is no different from the first, and she will not be the last wolf at his door. Quicksilver then The words slip past her ashen lips sharpen the blade of his magic. The magician does not feel the swell in the tides of his magic, it snarls at her. The message escalates from a simple warning. She is too close. The man who is made from marble does not back down. His panic soon turns into irritation. He stops. He knows she will stop with him. It wasn't sleight of hand, she pauses; hesitant. I've seen beggars pick coin purses before.
The magician rounds himself to face her abruptly, a smooth smile is now etched into his slate and rose mottled features. She has mistaken him for a beggar. His golden eyes lock on hers, they ache to hold her attention hostage. She should only have eyes for him. The warning snarl of his magic wanes, it soon becomes inviting. It works to lure her closer to him. If only he could snatch the gilded bars from her throat. Reinhart drifts towards her, the shadows raking their invisible claws across his flesh. Lamplight flickers across his flesh at precise intervals. He moves like fluid, a creature that lives in the liquid ink that constructs the shadows. "No. Mercury is the blood of the gods. I do not weave their blood into words." The words flow from his lips in dulcet tones. There is a sultry lilt to his voice as it drips from his maw. A flash of teeth emerges from beneath his pale lips. His golden eyes begin to swirl in a mesmerizing pattern. The magic commands the magician. I might have-. She hesitates again. He feels a surge of triumph when he detects what he believes is the seeds of doubt he has sowed beginning to sprout.
The magician doesn't miss the disdain that clouds her features. It is obscured by uncertainty. These are assumptions he makes about the waning of her persistence. You're lucky. she mutters like a sullen child. "It has nothing to do with luck. Luck is a lie, just like magic. Chalk it up to a good education, and intuition." Reinhart refutes her once more. The disdain has vanished from his tones, they have lowered to a rumble of interest. He circles her, and thinks that it is too bad he cannot steal her. She is a masterpiece that he will never have. The magician is quick to fall in love with the aesthetics of the golden-throated bird. It could have been a good samaritan that saw you not talk your way into a new shawl. She counters back to him. Lids fall over golden orbs. The warning returns. It surges like the tides upon the shore. She is the shore. A smile resurfaces from the depths of his slate facade. Lids part, locking upon her pale orbs. "If you are not a good samaritan, what is it you want from me?"
Reinhart asks. The daggers in his tones have readied themselves once more. "And if you are not good, then what are you? You must not be trustworthy if you keep that throat of yours locked up like that." He challenges her, the warning in his magic swells unbeknownst to him.
The magician rounds himself to face her abruptly, a smooth smile is now etched into his slate and rose mottled features. She has mistaken him for a beggar. His golden eyes lock on hers, they ache to hold her attention hostage. She should only have eyes for him. The warning snarl of his magic wanes, it soon becomes inviting. It works to lure her closer to him. If only he could snatch the gilded bars from her throat. Reinhart drifts towards her, the shadows raking their invisible claws across his flesh. Lamplight flickers across his flesh at precise intervals. He moves like fluid, a creature that lives in the liquid ink that constructs the shadows. "No. Mercury is the blood of the gods. I do not weave their blood into words." The words flow from his lips in dulcet tones. There is a sultry lilt to his voice as it drips from his maw. A flash of teeth emerges from beneath his pale lips. His golden eyes begin to swirl in a mesmerizing pattern. The magic commands the magician. I might have-. She hesitates again. He feels a surge of triumph when he detects what he believes is the seeds of doubt he has sowed beginning to sprout.
The magician doesn't miss the disdain that clouds her features. It is obscured by uncertainty. These are assumptions he makes about the waning of her persistence. You're lucky. she mutters like a sullen child. "It has nothing to do with luck. Luck is a lie, just like magic. Chalk it up to a good education, and intuition." Reinhart refutes her once more. The disdain has vanished from his tones, they have lowered to a rumble of interest. He circles her, and thinks that it is too bad he cannot steal her. She is a masterpiece that he will never have. The magician is quick to fall in love with the aesthetics of the golden-throated bird. It could have been a good samaritan that saw you not talk your way into a new shawl. She counters back to him. Lids fall over golden orbs. The warning returns. It surges like the tides upon the shore. She is the shore. A smile resurfaces from the depths of his slate facade. Lids part, locking upon her pale orbs. "If you are not a good samaritan, what is it you want from me?"
Reinhart asks. The daggers in his tones have readied themselves once more. "And if you are not good, then what are you? You must not be trustworthy if you keep that throat of yours locked up like that." He challenges her, the warning in his magic swells unbeknownst to him.
Notes: I'm in love with Cyrra and your writing ;__; | Tags: @Cyrra
... try to breathe words out, But I’ve got nothing to say
