The lamb might have noticed that she was not alone if not completely romanticized by her own gospel. When in worship, there was a special mindset that Thomasin treasured, for she was delightfully lost from the rest of the world. No worries, no strife. A pure belief that nothing would harm her in these sacred moments. Nothing could make her stray from the path of her Goddess -
But have you ever seen someone so beautiful that it hurt to look at them?
Thomasin’s gaze finger-danced up the shape of this creature’s elegant legs, following the curve of golden veins along her chest and up the swan-like arch of her neck. Amidst a sea of cranberry curls was a face so gentle, so inviting, and looking directly at her – no, through her, surely. A set of black-rimmed eyes that reminded her of her mother’s rose garden; roses that Thomasin was never allowed to tend to in fear of damaging them. Look, but never touch, never indulge in.
And so, if she was only allowed to look, then she would spoil herself with the privilege.
“Good evening, child.”
Thomasin winced. For some foreign reason that sentiment stung.
"I hate to bother you and do hope you shan't rebuke my company. But your song was simply-“ It was at that point that Thomasin rose to her feet, tone-deaf and unable to hear any other words, slightly entranced by the way this creature’s mouth curled to shape the sonata that spilled from her lips. She spoke like someone out of a well-loved fairytale: eloquent, refined, someone well-traveled and deliciously spoiled by the natural treasures of her journeys.
Bewitched, Thomasin took a step forward, all of her worries had temporarily melted away and were replaced with wonderment and gentle curiosity. This woman was winter fire.
A breathless spell of awe escaped her lips. “Wow.”
Her own voice startled her, misty eyes growing wide with the sudden realization that her thoughts had slipped right through her teeth. She shifted, growing uncomfortable under this abrupt heat that flooded her body and the blood that rushed to her cheeks, and retreated a few steps backwards - as if creating more space between them would spare her the embarrassment of this first encounter.
“Forgive me,” she mused, lowering and turning her face away, like a turtle receding into its shell. Reality helped Thomasin gravitate back to the conversation, pleasantly in time to catch the woman’s name. Valan. The little toffee mare grabbed on to her name like a paper note in the wind, clutched it to her breast, saved it like a secret.
With what little poise she could recover, she looked at the stranger from underneath a fluffy set of piebald lashes. “Thomasin Gray.” She took a peek down at her own legs: dusty from kneeling on the floor, her hair unkempt from playing in the thicket earlier this morning, her skin smelled of the earth she foraged in. She felt so dirty in comparison. Just a little mud sprite in the presence of some ethereal moon fairy. When Thomasin could no longer find a comfortable spot to rest her gaze, her raincloud eyes finally found peace in looking at the tributes on the floor. Her body language relaxed just enough to not seem afraid of this woman – no, fear was the wrong word. She was wildly intimidated by this pale lady, desperately racking her mind to remind herself all of her mother’s lessons: be kind, be courteous, act with grace.
The lamb pivoted her body to face Valan, hoping that her thick hair would be enough of a curtain to shield the gaping, flowering hole in her torso. She did not think a lady of such class and demure would appreciate seeing her exposed organ.
“Miss Valan, have you traveled far to pray?” she asked, avoiding eye-contact. She opened her mouth to speak once again, thinking it kind to offer her one of the muffins from her tribute, but thought better of it, and swallowed the words instead. No lady of Valan's stature would accept a cold muffin. You would probably offend her, Thomasin. So instead she stayed quiet, but eager to hear her voice once again.
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"talking." thinking.
tagged: @Valan
vibing to: X
