pink bleeds gold / and red spills into one's heart
She didn’t seem too insulted despite himself and his unquenchable curiosity which frequently bordered on invasive. Expressing an interest in distant lands, Atlas felt he had to agree. He was, of course, a nomad by heart, and even now had plans to head deeper into Novus following the conclusion of the festival. He’d not been to Denocte yet; it was next on his list. “It is refreshing to meet someone of a like mind,” he confessed in earnest. While he had not encountered many distinctly closed-minded people in Novus, more than most had been happy homebodies who had taken, if not insult, then a sharp discomfort in his interests.
She turned her head and seemed confused at his confession, which must seem foolhardy or courageous to her, and most others; Atlas simply shrugged and swallowed a laugh, not wanting it to seem mocking. “Far be it for me to seem suicidal, but I’m certain there are kelpies in the world who are capable of, say, barking before biting.” He did laugh, then, but clearly at his own self. “And even if they did bite, I’m sure they would find me less than palatable. Too bony.”
The smile fell from his face as he listened intently to her explain the workings of her pod and her past life; the night took on an almost imperceptible chill. He swallowed, trying to imagine how existence had been for Bel and, instead, found himself thinking of his own horrible past. Where we were regularly hunted as weaker beings. A line of captives snatched from the desert, sunburnt and windswept, stained, befouled, and bloodied; led in chains to the Meatkeeper’s pens to be divided up by strength and value and sold to the highest bidder.
He swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit nauseated. “Grandeur does not always indicate greatness. Sometimes it is a fake luster.” His voice came out whisper-low and gravelly.
A sea serpent. Atlas swung his head towards her, melancholy shattered like the ice they were so speaking of, and blinked, honeyed eyes swelling with confusion. “Come again?” he requested, unable to contain his interest. He found a strange humor in it. “You talk of fearing kelpies and your bonded is a sea serpent.”
Her stories of giant ice leviathans danced with his own memories of rek’sai, the Zukai name for the sand hunters. He nodded his agreement. “‘All the world will be your enemy,’” he quoted, finding his smile again, “so what is the point of living in constant fear?”
Certainly an easy proclamation when they were surrounded by such jovial celebrations, and a sense of warm kinship.
She turned her head and seemed confused at his confession, which must seem foolhardy or courageous to her, and most others; Atlas simply shrugged and swallowed a laugh, not wanting it to seem mocking. “Far be it for me to seem suicidal, but I’m certain there are kelpies in the world who are capable of, say, barking before biting.” He did laugh, then, but clearly at his own self. “And even if they did bite, I’m sure they would find me less than palatable. Too bony.”
The smile fell from his face as he listened intently to her explain the workings of her pod and her past life; the night took on an almost imperceptible chill. He swallowed, trying to imagine how existence had been for Bel and, instead, found himself thinking of his own horrible past. Where we were regularly hunted as weaker beings. A line of captives snatched from the desert, sunburnt and windswept, stained, befouled, and bloodied; led in chains to the Meatkeeper’s pens to be divided up by strength and value and sold to the highest bidder.
He swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit nauseated. “Grandeur does not always indicate greatness. Sometimes it is a fake luster.” His voice came out whisper-low and gravelly.
A sea serpent. Atlas swung his head towards her, melancholy shattered like the ice they were so speaking of, and blinked, honeyed eyes swelling with confusion. “Come again?” he requested, unable to contain his interest. He found a strange humor in it. “You talk of fearing kelpies and your bonded is a sea serpent.”
Her stories of giant ice leviathans danced with his own memories of rek’sai, the Zukai name for the sand hunters. He nodded his agreement. “‘All the world will be your enemy,’” he quoted, finding his smile again, “so what is the point of living in constant fear?”
Certainly an easy proclamation when they were surrounded by such jovial celebrations, and a sense of warm kinship.
