 I S O R A T H THE LONE WOLF DIES // THE PACK SURVIVES
Blessed, and fortunate, that the porcelain clad man cannot read minds like the divine. Pride and vanity are hand in hand, and they bruise easily. On pristine white, it's an ugly smudge of tar. Isorath is no mere Solterran, he is not crafted from sand and blistering canyon winds which sting wounds and make the skin coarse. He'd burn a man for thinking as such. But he doesn't know, all that he knew is that they are between moments, a place caught between time's heartbeat. Butterscotch gold and lilac smoke. The Sage remained impossibly serene. Bathed in the dappled sunlight, the long strands of light shimmered off of his scales and reflected off of the pureness of his white coat. There's a coyness in his gaze as the moments slipped idly by, content to allow the other man all the time in the World. He himself, wasted not a grain in the hourglass, he regarded the man with attention one might find an artist examining the marble structure they had poured their heart and soul into. Tracing a careful muzzle over the artful veins of gold laced between pristine white and black. The stranger is handsome, stormclouds and volcanic ash lovingly painted upon his hide, smoke for hair struck through with brilliant pristine white. The gold of his eye and the gold ore of the earth strewn across him like gilded stars burn all the brighter against his dark skin. Coyness bled from his eyes and into the way his muzzle pulled at the corners into a gentle smile. Foreign, relaxed and stark against the sharpness of his features. Yes, blessed he is that he doesn't know the stranger's thoughts in this moment. How would he ever explain that he fell from the heavens long ago? Scorched by the very sun he had once loved, and left broken and bleeding against the cold stone floor as his body burnt to ash? Icarus had loved the Sun and had been soothed by the Sea, Isorath was the Icarus that hadn't felt the blessedly cold kiss of the Ocean depths. All he had felt was the harsh crack of the impact and smouldered in the ruins. Only by my past. "Our pasts seem to do that, don't they?" Isorath responded nonchalantly, his tone deliberately light hearted. There is a weight to his words, hidden beneath the sweet purr and smoky lilt. "They take the form of spectres that haunt us in the worst times." For all the vanity in the World, Isorath had not expected the man's question to be so sweet. Laced with a compliment so sincere it made his heartstrings twitch. "Ah, and what if I am?" He recovered with a smooth tilt of his head, strands of manifested starlight sliding over his forehead to hang half-curled around his cheekbones. Teasing came easy, easily and silkily wrapped around his words as if it was second nature to breathing. "Do you flatter everyone you meet?" He asked in good humor, sing song and breathless, momentarily exasperated by the suddenness of the compliment. "Stallion's as dark and handsome as you have a reputation in the Storybooks for a reason, you know." |
@Velorca — I'm so sorry this is late <3
