07-15-2008, 03:34 PM
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OOC: I hate having inspiration at work but none at home! D:
Her smile. It was always that which amazed him. The pain and sorrow seemed to vanish and faint traces of a blush appeared on her fur. His heart skipped a beat, which caused him some amazement. Surely he should have no feelings for anyone else, now that he had declared it (to himself, anyway) that Ember was the one he loved. And yet this white angel, this beautiful vision of purity was making his heart jump. He felt an emptiness growing in his stomach, something books called butterflies, though it made him feel slightly light-headed, as if he were drunk. Or ditzy. He wasn't quite sure which was which.
They seemed to walk in relative silence for a while, before she broached the subject of who he was. Startled, he turned to her only to find her gazing at him again, which made his breath stop for a moment. There was such a spark of inquisitiveness in her eyes and yet inside he felt a bit saddened. Why must they all ask him where he came from? Was he really that aloof, that much a stranger, that they had to know his origins? Did they change who he was and what his intentions were? Well, it mattered very little, he had to answer her. 'I come from something we used to call the Old Country. Human writing and cartography call it Poland. My pack... my pack were attacked and I am the only survivor. I crossed the frozen lands of the East and came here, to find some form of peace. I am a Bard by trade, or I used to be. And that is who I am. Not too interesting, I assure you, angel.' His voice was soft and quiet and his eyes were still locked on hers. His angel, his beautiful chiselled angel.
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Her smile. It was always that which amazed him. The pain and sorrow seemed to vanish and faint traces of a blush appeared on her fur. His heart skipped a beat, which caused him some amazement. Surely he should have no feelings for anyone else, now that he had declared it (to himself, anyway) that Ember was the one he loved. And yet this white angel, this beautiful vision of purity was making his heart jump. He felt an emptiness growing in his stomach, something books called butterflies, though it made him feel slightly light-headed, as if he were drunk. Or ditzy. He wasn't quite sure which was which.
They seemed to walk in relative silence for a while, before she broached the subject of who he was. Startled, he turned to her only to find her gazing at him again, which made his breath stop for a moment. There was such a spark of inquisitiveness in her eyes and yet inside he felt a bit saddened. Why must they all ask him where he came from? Was he really that aloof, that much a stranger, that they had to know his origins? Did they change who he was and what his intentions were? Well, it mattered very little, he had to answer her. 'I come from something we used to call the Old Country. Human writing and cartography call it Poland. My pack... my pack were attacked and I am the only survivor. I crossed the frozen lands of the East and came here, to find some form of peace. I am a Bard by trade, or I used to be. And that is who I am. Not too interesting, I assure you, angel.' His voice was soft and quiet and his eyes were still locked on hers. His angel, his beautiful chiselled angel.