She was of fire, of the life blood that filled the air and earth beneath his feet; the heat that rolled across his back like the brush of silk, smothering and tempting in its addiction. What would befall the serf who wandered into the desert, his back bare of the necessities to live, so enraptured by the beauty of crystal silver, shimmering in the distance, a mirage to play upon the eye. The absolute power that came with the rising sun, full and bright, casting out evil and shadow, the darkness that was set the villain in their fine retelling. It was almost a fevered mockery to his thoughts, the way in which the wind tousled her mane, the fine flaming locks a spider of fracturing light, curving over the slope of her sinuous throat, rolling as the cindered clouds of the rising sun. It was all so romantic. His expression, dull in its apathy, the cold, polished steel of his eyes watching, always watching, catching and devouring the fainted of twitches across his hide, even while amidst the tresses black and silver, his mind scoffed at the superficial guise they all held. The eyes that looked as if they stood above him, righteous in her scrutiny of him, as he was in her. They would speak of impressions in those first moments of encounters, the vital piece that would define the picture painted in one's mind, a snap shot of what beauty or beast stood before them. It was difficult to amend foul wrongs, more so when one made no efforts to do so. In short, he resented her already, the damaged part of his memories leaping forward, twisting her beautiful picture into all the other maids that had hung off the arms of their jeering lords. Polished little birds who thought the world owed them a favor. His crown, tilted from where he had set his eye upon her shifted than, rising, the Obsidian spire of his horn a space in their meeting that devoured the silver light, leaving nothing to refract upon the disk of his face. Attentive to the wild games the peaks would play upon the naive, the stone underfoot long conquered by water and air, Judal cleared the distance, his nimble legs claiming the slope between them until at last, he stood on level ground. The zealot gales were in turmoil, thrust into open sky here, where the two halves of the mountain made it whole, buffering against the shorn length of his mane, pulling the long threads bound against the arch of his shoulder. "I could care less of which grand entity you whisper your deepest desires to when you lay your head down to sleep. Though, I must applaud you. You're are the first to not swoon your amorous devotion to revered voices." His tongue charred with the barbs he returned in favor, the fire in his chest suddenly flaring in typical Arnorian fashion, amused by her ire that seemed to live on the edges of her body. Taunt, held in perpetual tension as if she were prepared to forever defend her case. And yet, before their game could continue, the shadows came to life, and the king of the dark appeared, away from his carnival of lights and fine wines. It was that very festival that Judal had made for the pass to escape, the silence of deserted pines a comfort, the cold and open views of the highlands more so. A spy who listened and jumped forth. It seemed their fair king was a shadow-walker. The slighter stallion passed, his body awrithe with gilded gold, spun like fine threads so fair, they seemed more apart of him than a mere vanity. They sang with his steps, the gypsy king, gone where the wind may take him. To her side, defending the 'interloper.' Interesting. Wrong? There was plenty wrong here, his slips finally splitting away from the flat affect he had kept like a solemn mantra, a coiling bark of a laugh. "To which do you refer? Her presence here on these mountains? Or her sealed lip at her religious choices? Neither truly. Though I remember something in the laws stated to me in my visit to the city that strangers were to be escorted, and not left to wander freely in the great kingdom of the Night Court." Unless she is a painted spy returned from her long voyage. The fire woman didn't not taste like part of this land... or why the king held so close to her, coming to her aid without true reason. Familiar with these hills, confident in her place and stance. A woman who had seemed as large as her vitality for but a moment until the male had come to lean over her like a devout protector of the fair maid. She suddenly didn't seem that impressive. At least she had the spine to speak for herself. Judals' mithril gaze turned to her, a shine there in his expression, fading as it was, the amusement whisked away as he fought off what almost felt like disappointment. "What a dull question," his eyes slid away from her, taking in the lights just barely visible from their rise, the fairytale walls of the night realm come to life with the freedom from the occupation of the sun. "Names tell you so little about another. Its like... telling the blind the color of the sky. They call me Judal. And just who are you?" throwing the words back at her, finding that he really didn't care to know the answer. She had told him already who she was, just as he was in this moment. The jolt of fire quenched, like an ember left to the cold, open sky. "Speech." |
@Rhoswen @Reichenbach
