hyperparadise
07-23-2014, 02:35 AM
As the twisting language of her femininity begins to soil his mind, he can only grow ever so bothered by her impervious air of poise. Beneath him most would deteriorate, perhaps not in fear or humiliation, but defence... repugnance. Alas, her retaliations are far from impressive; rather she sustains the uncomforting similarities of his own; as if his words would fail to reveal any suggestions of sentiment. No, her mismatched gaze is as cold and rhythmical as the northern oceans that encompass what was once his flourishing Kingdom, a world that may well and truly be forming a wasteland within his simmering mind. And yet he is utterly surprised by her next declaration, pondering mutely who it could have been that soiled the titles of his progeny; who it was that sought leadership and failed to sustain it. No doubt, one of the few who refused to accept the reality of the Armada's, perhaps a son or daughter previously brainwashed by Taurig's reckless antics all that time ago. Still, he attempts to appear as though it is all saluted information, "Kin by name and blood perhaps, but what good is a polished blade when it's carrier knows little how to use it?" oh how ravenous he is to know who she speaks of. And yet he refuses to recognize she knows something that he does not, ruby gaze contented within the lies he shares with her. Her quarters will seat as willingly as his own, ripples of apprehension obscuring the portrait of their simultaneous reflection. She threatens to disclose a glimmer of exasperation, his pale lashes far too reluctant to blink as if he is afraid to miss even the most negligible suggestion of triumph; though she fails to delight his ego. "Knowledge is power, little bludgeon," he chuckles weakly, a faint sway forming within the supple joints of his forelimbs, a bliss induced by his sudden sensation of perception. If there is one thing he knows she cannot compare, it is his wholesome experience- and his skull will swell and pound with an animated pleasure in his own personal understanding of raw might. Regretfully, the pallid ghoul can relate to her expressions, and yet cherry lips will fail to declare such similarities; now, she does not merit his affairs. Upon her preceding verse he will muse, snide; savouring within her sudden need to defend herself; "Bravo, silver darling- I applaud your blossoming wisdom; for some day you will be a queen!" his silent pause is deafening, disturbing, "But until your fallen foes lay bloodied and quaking beneath your unwanted existence, and until the population cringes upon your name and seeks to destroy all you've taught them to abhor... you are but a princess with a loose-fitting crown." They are no words of hatred; veiled deep beneath his chords suggests an admiration only the observant may discover. Though he dares her to be affronted, it is far from his intention; no, Isardis can see grand persistence in her, but he has changed his mind... he will not descend beneath her toes, though he is yet to see such vigour in any other youth, he is far too excited and self-righteous to offer his reverence so readily. Had the babe any wits and aspiration, she would reveal his buried truth; find intelligent sincerity within a voice so many had grown to recognise as only foul and polluted. His lips continue to flutter, pleasure as light as moths wings upon his coral snout; though he knows she may well snap he appears utterly oblivious to the possibilities, ?I will observe your royal transition religiously; and should you ever seek a verified King, you may well know where to find one.? As his pale quarters would climb with irrefutable composure, it was a brittle suggestion of a potential departure- but what would she make of his bitter-sweet confrontations? |