In retrospect, a different headspace within a different host, Thomasin was riddled with fear. There would could a time that the lamb would succumb to her knees, staring up at the winter flame, confessing the terror that gripped her mercilessly.
To start, there is a surface level of dread: it is a thin veil, like an oil sheen on top of a body of water, and it is the byproduct of instinct. Valan is, and will always be, an undead. And while the specifics of how that works, and the mess of details that it entails, would always be out of reach for Thomasin – she was too simple minded to even try to understand the mechanics of that strange magic. If just the walking dead, it would be simple, but it wasn’t just reanimation that sat unwell in Thomasin; Valantine was a vampire and her very livelihood depended on the blood of mortals.
Yet, these facts were not what caused her sleeplessness.
Her friend was also a hawk-sore.
And the attraction she felt was the root of her trepidations. Thomasin was more afraid of the sweet words that flowed from Valan’s mouth, not the cage of teeth guarding that saccharine voice. Thomasin was crippled by a constant angst that she would come closer to her, catch her off guard, steal away her own voice with a kiss. The bend in Valan’s lashes made Thomasin weak, the delight in her rose-colored eyes as she spoke of her bonded and their shared history, the way her curls framed her ivory cheekbones like blood spilling down the swell of the moon.
Oh, the thought of it made her nauseous.
Butterflies raged in her stomach, threatening to overcome her processing center with expanding, unpredicted feelings. A festering of doubt and self-criticism would occasionally cause Thomasin to disassociate from the conversation, and instead of listening, she would be thinking of Valantine in the peak of her youth, a virtuous smile on her face as men kissed her feet and bowed in awe, digging for the courage to ask her to dance.
The mention of tragedy would motion her to surface from thought, a respectful nod of her head. She couldn’t imagine the kind of horrors the noble lady had endured. Whatever pain she suffered could only be sympathized with, a gentle grimace on the brown mare’s face as she egged her to continue.
After learning the way Rosario and Valan communicate, Thomasin smiled. “I think it’s beautiful you have such a close bond.”
Yes, beauty incarnate, Valan was. Well-spoken, educated, polite, effortlessly dazzling, sure to win the hearts of any she pursued.
The realization of her own blandness in comparison could have sent her to an early grave.
Valantine was someone to celebrate, and Thomasin just someone to tolerate.
With her consent, Thomasin would move slowly, deliberately, to take a hold of the dark cloak, removing it with a considerate gentleness so that she would not further agitate the angry, sun-split skin. Her lower lip trembles at the sight, absorbed in her helplessness. She whispers, close enough to the other’s ear as she scrutinizes her burns. “Oh, Valan. You must promise me to be more careful.”
A tiny, bittersweet smile touched her peachy mouth. “Rosario –“ she calls out quietly, as to make sure the bonded knew she harbored no anger and only carefully jested, “you have to keep a better eye on our lady now that you’re around.”
An amused giggle falls from Thomasin as she takes the cloak to the door, hanging it out of the way. She rushes back to her seat, folding herself up across from the vampire. “I heard a festival is being held in Delumine. I volunteered to make pastries,” she mumbles, hoping the change of subject would soothe her nerves. “Have you received an invitation?”
"talking."
tagged: @Valan
To start, there is a surface level of dread: it is a thin veil, like an oil sheen on top of a body of water, and it is the byproduct of instinct. Valan is, and will always be, an undead. And while the specifics of how that works, and the mess of details that it entails, would always be out of reach for Thomasin – she was too simple minded to even try to understand the mechanics of that strange magic. If just the walking dead, it would be simple, but it wasn’t just reanimation that sat unwell in Thomasin; Valantine was a vampire and her very livelihood depended on the blood of mortals.
Yet, these facts were not what caused her sleeplessness.
Her friend was also a hawk-sore.
And the attraction she felt was the root of her trepidations. Thomasin was more afraid of the sweet words that flowed from Valan’s mouth, not the cage of teeth guarding that saccharine voice. Thomasin was crippled by a constant angst that she would come closer to her, catch her off guard, steal away her own voice with a kiss. The bend in Valan’s lashes made Thomasin weak, the delight in her rose-colored eyes as she spoke of her bonded and their shared history, the way her curls framed her ivory cheekbones like blood spilling down the swell of the moon.
Oh, the thought of it made her nauseous.
Butterflies raged in her stomach, threatening to overcome her processing center with expanding, unpredicted feelings. A festering of doubt and self-criticism would occasionally cause Thomasin to disassociate from the conversation, and instead of listening, she would be thinking of Valantine in the peak of her youth, a virtuous smile on her face as men kissed her feet and bowed in awe, digging for the courage to ask her to dance.
The mention of tragedy would motion her to surface from thought, a respectful nod of her head. She couldn’t imagine the kind of horrors the noble lady had endured. Whatever pain she suffered could only be sympathized with, a gentle grimace on the brown mare’s face as she egged her to continue.
After learning the way Rosario and Valan communicate, Thomasin smiled. “I think it’s beautiful you have such a close bond.”
Yes, beauty incarnate, Valan was. Well-spoken, educated, polite, effortlessly dazzling, sure to win the hearts of any she pursued.
The realization of her own blandness in comparison could have sent her to an early grave.
Valantine was someone to celebrate, and Thomasin just someone to tolerate.
With her consent, Thomasin would move slowly, deliberately, to take a hold of the dark cloak, removing it with a considerate gentleness so that she would not further agitate the angry, sun-split skin. Her lower lip trembles at the sight, absorbed in her helplessness. She whispers, close enough to the other’s ear as she scrutinizes her burns. “Oh, Valan. You must promise me to be more careful.”
A tiny, bittersweet smile touched her peachy mouth. “Rosario –“ she calls out quietly, as to make sure the bonded knew she harbored no anger and only carefully jested, “you have to keep a better eye on our lady now that you’re around.”
An amused giggle falls from Thomasin as she takes the cloak to the door, hanging it out of the way. She rushes back to her seat, folding herself up across from the vampire. “I heard a festival is being held in Delumine. I volunteered to make pastries,” she mumbles, hoping the change of subject would soothe her nerves. “Have you received an invitation?”
"talking."
tagged: @Valan
