You're one microscopic cog
In his catastrophic plan,
In his catastrophic plan,
The strangest urge to laugh tugged at his silver lips as Cyrene grew noticeably drunker, an impressive feat with the sip she had taken — though perhaps there wasn't much of her to soak up the drink. Lorca let his golden eyes travel over her slim body, so elegant and yet so obviously capable, her limbs knotted with sleek muscle that proved she did more than flit and flirt with festival goers in her spare time.
Her voice was a lullaby... not the kind the Davke mothers would sing, all blood and glory and tales of success but.. the kind Velorca would want to listen to now. It was a gentle reminder that the world did not stop for anyone, that sometimes strength could be proved in stoicism, in peace.
"Though if I ever knock upon your Solterran door, I hope you’ll return my greeting.”
Something like dread washed swiftly through him, an internal cold gripping him at the thought of Cyrene walking through the sun-bleached Court. She would look lovely gilded in sunlight, her wine-dark hair loose and shining, those tawny eyes like a pool of liquid honey for him to fall into... Velorca blinked, realising that he had been staring. It would be best if he sneered and dismissed her now, flicked her away like an insect upon his skin in the hopes that she would be so offended she didn't think to visit him in the desert but... one of two thoughts stopped him.
One: Cyrene didn't seem like the type of girl that would allow his callous behaviour to stop her from going where she wanted.
And Two: He really didn't want her to hate him. For whatever reason, he couldn't stand the thought.
So Lorca settled for a noncommittal half-smile, searching for words but finding none to express just how much he wanted her to avoid the Day Court. Night, too. Dusk and Dawn really were the finest examples of civility in Novus — Solterra full of savages and Denocte full of... well, nobody really knew. Only that they were gypsies and thieves, undisciplined and utterly, dangerously enchanting.
The silvery chuckle that spilled from her velveteen lips was so lovely that Velorca felt his eyes brighten, a smile playing elegantly about his own soft mouth. So she was alone — in more ways than one. He didn't want to think about the pleasure he felt at the admission, that she would choose to sit with him rather than search for another suitor — forgetting of course that she hadn't even known he was there when she sat down.
He wasn't ready when her feathers brushed his skin, the touch like the softest kiss or trailing fingertips.
Velorca went rigid, not moving an inch but stiffening so that he appeared almost like a silver statue perched upon the log, his golden eyes and the shift of his silver mane the only evidence that he lived. Too soon that touch was gone, leaving only an insistent tingle, an ache.
Lorca released the breath he had been holding, lashes brushing his razor edged cheekbones as he blinked languidly, trying to recover a semblance of control. She looked more abashed than him, shame creeping like a blush along her graceful face. What was she ashamed of? The scars? He tried not to look at them, though he longed to trace the broken pieces of her with gentle fingers, to tell her that all scars could heal — hypocritical as that was.
Instead, even as she breathed an apology, he shifted tentatively closer. He wanted to ask, Can I kiss you? Because he wanted to know what it would feel like — but at the same time he didn't want to touch her, didn't want to stain her with his blasphemous, used body. She was a spark of light, a dancing flame — extinguishable and precious and altogether too good for him.
Still...
"I don't mind.." he breathed, inching closer again. They were so close he could smell her, the scent of those sugary almonds imbued amongst the cedar and pine that seemed to linger upon her red skin. She smelled free. She smelled like getting lost in the woods. Not the desert, flame and blood of a Solterran, but peace and serenity and forgiveness.
It was so foreign to him that he couldn't let it go, couldn't turn his burnt-butter gaze from her lions eyes as he murmured huskily;
"I don't mind at all."
@Cyrene IN. LOVE. Sorry for the wait precious!
Her voice was a lullaby... not the kind the Davke mothers would sing, all blood and glory and tales of success but.. the kind Velorca would want to listen to now. It was a gentle reminder that the world did not stop for anyone, that sometimes strength could be proved in stoicism, in peace.
"Though if I ever knock upon your Solterran door, I hope you’ll return my greeting.”
Something like dread washed swiftly through him, an internal cold gripping him at the thought of Cyrene walking through the sun-bleached Court. She would look lovely gilded in sunlight, her wine-dark hair loose and shining, those tawny eyes like a pool of liquid honey for him to fall into... Velorca blinked, realising that he had been staring. It would be best if he sneered and dismissed her now, flicked her away like an insect upon his skin in the hopes that she would be so offended she didn't think to visit him in the desert but... one of two thoughts stopped him.
One: Cyrene didn't seem like the type of girl that would allow his callous behaviour to stop her from going where she wanted.
And Two: He really didn't want her to hate him. For whatever reason, he couldn't stand the thought.
So Lorca settled for a noncommittal half-smile, searching for words but finding none to express just how much he wanted her to avoid the Day Court. Night, too. Dusk and Dawn really were the finest examples of civility in Novus — Solterra full of savages and Denocte full of... well, nobody really knew. Only that they were gypsies and thieves, undisciplined and utterly, dangerously enchanting.
The silvery chuckle that spilled from her velveteen lips was so lovely that Velorca felt his eyes brighten, a smile playing elegantly about his own soft mouth. So she was alone — in more ways than one. He didn't want to think about the pleasure he felt at the admission, that she would choose to sit with him rather than search for another suitor — forgetting of course that she hadn't even known he was there when she sat down.
He wasn't ready when her feathers brushed his skin, the touch like the softest kiss or trailing fingertips.
Velorca went rigid, not moving an inch but stiffening so that he appeared almost like a silver statue perched upon the log, his golden eyes and the shift of his silver mane the only evidence that he lived. Too soon that touch was gone, leaving only an insistent tingle, an ache.
Lorca released the breath he had been holding, lashes brushing his razor edged cheekbones as he blinked languidly, trying to recover a semblance of control. She looked more abashed than him, shame creeping like a blush along her graceful face. What was she ashamed of? The scars? He tried not to look at them, though he longed to trace the broken pieces of her with gentle fingers, to tell her that all scars could heal — hypocritical as that was.
Instead, even as she breathed an apology, he shifted tentatively closer. He wanted to ask, Can I kiss you? Because he wanted to know what it would feel like — but at the same time he didn't want to touch her, didn't want to stain her with his blasphemous, used body. She was a spark of light, a dancing flame — extinguishable and precious and altogether too good for him.
Still...
"I don't mind.." he breathed, inching closer again. They were so close he could smell her, the scent of those sugary almonds imbued amongst the cedar and pine that seemed to linger upon her red skin. She smelled free. She smelled like getting lost in the woods. Not the desert, flame and blood of a Solterran, but peace and serenity and forgiveness.
It was so foreign to him that he couldn't let it go, couldn't turn his burnt-butter gaze from her lions eyes as he murmured huskily;
"I don't mind at all."
@Cyrene IN. LOVE. Sorry for the wait precious!
