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WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised. |
-WC: 1049. OOC: Moo.
It beats, a lulling and contrarily confident tempo that reverberates through the hushed wind, low and weighing down upon them- the breaks in the air, the crevices of space, wrinkles in time. Like the hand of an old pocketwatch, it thrums with a steady pace, practiced and unaffected by that which may stand obstinate in its path. Where such a rhythm is destined to linger is a fact that as yet is, ironically, uncertain. For the heart that embraces the gentle pounding within is carried devoutly by a framework that does not adhere to the rules etched in its sound. Though wrapping oneself defiantly around one's heart, and though navigating a careful existence with careful obedience to the heart's will are both natural acts, reflexes to experience even, this one prefers the quiet solemnity of her own mind. Where there are wolves who think solely through the desires of their clockwork organ, its thrum echoing louder than their own voice, so too are there wolves who would rather wonder upon their own time. To avoid having to listen to the nagging of their heart, the obnoxious pleads it makes as it tries to make one see right and wrong. In a world so filled with gray, the heart is obsolete in wisdom, outdone in all but love- though even in such an area of expertise does it fail on occasion. When there ceases to be a definitive line between the deeds of so-called 'good' and 'bad', simultaneously does there cease to be a reason to think with your heart.
It leads you astray and causes more trouble than it does you good.
In spite of the thousands of reasons to cast away the clock, however, in light, there are in fact two reasons to allow it to remain. It keeps good sense of the time, though again such a thing is merely relative, for no sentient being can even begin to comprehend the untameable force of a second and its successors. All the same, it grants the ability to breathe to exist, and subsequently the knowledge that it is going to strike its last bell. As the body falls, the heart speaks of its descent, and one may go down with peace on their minds, just as they were born. It ticks away inside her as we speak, still beating, still humming.
It shows us we are alive. That is its first reason. The second? We have yet to discover why a heart is so doubly important.
She finds herself tempted to release a soft hum into the shifting winds as her teal eyes trace delicate lines into the stone all around, grand and rusted as it appears. Perhaps only due to her interest in whether the curvaceous walls would mirror her, mimic the vibrations and sing a hollow tune back to her. She is a peculiar creature, content in her independence and unfazed by the wealthy loneliness that sighs through spring itself. Those sharp eyes observe a shiver that ripples through the flakes falling from the heavens above, gaze scything across the skies and back to the rock wall above and before her.
Hah, the promise of flight. It is a promiscuous and lecherous world in the beyond, a place where so few find themselves able to wander. Of that number, a gander could be taken as to how many revel in the sick touch of the wind as it caresses beneath you, nimble hands running expert fingers through your fur, touching you, goading you. Catering to your desires in a breathless air vent, where warm mingles with cold and leaves hot sweat all over your body. Her hands are precious and careful, though not harmless. Willful and simply not touching where they need not- taking aim with the precision of such a poor falcon, and then wrapping soft talons around you. Bidding you not leave her embrace, refusing you anyone but her. The sky is a wonderful lady, but the wind, she is not so kind. This wolf below knows her whispers, how savoury they sound in their chocolate-lined deceit. The wind, she is a frightful thing.
Then again, maybe that's why it's so damn fun to toy with her. Flying is like a slap in her face, much as she tries to keep you.
Though the echoes of her own voice ring hollow between the great walls, other sounds do not escape the scope of her rounded ears. Blackened markings upon her face curve as her lips revert into a flat line, the sound of her humming simply ceasing to exist. Eyes remain closed as the sounds of paws and other things- clearly not of her knowledge, the near black brute has not bothered to change her position nor to acknowledge the pair's presence; if they so desire, they may shatter what has now become silence and speak. She does not, as yet, see reason to. Naturally there can be no such thing as harmony in a place where mother and fucker seem to run in tandem- the company that has chosen to make itself known is of significantly different... Flavour than the others she has discovered thus far. Oddly so, spring time does not find it to her distaste, quite. The corners of her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile coming to life and then fading again, after his statement has punctured a hole into the emptiness. Hello Shadow... You finally have come, where have you been the past few nights. Her voice was now dark. She smirked and jumped down off the rock, landing on two feet. She looked over her 'mate' and shook her head. She had heard stories of where he had been. Of course, he always had females all over him. He did not care about her. He truly didn't- thus if he did, he would of been there for her.
"Do you care?" She practically spat at him, she bared her fangs her right hand moving to a knife she had stolen from shadow one night. Her smirk never left her face though. She found this hilarious. He needed to tell her, or there would be a bloodshed tonight and he would have to fight her off. If not, that just means more scars for him and less blood.
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