Won't let the sun wrap its arms around me

Sirius Revlis · 07-01-2011, 10:37 AM

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Word Count » 3+

It was rare for him to find a woman that held such presence. Sirius was no masochist - He placed no importance on gender, only on value, on presence and worth. The worth of women seemed most frequently to be only of aesthetics, purposeful only as pretty things to adorn his life with. There were a few exceptions. The black witch, she who was held closest to his shallow heart; The Kimaris banshee, temptress and mystic. Few others were given respect, but in fairness, such could be said for both genders.

Sirius played a cold game, and kept his cards close. It was better that way. He constructed a family through force, through the binds of blood, tears and thorns. But much as he sought this perfect utopia, replica of the happiness that had been taken from him as a child, he could not trust them all, not truly. He could never trust them.

Samael's son was like his father in many ways. There was a light to his eyes that bordered on the preternatural - Unlike the sheer madness of the man before him, Sirius had constructed barriers and walls of determination and the vile, ferocious intelligence that kept him alive in the midst of so many black-blooded heathens. Perhaps they saw the slightly demented edge to his brilliance, that genius that brought with it inclinations of the unstable, remnants of the royal blue blood that ran in him still. But to know such things about oneself bordered on the impossible, and such incestuously deep thought led only to weakness and self doubt. Sirius could afford neither of these things.

But perhaps, the small kindling of self-awareness drew him closer to the wild thing before him. She was immaculately crafted, a perfect design, a beautiful specimen. His cunning eyes could appreciate the violence that boiled and churned deep within her own, concealed by a thin-lipped half-smile and a bladed calm so similar to his own. She was armed, and his narrowed pupils graced the weapon - He feared not the metal blade, but the woman who possessed it. There was nothing to fear from lifeless objects, such as her sword, or his slaves.

On his upper thigh was a hunting knife, strapped there with binding made from dried and tanned deer intestine. It was a weapon made for short, unexpected combat - Hunter's combat. It would do him little favor in a fight with the woman, and he held his simulated, relaxed posture.

Her voice rewarded his probing, and the Thistle King allowed himself a dark moment of pleasure. "I intend you no harm," As she had his own, Sirius evaded the warrior's question, his gaze cold and detached. He could not allow the strange fervor within him to show - Something about the woman greatly thrilled him, but she was far more deadly than the bear he had faced in the mountains. He sensed that if he ruined this moment, another would never arise; Could he track her again? Would he survive this interaction to do so?

Surprisingly, for he was in possession of no outstanding bravery, Sirius was not afraid. His arrogance did not shield him, but it was not this that kept his fear at bay - It was the strange sense of excitement that raced in his blood, something he had not experienced for a long, long time. "Do you know me?" It was a strange question, asked hollowly. Maybe she was familiar to him; Maybe he knew her, or someone like her. Unable to resist, the new King stepped closer, his motions slow and easy as though stepping nearer to a wildcat. Palms rose upwards to show that they were bear and free of weaponry. "Perhaps not, although I do not doubt that you know of my pack," The crocodile smile returned fleetingly, a ghost of sharp yellowed teeth that momentarily twisted his handsome face into something darker.

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