Nightfall had brought with it an infinite silence out in the dunes, for it was the city that moaned and groaned with the dying breaths of soldiers and the sobs of those left behind. The Desert was the same as it had always been — ever shifting, unchanged by what blood stained the sands. It held him, stroking fingers of warm air down his elegant spine as he felt each grain of cooling sand shift and slide underneath his neat hooves... shifting because he was moving like a shadow toward that crying city. He had to see — had to see the suffering, the aftermath.
Lorca wasn't entirely sure if he was returning for satisfaction or for guilt.. his guts had been churning since the bloodshed stopped. He had no issue with blood or gore, the Davke were raised on such sights, but to see familiar faces crusted in dried blood, frozen in a mask of shock or fear... some of those faces stayed with him.
Slowly and silently he moved through the shadows of his home, a slip of silver in the night — sometimes barely that. He hadn't bothered to clean himself off or unbraid his hair, and for the first time in a long time he looked considerably unpresentable. His long argent hair, usually loose and flowing, remained braided into a singular ridge along his serpentine neck, now somewhat bedraggled and stained in places. Bloody strands clung to his neck, now dried and rusty, a strange contrast to his still-soft skin. Perhaps worse was the flecks of blood decorating his sharp cheeks like freckles, casting him in a distinctly different light — as if he had, perhaps, some innocence left in him after all.
Velorca doubted that. A lot.
Yet...
As if summoned by his introspection, she appeared.
The lion-eyed girl.
She hurried through the streets, glancing furtively around corners, making as little sound as possible as she crept through the war stricken city. It was as if he'd been stabbed — such a flush went through him, like terror and hope and heartache all at once, chilling his limbs as he sucked in a quick breath, golden eyes watching her ruby red curls bounce.
He couldn't help it — and it wasn't as if there was any other choice but to follow her. What if one of the Solterran's attacked her for helping Davke? What if a Davke attacked her? His mile-long legs moved of their own accord, following silently, for he was practiced at keeping himself hidden. He would have stayed hidden too, if she hadn't swayed and stumbled.
Without intending to be, he was behind her, ready to catch her if she fell — only she steadied herself, leaving Velorca feeling foolish. "Who?"
Her hood fell back and it was all he could do not to burst into a smile of all things, all of a sudden feeling quite giddy and altogether not himself.
He didn't smile though, only sucked in another quick breath at the long lashed eyes looking up at him in concern, her voice leaking through the silence in a beautiful whisper: "Velorca?"
Lorca took every moment to drink in the fierce girl before him, saying nothing as her gaze drifted to the blood colouring half of his chest crimson. It was nothing — a flesh wound, really, the slice of a spear that had glanced off the side of his neck and left a shallow cut that had bled far too much.
"Cyrene,"
He managed, though his svelte voice sounded strained against the heady night air. Each line of his face was pronounced despite the shadows, razor-like, elegant, frowning.
"You shouldn't be here."
Not the welcome he had wanted to give her — but he didn't want her throat cut either.
@Cyrene bloop!!
Lorca wasn't entirely sure if he was returning for satisfaction or for guilt.. his guts had been churning since the bloodshed stopped. He had no issue with blood or gore, the Davke were raised on such sights, but to see familiar faces crusted in dried blood, frozen in a mask of shock or fear... some of those faces stayed with him.
Slowly and silently he moved through the shadows of his home, a slip of silver in the night — sometimes barely that. He hadn't bothered to clean himself off or unbraid his hair, and for the first time in a long time he looked considerably unpresentable. His long argent hair, usually loose and flowing, remained braided into a singular ridge along his serpentine neck, now somewhat bedraggled and stained in places. Bloody strands clung to his neck, now dried and rusty, a strange contrast to his still-soft skin. Perhaps worse was the flecks of blood decorating his sharp cheeks like freckles, casting him in a distinctly different light — as if he had, perhaps, some innocence left in him after all.
Velorca doubted that. A lot.
Yet...
As if summoned by his introspection, she appeared.
The lion-eyed girl.
She hurried through the streets, glancing furtively around corners, making as little sound as possible as she crept through the war stricken city. It was as if he'd been stabbed — such a flush went through him, like terror and hope and heartache all at once, chilling his limbs as he sucked in a quick breath, golden eyes watching her ruby red curls bounce.
He couldn't help it — and it wasn't as if there was any other choice but to follow her. What if one of the Solterran's attacked her for helping Davke? What if a Davke attacked her? His mile-long legs moved of their own accord, following silently, for he was practiced at keeping himself hidden. He would have stayed hidden too, if she hadn't swayed and stumbled.
Without intending to be, he was behind her, ready to catch her if she fell — only she steadied herself, leaving Velorca feeling foolish. "Who?"
Her hood fell back and it was all he could do not to burst into a smile of all things, all of a sudden feeling quite giddy and altogether not himself.
He didn't smile though, only sucked in another quick breath at the long lashed eyes looking up at him in concern, her voice leaking through the silence in a beautiful whisper: "Velorca?"
Lorca took every moment to drink in the fierce girl before him, saying nothing as her gaze drifted to the blood colouring half of his chest crimson. It was nothing — a flesh wound, really, the slice of a spear that had glanced off the side of his neck and left a shallow cut that had bled far too much.
"Cyrene,"
He managed, though his svelte voice sounded strained against the heady night air. Each line of his face was pronounced despite the shadows, razor-like, elegant, frowning.
"You shouldn't be here."
Not the welcome he had wanted to give her — but he didn't want her throat cut either.
@Cyrene bloop!!
some princes don't become kings
