[ a worry that might have rung more true, once. might have made her leery, plagued with distrust as she was. (another gift, she thinks sardonically, viconia had bestowed upon her.) as it stands, there's an airiness to it, empty of any true suspicion. or judgment that isn't hers to pass on, for that matter. gods know no one escapes lady shar's service without having embodied nightmares themselves — the beasts children should dread, much as any sharp-fanged spawn lurking beneath a window, awaiting an invitation inside.
she's breathing proof of such, isn't she? the tall tale children are told by their chastising parents. behave, or they'll come for you next. and they had — had made her interrogator, torturer, believer. multi-faceted as a tool, a soldier, a spear. it's written in the lithe line of her torso as she leisurely arches toward him, seeking, in a quiet whisper of strength. graceful, yes, but with not without her own hidden ugliness.
that knowledge of her own (grotesque to her in some ways, now, in light of how they had been used) capabilities would have soothed her in the past, were he to have nuzzled as near to her jumping pulse as he does now. a promise of a fighting chance against him, if his teeth began to itch. perhaps she's a fool to find her faith lies solely in trust, in its place, as she elongates the pale, delicate column of her throat. some would call it foolish, brave, or foolishly brave to expose it in the presence of a predator, when she'd hardly trust a ravenous wolf with her soft parts; shadowheart thinks of it simply as a leap of faith.
absently, her fingers move to draw patterns at the nape of his neck, to glide up further, until she's gingerly sinking her fingers through silvery strands. ]
You're clever enough to accomplish both, I think, [ she continues, the hint of an impish smile in tow. ] I've the utmost faith you'll rise to the challenge.
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[ a worry that might have rung more true, once. might have made her leery, plagued with distrust as she was. (another gift, she thinks sardonically, viconia had bestowed upon her.) as it stands, there's an airiness to it, empty of any true suspicion. or judgment that isn't hers to pass on, for that matter. gods know no one escapes lady shar's service without having embodied nightmares themselves — the beasts children should dread, much as any sharp-fanged spawn lurking beneath a window, awaiting an invitation inside.
she's breathing proof of such, isn't she? the tall tale children are told by their chastising parents. behave, or they'll come for you next. and they had — had made her interrogator, torturer, believer. multi-faceted as a tool, a soldier, a spear. it's written in the lithe line of her torso as she leisurely arches toward him, seeking, in a quiet whisper of strength. graceful, yes, but with not without her own hidden ugliness.
that knowledge of her own (grotesque to her in some ways, now, in light of how they had been used) capabilities would have soothed her in the past, were he to have nuzzled as near to her jumping pulse as he does now. a promise of a fighting chance against him, if his teeth began to itch. perhaps she's a fool to find her faith lies solely in trust, in its place, as she elongates the pale, delicate column of her throat. some would call it foolish, brave, or foolishly brave to expose it in the presence of a predator, when she'd hardly trust a ravenous wolf with her soft parts; shadowheart thinks of it simply as a leap of faith.
absently, her fingers move to draw patterns at the nape of his neck, to glide up further, until she's gingerly sinking her fingers through silvery strands. ]
You're clever enough to accomplish both, I think, [ she continues, the hint of an impish smile in tow. ] I've the utmost faith you'll rise to the challenge.