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Post by WHIPSTER. on Jul 26, 2015 18:40:44 GMT
COLLECT YOUR LIES AND HOLD THEM CLOSE
Gwendolyn was, in truth, unsure of herself as she first gaze upon the frozen ground. It was the middle of spring now, ending into summer but here was almost completely unphased. It was as inviting as a viper bite, and maybe she was a fool to start her journey here, of all places. The feathers on her feet brush over the frosty land and pull and yank; it's unpleasant, causes little shocks of irritation ( not close to pain, she's all too used to that ) but it is enough to make her pick up her feet more. She's trying to pay enough mind and avoid further damage to her Gypsy features, but it is far harder said than done. Gwen is pulled in by the breeze as it nips her coat, now thin and sleek instead of fuzzy and untamed. It was only a mere three weeks ago that she lost thr last bit of winter coat and shedded out over her most gold parts. Her dapples were prominent, all thanks to the sun. She would find no such luck here.
The skies were darker than in most places. Clouds did not part to say hello, the sun did not make her skin burning hot. She was awestruck by this reality, slowing to a stop and looking over the Frostbitten area once again, face littered with sheer curiosity and caution. She had yet find another equine in this place, save the few she met just crossing Tathra's deepest edges, Native horses who spoke an odd tongue. From loneliness, as it started to eat away at her chest cavity, Gwendolyn found her voice reaching out to the shadows of the land to beckon forth whoever would have her company. If she was correct ( and by how often was measured soully in how fate wanted to play her ... ) there was someone just North of her amber eyes, lurking or coming her way, whether they wanted her there or not. Gwendolyn waited patiently for them to come, deciding very carefully what mask she wished to put on then.
She picked the darkest shade of blood red and smeared it on her lips, curled her silver and gold mixed tresses, and stood there with large sunglasses to cover up her bloodshot, surely hungover, eyes.
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3 characters
175 posts
Dracken
Fate
touch the parts of me that are scarred from knives, once disguised as open hands
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Post by Kezz on Jul 26, 2015 20:57:42 GMT
 Dracken was not made for the cold: his dark coat was fine, silken, wrapped smoothly over his robust frame, and as the wind swung east against his body he could not help but shudder uncomfortably. Spring, in this new land he had come to know as Tathra, was fickle: days faded from pleasant temperatures into sub-zero frost overnight, and the young man did not approve. Shoulders hunched higher as he stalked across the open plain, crushing the frozen shoots underfoot. He felt a pang of homesickness, quite suddenly, leaving him reeling almost from the tenderness that rippled across the aphotic waters of his mind. Home. The desert nights had been cool, freezing truthfully, in winter, but at least they had been brief - come spring the kingdom simmered warmly beneath the relentless sun. He missed the dunes - the rolling gold, the ceaseless cerulean sky.
But was it worth his pride? - never.
The white sky mirrored the land upon which the sable man moved - he paused, taking a moment to observe the plain as an eerie quiet fell over it. Knotted tendrils the colour of midnight whirled about his face - whipping against cheekbones carved from black marble, turbulent grey eyes locking onto a figure in the distance. She was stark against the paleness that surrounded them, her skin a mix of alabaster and sunlit cream, and for a moment Dracken merely stared. But he could not stare long - he was impatient, restless, undaunted, and he swept on toward her with a stride that spoke of his ancestors, storm-coloured eyes thundering.
Close enough, he stood, studying her with a raw sweeping gaze.
"I thought I was alone, out here."
For wasn't he always? |
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Post by WHIPSTER. on Jul 27, 2015 16:13:53 GMT
COLLECT YOUR LIES AND HOLD THEM CLOSE
The golden splashed girl takes a deep breath, teeth grinding into one another. When she is seeming to look right at him, it's merely her looking past. She has already decided her face, but maybe it was sheer contemplation about the man that made her look away. His gaze burned holes into whatever part of her head it chose to stare - his eyes are storms rolling over vast ocean water. His soul is it's depths, no matter how black and dangerous. Yes, Gwendolyn decides. He is much, much like the ocean. Her ears twitch, eyes coming in to refocus on his actual face as he stops and speaks. A man of his word, it seems. His voice sends chills down her spine. She will never say a word about it. "I thought I was alone, out here." She snapped her head up, a small chuckle escaping her ruby red lips.
“You thought wrong, then,” she replies, flipping silver and gold locks away from her fire hot stare. Gwen rolls off an uncertainty, even with cold nagging at her heels and now this stranger ( of the coolest blazes: fire, but he was laced with ice ) right in her face. To say the least, she is intrigued. Her skin is prickling with electricity, eyes lighting up just slight as her head raised and ears perching forward — her lips curl, she leans back. “Would you like that, storm born? Would you rather be alone?”
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