like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
She wonders what he would do if she scraped the tender places of her throat against his horn. Blood might look like ruby dust on the whiteness of that sharp bone, or perhaps it would look only like blood until it ran in roots across his blaze.
Would he run back as the crowd would, or would he smile like a wolf and step closer towards the promised kill?
Would he scream in horror or challenge?
The music turns to carrion song, lion purr, and eagle cry in the background. It twines between the nobles in the crowd and hangs like black-smoke crows upon their brows. She can see it, in the corner of eyes, the way none of them know the right steps to the dance. This entire place is all bated breaths, and fury that hasn't learned how to bloom. And her magic feels it, trembles for it, beneath her skin like a tide pulling at the pits in the moon.
Her smile is fat with teeth and disappointment as he lifts his horn like a feather instead of a weapon, and smiles instead of snarls. Perhaps, she thinks, it would have been better to drag her lips across the point of his horn instead of her throat. She is the brightest thing in his gaze and the only thing worth anything when she meets his hollow forest eyes with her own halo-of-the-sun eyes.
He could be have been something. He could have...
“My mistake.” Amaunet says, sharp as the blade of a Davke spear. Her smile grows into constellations bright with bone instead of disappointment. “How strange we must seem to you then, a culture of warriors grown fat and greedy with no wars to fight.” She smiles. It is a not a gentle or womanly look.
Her hooves echo smoothly with the carrion song as she steps closer. Those mighty wings of hers whisper with the lion purrs and the eagle songs when she drags a line through them with the tip of his horn. She wonders if they feel like kisses or needles against his face.
Or does it feel like blood, thin and frail against the tide of gravity?
“But perhaps,” her wings settle at her sides, “you might indulge me.” The way she says might makes it sound more like will.
She does not step away, not now that she's claimed the space between them. She only settles her cheek almost sweetly in the space just against his (not close enough to touch, but enough that he might feel the feral fire of her skin).
Amaunet breathes into his ear, a whisper begging for the mountain of his horn to do anything else but be still. “What why's do you see in me with a stranger's eyes?” And when she laughs surely it feels more like a kiss than a sound in the frail and meager space left between them.
@Martell
Would he run back as the crowd would, or would he smile like a wolf and step closer towards the promised kill?
Would he scream in horror or challenge?
The music turns to carrion song, lion purr, and eagle cry in the background. It twines between the nobles in the crowd and hangs like black-smoke crows upon their brows. She can see it, in the corner of eyes, the way none of them know the right steps to the dance. This entire place is all bated breaths, and fury that hasn't learned how to bloom. And her magic feels it, trembles for it, beneath her skin like a tide pulling at the pits in the moon.
Her smile is fat with teeth and disappointment as he lifts his horn like a feather instead of a weapon, and smiles instead of snarls. Perhaps, she thinks, it would have been better to drag her lips across the point of his horn instead of her throat. She is the brightest thing in his gaze and the only thing worth anything when she meets his hollow forest eyes with her own halo-of-the-sun eyes.
He could be have been something. He could have...
“My mistake.” Amaunet says, sharp as the blade of a Davke spear. Her smile grows into constellations bright with bone instead of disappointment. “How strange we must seem to you then, a culture of warriors grown fat and greedy with no wars to fight.” She smiles. It is a not a gentle or womanly look.
Her hooves echo smoothly with the carrion song as she steps closer. Those mighty wings of hers whisper with the lion purrs and the eagle songs when she drags a line through them with the tip of his horn. She wonders if they feel like kisses or needles against his face.
Or does it feel like blood, thin and frail against the tide of gravity?
“But perhaps,” her wings settle at her sides, “you might indulge me.” The way she says might makes it sound more like will.
She does not step away, not now that she's claimed the space between them. She only settles her cheek almost sweetly in the space just against his (not close enough to touch, but enough that he might feel the feral fire of her skin).
Amaunet breathes into his ear, a whisper begging for the mountain of his horn to do anything else but be still. “What why's do you see in me with a stranger's eyes?” And when she laughs surely it feels more like a kiss than a sound in the frail and meager space left between them.
@Martell
