08-10-2009, 11:56 AM
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500+
The "And what manner of creature am I," the soft melody sang, and it was as if she were truly curious about the answer. That distant tranquility seemed to observe him from afar, her mild curiosity almost cold—and yet, it was not. "And what of yourself?" He had continuously implored her for battle, a thing with which the warrior was unfamiliar. No other creature had asked such a thing from her. Perhaps it would simply be a spar, as he said, or perhaps they would battle, as she suspected. But waging war was not a thing to take lightly. While the black fae reveled in battle and in fight, she did not revel in it needlessly. She understood the necessity of the existence of peace as well, and she did not wish to defile the beauty of war’s song. And so she was cautious in the forming of this promise. It was unwise to proceed when the footing ahead was uncertain. Often the warrior had been required to go forth without the knowledge of the footing ahead, but here such a thing were not necessary.
The woad warrior could sense that unrefined darkness within him, a thing that she had seen in many. And yet, as with those many that she had seen, the wolf became intrigued. Her soul was born from the darkness and marred twofold by the same blackness that had wrought her. From the moment she had breathed the first breath of life, her soul had been drawn to darkness. It was that single, black smudge upon the light of her soul that seemed to have grown darker in those passing days. It was from her own darkness that she sought to keep from the lives of a black seed within her, but it would always remain with her, a hidden birthmark. The woad bound fingers brushed absently against her swollen belly. "Perhaps," tranquil melody sang, "you will simply find me when the time is right." She did not know what was Fated for him, nor did she know what was Fated for her. But this encounter was not chance, for she did not believe in mere chance.
Cwmfen turned to face him, her body gliding marginally closer to the cloaked coyote. She did not deny her intrigue of him, her curiosity. But it was not yet strong enough for her to desire knowledge of him. "One can never truly know another," the melody mused aloud, "until one has fought the other." The white orbs, devoid of any clear emotion (were they empty, or were they simply filled with those diluted feelings?) held easily the crimson gaze. Samael seemed to know exactly who she was and what he was demanding, but the woad warrior knew nothing of him save for the silent subtle notes she had gathered. The woad-marked fae wondered if he would enlighten her of such a thing, for thus far he had merely demanded, silently refusing to bare himself before her. And she wondered once more: was this Samael worth the time and the effort? What had Fate written in her invisible ink for the two that now stood before eachother?
500+
The "And what manner of creature am I," the soft melody sang, and it was as if she were truly curious about the answer. That distant tranquility seemed to observe him from afar, her mild curiosity almost cold—and yet, it was not. "And what of yourself?" He had continuously implored her for battle, a thing with which the warrior was unfamiliar. No other creature had asked such a thing from her. Perhaps it would simply be a spar, as he said, or perhaps they would battle, as she suspected. But waging war was not a thing to take lightly. While the black fae reveled in battle and in fight, she did not revel in it needlessly. She understood the necessity of the existence of peace as well, and she did not wish to defile the beauty of war’s song. And so she was cautious in the forming of this promise. It was unwise to proceed when the footing ahead was uncertain. Often the warrior had been required to go forth without the knowledge of the footing ahead, but here such a thing were not necessary.
The woad warrior could sense that unrefined darkness within him, a thing that she had seen in many. And yet, as with those many that she had seen, the wolf became intrigued. Her soul was born from the darkness and marred twofold by the same blackness that had wrought her. From the moment she had breathed the first breath of life, her soul had been drawn to darkness. It was that single, black smudge upon the light of her soul that seemed to have grown darker in those passing days. It was from her own darkness that she sought to keep from the lives of a black seed within her, but it would always remain with her, a hidden birthmark. The woad bound fingers brushed absently against her swollen belly. "Perhaps," tranquil melody sang, "you will simply find me when the time is right." She did not know what was Fated for him, nor did she know what was Fated for her. But this encounter was not chance, for she did not believe in mere chance.
Cwmfen turned to face him, her body gliding marginally closer to the cloaked coyote. She did not deny her intrigue of him, her curiosity. But it was not yet strong enough for her to desire knowledge of him. "One can never truly know another," the melody mused aloud, "until one has fought the other." The white orbs, devoid of any clear emotion (were they empty, or were they simply filled with those diluted feelings?) held easily the crimson gaze. Samael seemed to know exactly who she was and what he was demanding, but the woad warrior knew nothing of him save for the silent subtle notes she had gathered. The woad-marked fae wondered if he would enlighten her of such a thing, for thus far he had merely demanded, silently refusing to bare himself before her. And she wondered once more: was this Samael worth the time and the effort? What had Fate written in her invisible ink for the two that now stood before eachother?