What's a king to a god
when she laughs, something about its tune reminds him of searing comets and roaring seas, wherein their equal chaos breeds beauty, danger. he watches her eyes, once soft and coquettish, gleam with a violence too distant to taste – but he, it, yearns all the same. hers is a facade of heaven one can only dream of hidden, clouded facets, but never hope to feel any relief from the scathing suits of hell. it recognizes this, as it recognizes the merciless bloodlust of predators, of life, as is the natural way of worlds to consume and divide. it is admirable, the way she undresses her soul but one lacing at a time, but he does not remember how to beg.
it is when her eyes lose the guile of their once fanciful daze that he cares to look on, and thinks on the eloquence of her exclamation. to him, to it, the fireflies are no more than a recurring ghost – they line a stout semblance of another faceless fellow – but they recall him all the same, peering to him from those dimly blinking eyes beset in shade, and he thinks perhaps their glimmering line even folds into a scowl. it is brief however, as they turn to her and shift, and the firelight phantom breaks the treeline with a toss of its head. she is stirring now with much less humor than outright fury, and his brow knits when he listens.
one firefly dances about his ear teasingly, spiraling his horn before tracing its momentary glow over the sharpness of his features. in a swift movement, he belts it with his teeth. its taste impishly reminds him of the feeling of death he had rented, deep in those delumine woods, surrounded by the grey fog and the bleached moonlight, and the grullo foal who laughed into the dark. the feeling still lingers in his legs, cold pins and needles. “fiends, no. dragons, no.” it murmurs, watching the fireflies cascade into the ongoing dark beyond the treeline. “things more subtle, but they aren't worth trusted just as well.”
her frame breaks the monotony between, an image in red, bathed silver by the light of a moon that beats dapples through the trembling leaves of the canopy above. its light dances over his own features, callous, almost inherently cruel, but it cannot help but be softened by a crooked grin when she swings her hips against his chest. when the leaves hiss against her flesh as she follows the trail of beading fireflies that break from the mock-tail of the ghostly delineation, he obliges in following, despite knowing what waits. it recognizes the same hunger for adventure in her, though when he sees that the ghost is waiting for them in the woods, the taste is stale.
Who don't believe in anything
♤♧
@Euryale @Official Dawn Account Euryale and Erasmus are following the fireflies.
also sid -- don't sweat it! i love quests.
