“You can never be sure of your way.”
The snow’s so thick
And the ice so slick.
With your life you will surely pay.
-------
Onward through this grassland sea the pair did walk.
They were as if from a fairytale: the witch, beauty and crookedness and the swan, grace and aggression.
They sailed on towards the night, tendrils of darkness herding them like dogs, nipping at their heels. Darkness was coming, but it was nothing compared to the darkness toward which they moved.
Dvalinn’s answer lingered between them, holding fast through the rustling of grasses and the stirring of the approaching, midnight bathed trees. That innocent scent of herbs and spices, accompanying the witch’s beauty, would be enough to ease an innocent mind.
Yet Polunin is no such creature.
He has seen devils shrouded in black. He has made a deal with a frost demon: his death for eternal life. The demon would not let him die until his time was served, and so, what was there truly to fear in this diminutive creature of stormy grey and wild, silver eyes?
Blood red lips pull into a smile, the first that had graced his lips since he arrived. The smile was a beautiful thing, set upon ever more beautiful lips and a beguiling face. And yet, there is something dark that lingered there, something unsettling that sets vipers writhing in the body of its beholder.
Polunin truly cared not if she bore poison, maybe she did, it would make the crone only slightly more interesting in his eye. She goes on, mundane conversation pouring from her lips as his eyes scold her skin from the outside in - oh to see what lay beneath this slim witch’s skin…
“It seems they do. Tell me, who were you talking to, little witch?” He asks, his voice a soft, soft hiss that slips from avian lips. His head, pointed and elegant, tilts suddenly, avian curiosity seeping out to marry his avian voice.
Polunin moves, maybe speak again, when a voice resounds like a clanging gong between them. Muscles flare along the night swan’s spine, tightening like rope against this invasion of sound and proximity. Ember eyes light to flame, searing their way from the little black witch and off to the tall, tall teenager with his river of hair.
The boy slinks up like a curious cat, and for each step that carries him closer, the swan’s neck arches tighter. His sneer grows darker and darker as his wings flare higher and higher. Feathers, point and arch in aggressive warning, yet he makes no move to attack… or fall to rest. Instead he keeps walking, holding the boy in his gaze with chains of fierce fire.
“What do you think poison might be used for, boy?”
@Dvalinn @Damascus - Sorry, initially posted this as Florentine. Consider me a royal doofus.
