f l o r e n t i n e
The lion turns from her, as though she were merely a bird he caught that no longer interested him.
His dismissal is a snort that arrives as a growl in the walled canyon below. It resonates around the Dusk-hewn girl and chases a shiver down her spine.
For all the warrior sets her nerves alight with his disregard, her eyes do not sway from him as he begins to move. Her pride keeps him chained in amethyst eyes of twilight light. Sunlight chases him, blinking between his limbs, filtering through his wings and outlining the sharp, sharp teeth of his lion-head cloak. It blinds her, it burns her and yet the twilight girl does not look away.
The Solterran's words offer her no choice and her answering laugh, the one she throws back to meet his snarling retort, is as sharp as a rose’s thorn within his paw. Yet she turns to the treacherous path that winds its slow and effortful way up and up and up the canyon face.
“This is no choice you gave me.” She says to him in a lilting voice, just loud enough for him to hear. Florentine was no creature to appease to his sarcastic bidding, nor stand in petulance until he caved in or left her. She would go to him, of course, but in her own time.
The flower girl keeps her flitting wings close as she moves to the canyon wall. His sarcasm, a song in her ears, becomes a growl in her heart as she takes to his path of false steps and sheer drops. Up and up she goes, nimble of foot and light of spirit, even as sweat begins to bead her skin, pinning her wild mane down upon her damp, damp throat.
Still she rises to him, each step sure, each step soft, ascending through dust and sun, heat and fire-licked stone. This nymph was a creature born to roam, born to dance the ragged edges between worlds and tumble between stars thrown apart by Time.
What was it then to climb a cliff face?
It had been a canyon she climbed the day she ran into the war that killed her. The thought has her smiling, has her soul laughing, and even when her feet do slip, even when her knees and shins and sides are bitten and grazed and worried by rock, still she goes and still she smiles.
She stops for the beauty of the flowers she finds and the views that steal her heart and breath. Twilight does not come at daylight's call, she seeps in, in her own time, stealing his light. Maxence, the king she knows nothing of, would wait.
She was not a butterfly to flit to his whim.
His voice descends, another growl, a play at sincerity that has her laughing. She laughs at his gall, at this anger he inspires within her with such rudeness. “But Rannveig is not your lady is she?” She says, her amethyst eyes lifting to snag on his, to dare burn in their blue, blue flame. “And yet, she is well. She sends her greetings.”
Maybe it was mere minutes, or maybe an hour went by, but when the dusk girl crests the rockface before him, she is hot and fierce and wild. She wears everything of the lion’s home: blood and sweat, dust and curling heat.
It is only when looking upon him now, stood close as they were at last, that she knows why the sun had crowned him so. Here, with it ceasing to shine down, but out, across and open, the lion king is no longer made of shadow and limned in gold. He is a picture of snow and soil, fierce fire and even hotter blue.
This man is a vision of war, stealing the breath from her lungs with the lion that roars upon his back. Her heart, at war with her body, becomes a battle chant, loud and frantic, raging against the beauty she finds in the rude, lion king.
It is with surprisingly small effort, that her lips curl into a rapier smile framed in gold and lilac petals, as she thinks of his wait.
“Sorry I took so long.” Dusk sings to Day. “I just had to stop and enjoy the views.”
She longs to look away, but he is the sun and dusk cannot come fast enough.
@Maxence I will edit this when I actually know what just happened with this post... *blindsided* O.O
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
His dismissal is a snort that arrives as a growl in the walled canyon below. It resonates around the Dusk-hewn girl and chases a shiver down her spine.
For all the warrior sets her nerves alight with his disregard, her eyes do not sway from him as he begins to move. Her pride keeps him chained in amethyst eyes of twilight light. Sunlight chases him, blinking between his limbs, filtering through his wings and outlining the sharp, sharp teeth of his lion-head cloak. It blinds her, it burns her and yet the twilight girl does not look away.
The Solterran's words offer her no choice and her answering laugh, the one she throws back to meet his snarling retort, is as sharp as a rose’s thorn within his paw. Yet she turns to the treacherous path that winds its slow and effortful way up and up and up the canyon face.
“This is no choice you gave me.” She says to him in a lilting voice, just loud enough for him to hear. Florentine was no creature to appease to his sarcastic bidding, nor stand in petulance until he caved in or left her. She would go to him, of course, but in her own time.
The flower girl keeps her flitting wings close as she moves to the canyon wall. His sarcasm, a song in her ears, becomes a growl in her heart as she takes to his path of false steps and sheer drops. Up and up she goes, nimble of foot and light of spirit, even as sweat begins to bead her skin, pinning her wild mane down upon her damp, damp throat.
Still she rises to him, each step sure, each step soft, ascending through dust and sun, heat and fire-licked stone. This nymph was a creature born to roam, born to dance the ragged edges between worlds and tumble between stars thrown apart by Time.
What was it then to climb a cliff face?
It had been a canyon she climbed the day she ran into the war that killed her. The thought has her smiling, has her soul laughing, and even when her feet do slip, even when her knees and shins and sides are bitten and grazed and worried by rock, still she goes and still she smiles.
She stops for the beauty of the flowers she finds and the views that steal her heart and breath. Twilight does not come at daylight's call, she seeps in, in her own time, stealing his light. Maxence, the king she knows nothing of, would wait.
She was not a butterfly to flit to his whim.
His voice descends, another growl, a play at sincerity that has her laughing. She laughs at his gall, at this anger he inspires within her with such rudeness. “But Rannveig is not your lady is she?” She says, her amethyst eyes lifting to snag on his, to dare burn in their blue, blue flame. “And yet, she is well. She sends her greetings.”
Maybe it was mere minutes, or maybe an hour went by, but when the dusk girl crests the rockface before him, she is hot and fierce and wild. She wears everything of the lion’s home: blood and sweat, dust and curling heat.
It is only when looking upon him now, stood close as they were at last, that she knows why the sun had crowned him so. Here, with it ceasing to shine down, but out, across and open, the lion king is no longer made of shadow and limned in gold. He is a picture of snow and soil, fierce fire and even hotter blue.
This man is a vision of war, stealing the breath from her lungs with the lion that roars upon his back. Her heart, at war with her body, becomes a battle chant, loud and frantic, raging against the beauty she finds in the rude, lion king.
It is with surprisingly small effort, that her lips curl into a rapier smile framed in gold and lilac petals, as she thinks of his wait.
“Sorry I took so long.” Dusk sings to Day. “I just had to stop and enjoy the views.”
She longs to look away, but he is the sun and dusk cannot come fast enough.
@Maxence I will edit this when I actually know what just happened with this post... *blindsided* O.O
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
