[ that she, in all her presence had not fallen in his absence, had been of relief. seviilia was a heavy blade, the kind that was difficult to hold in one's hand, but would cleave through an opponent if given the correct momentum. he was, concerning her, obscenely at ease. the dead, myth-borne or otherwise, had been known to him in his own world - her hungers were intimately known to him, and he had not feared the violence she would show him, if he baited her appropriately.
even now, he baits her. lures this o'tnika he admires, the way one would admire a beautiful weapon.
his mind is the caress of his hand through her hair, the press of his teeth across her wrist. the memory of her frost in his veins and her fingers around his throat - deadly and cloying. he may let go of her, physically, but their connection is a slow, waking thing. ]
(You haven't forgotten how I feel, have you? You're so unsure.)
[ a hiss, the memory of high peaks, fresh blood, darkness that curls in shadows ]
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even now, he baits her. lures this o'tnika he admires, the way one would admire a beautiful weapon.
his mind is the caress of his hand through her hair, the press of his teeth across her wrist. the memory of her frost in his veins and her fingers around his throat - deadly and cloying. he may let go of her, physically, but their connection is a slow, waking thing. ]
( You haven't forgotten how I feel, have you? You're so unsure. )
[ a hiss, the memory of high peaks, fresh blood, darkness that curls in shadows ]