[M] the calloused east.

Myrika Tears · 11-04-2011, 08:57 AM

[html]

(439)

Why had this flower withered so? Certainly she was not susceptible to winter and dark as a true flower. The russet woman was unmindful of the cold ground, still faintly damp. The outside world had never bothered her, though she figured there were a few canines out there with an aversion to soil and the world outside their own dens. Humanized, they said -- fools, she thought. As much as Myri enjoyed the gifts humanity had left behind for the Luperci, she would never wish to disconnect herself from the natural world. She need only glance at a running horse to ascertain such.

Concern fell across her face, and her ears tipped backward, half-nestled into the tangle of reddish hair on her head. It was haphazardly pulled back, wound up with a short length of sinew cord. As always, the arrangement was messy, and strands had disconnected themselves from the larger entanglement throughout the day. Now, she figured she might as well not bother, but she made no move to remove the band holding her hair together. There were more pressing matters; she only lifted a hand to shove an especially annoying strand back up into the bunch, and returned her attentions to the cloud-colored woman before her.

There was a slow, shuffling kind of movement, and the silvery woman was ever closer. Myrika had fallen silent, her request appeased; once more, she was content to gaze on the pale face, splashed with henna. Myrika did not so much as twitch as the hand raised for her face, though her eyes followed it apprehensively. It sought her face and lighted there, a faint warmth against the fur of her cheek. Faintly warm as it was, bolts of electricity radiated outward from that small spot, following the path of the reddish-hued fingers.

The feathery touch was gone, and Myri seemed to awaken, rather like snapping awake from a dream. There was a look of confusion and faint, far-away frustration on her face, but it passed. She would not ask the woman to speak, no -- that might very well have shattered the tawny woman's innards to pieces. But she would have that gaze, and if there was any sense of goodness in the world, she would have that touch again. These thoughts were like fever in her, and she reached a hand for the one that had touched her own. That, again, that, do that again, she wanted to shout, jerking the woman's hand back to her face. Instead, she only touched the other woman's hand, offering only a slight squeeze before loosening her grip.

Login




Remember me Lost Password?