[P] Heart Afire

[Isorath]

I S O R A T H — you will ache as I ache— tenderly, tragically, beautifully. The last tendrils of Solis' reign painted the earth in brilliant hues of pastel warmth, illuminating both stone and equine alike in an aura of light. In the confines of the throne room, the same warmth bled through the windows and fed the low light provided by the ornate torches. It's beautiful, a scene for an artists careful touch upon a canvas, a moment to capture as the light spans across the throne like posessive tendrils to uplift it's silent power. In the center, is the Dusk Sage, regal and serene in his contemplation as lilac eyes regarded the throne with a veiled gaze, beneath the lush canopy of snow lashes which framed them. Porcelain and marble elegantly sculpted, with flakes of gold scales glowing as the firelight caressed them. As still as he is, it would be easy to mistake him as another effigy, a figure lost to history, until the subtle tilt of his head betrays him. To those that have grown used to the Sages presence, it'd be also easy to say that he is mulling over the secrets locked within such a timeless chamber, after all it's one of the reasons he'd come to Denocte, to unravel her history and mysteries to write reverently into his tomes. This is a chamber of history, etched in the lines of the throne and it's cushions. It would make perfect sense to see him here, in such deep thought. But that would be far from the truth. A myriad of emotions slither beneath his skin, a mixture of his past and his current predicament bubble underneath the smoothness of his face and the sharpness of his cheekbones. Internal conflict had never been his strong point, it is too much of a finely sharpened knife between the ribs, an assassins deft dance which weaved effortless around his own sword dance to fell him and watch him stumble onto his own blade. History is beautiful, but terrible. It's almost too much. Absent mindedly, his teke reached out to touch at the trinket weaved upon his crown, the moon providing a small measure of comfort, it's appearance striking against the gold which adorned him so perfectly, before the knife twists just so to break the serenity on his face. It's a small, but it's a fracture on the statuesque appearance he strives to create. TAG: @Camdis NOTES: "this here is your speech colour!