LYSANDER
She is a wonder, he thinks as she lands - but then, she always has been.
Florentine is no longer a young girl, and it is strange for his gaze to sweep up soft golden curves, her hair long and thick, carrying still the smell of spring despite the barren world around them. Something flashes in his green eyes at the sight of her, a woman grown, but his gaze moves to the dagger she still wears and he smiles, satisfied.
Lysander had expected to see it, but he feels relieved nonetheless to find it hanging heavy against her breast.
At her voice he flicks his gaze back up to her face and tilts his antlers obligingly, an amused bow. “You must forgive me. I’m still growing accustomed to them.” He notes the lack of recognition in her words, in her eyes, but he doesn’t sorrow. Instead he’s amused; he wonders how much he’s changed, how much time has passed, for her, since they were together last.
Neither does he mind the way her amethyst gaze wanders him.
She nears and he inhales the new scents of her, things that call to his memory in other ways - rich dark wine and a skein of smoke; the slight musk of old books and the clean of cold winter. It reminds him of his own home, so different from the rift, so different from anything he thought he’d find in this body.
“Gladly,” he says, and turns to follow her, curiosity running thick as liquor in his veins. “Do you find yourself in trouble often?”
The scent of coppery blood hangs about him - quite literally - so very different than the midsummer garden she wears. His gaze drifts from her often, but finds the landscape a woeful barren thing compared to her bright lilac and gold. It is as though she’s drawn all the life of the place for herself. He’s watching her again and when her eyes find him pleasure curls low in his belly, dark and lovely. Even more so at the words that follow.
Ah, he should be careful, careful with her — but when has he ever been? There is no fun in caution. Before he answers he draws even with her, arches a brow.
“Why, have you one to squander? You have been busy since you left home.”
@Florentine
Florentine is no longer a young girl, and it is strange for his gaze to sweep up soft golden curves, her hair long and thick, carrying still the smell of spring despite the barren world around them. Something flashes in his green eyes at the sight of her, a woman grown, but his gaze moves to the dagger she still wears and he smiles, satisfied.
Lysander had expected to see it, but he feels relieved nonetheless to find it hanging heavy against her breast.
At her voice he flicks his gaze back up to her face and tilts his antlers obligingly, an amused bow. “You must forgive me. I’m still growing accustomed to them.” He notes the lack of recognition in her words, in her eyes, but he doesn’t sorrow. Instead he’s amused; he wonders how much he’s changed, how much time has passed, for her, since they were together last.
Neither does he mind the way her amethyst gaze wanders him.
She nears and he inhales the new scents of her, things that call to his memory in other ways - rich dark wine and a skein of smoke; the slight musk of old books and the clean of cold winter. It reminds him of his own home, so different from the rift, so different from anything he thought he’d find in this body.
“Gladly,” he says, and turns to follow her, curiosity running thick as liquor in his veins. “Do you find yourself in trouble often?”
The scent of coppery blood hangs about him - quite literally - so very different than the midsummer garden she wears. His gaze drifts from her often, but finds the landscape a woeful barren thing compared to her bright lilac and gold. It is as though she’s drawn all the life of the place for herself. He’s watching her again and when her eyes find him pleasure curls low in his belly, dark and lovely. Even more so at the words that follow.
Ah, he should be careful, careful with her — but when has he ever been? There is no fun in caution. Before he answers he draws even with her, arches a brow.
“Why, have you one to squander? You have been busy since you left home.”
@
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
