T E N E B R A E
On my body, the grace of shadows
and in my heart: all Hells
and in my heart: all Hells
He sees the way ire straightens the supple bend of her spine. The soft curves of her grow sharp as pointed corners. The touch of Morrighan’s blue gaze is the burn of ice upon unready fingers. Tenebrae blinks and marvels at how swiftly, how easily, her pensive manner dissipated. Now she burns as embers. Is her fire crimson as that from a dragon’s maw? The monk thinks it might be something altogether different and more wonderfully terrible: an ice fire, swirling in the midst of her blue, blue gaze.
Slowly he breathes and despite the promise of her burn he does not look away (though his gaze softens). The thick fan of his eyelashes press close upon his cheek and then lift in a lazy yet thoughtful blink. The stars cast their light into his eyes and into the half moon sigils that blase atop his brow, his shoulders. Their celestial glow bathes her and battles with the festival firelight. Together with the colours of the archway, they illuminate her into something more ethereal than that which her anger paints her. Morrighan is real, flesh and bone, Tenebrae could touch her and know how real she is. Her anger makes her ever more alive, ever more vibrant, as the night strives to turn her into a god.
The Disciple is not surprised when her reply is flat. The words are a blow caught and dissolved by the billowing of his shadows. He smiles. A small thing. It is bathed in darkness and, if she looks closely, she might see it. The curve of his lips paints no mockery across his features. The glint of his eyes possessing only something as ethereal as the light across her torso, making her transcendent. “No.” He replies. It is the same word as she chose, yet delivered with none of the blunt force. He does not possess her ire. His own is inky black, a terrible force made for swallowing suns. It slumbers. It rarely speaks.
“Your soul does not have to be lighter. Some are forever weighted and hurting. That does not make it right or wrong. Some just simply are.” His voice is nightshade, low and liquid smooth. Still he has not taken his gaze from the Regent.
At her next comment his smile grows larger still. He laughs a low chuckle that rumbles fleeting delight into his bones, his blood. “Are not all the citizens of Denocte welcome to a festival, Lady Morrighan?” The monk asks as he finally turns his gaze away and follows the paths of revelers across the Court. “I was not sneaking upon you. Not intentionally but you seemed lost in thought, maybe that is why my arrival was a surprise?”
@Morrighan
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