09-13-2018, 04:23 PM
Ice clinked in his glass as Ryker tipped it to his lips. The contrast was not lost to him (or the bartender) that he opted for purity despite the debauchery in which he was surrounded. Ryker was a man of self-restraint – where base instincts were buried deep, replaced by a mold of a calculated exterminator, more slayer than butcher.
The woman slipped to her feet, legs pointed spears that tip-toed carefully to them. He kept his posture open, knees parted, back lounged, like the lioness might come to claim the meat for herself. The proximity of vulnerable flesh as she leaned into the bar rippled punishingly close. But the bonds of discipline locked down anything except the roam of his eyes and the curl of a finger.
Her coercion was acceptable.
He glanced at Ivan to see whether the man would accept the gauntlet thrown. Any hope he held for redeeming his shining white armor would be forever lost if he descended to those pits. His would be a taint never scrubbed clean. Bruises to the soul that never healed. Ryker’s solely clear eye blazed with coaxing suggestion. The other milked pale, it’s view cloudy in comparison. The scars snarling their heavy plaques pinched with the barest movement of his brows.
He hovered close to Oriena like razors scraped across the skin when he took to his feet. She smelled luxurious as antifreeze, the blood pulsed excitement through the string of veins webbing her throat. Whatever poison radiating from her opalescent skin sank into his. Ryker was diminished from what he once was. His own pallor was clouded upon close inspection. The hair thinner. The promise of a vile soul carefully caged.
But that did not diminish his presence in that moment. Saliva welled his mouth wet. Victory was a palatable flavor, after all.
“Lead on,” he ordered, flushing the waves of dissonance onward before them.
The woman slipped to her feet, legs pointed spears that tip-toed carefully to them. He kept his posture open, knees parted, back lounged, like the lioness might come to claim the meat for herself. The proximity of vulnerable flesh as she leaned into the bar rippled punishingly close. But the bonds of discipline locked down anything except the roam of his eyes and the curl of a finger.
Her coercion was acceptable.
He glanced at Ivan to see whether the man would accept the gauntlet thrown. Any hope he held for redeeming his shining white armor would be forever lost if he descended to those pits. His would be a taint never scrubbed clean. Bruises to the soul that never healed. Ryker’s solely clear eye blazed with coaxing suggestion. The other milked pale, it’s view cloudy in comparison. The scars snarling their heavy plaques pinched with the barest movement of his brows.
He hovered close to Oriena like razors scraped across the skin when he took to his feet. She smelled luxurious as antifreeze, the blood pulsed excitement through the string of veins webbing her throat. Whatever poison radiating from her opalescent skin sank into his. Ryker was diminished from what he once was. His own pallor was clouded upon close inspection. The hair thinner. The promise of a vile soul carefully caged.
But that did not diminish his presence in that moment. Saliva welled his mouth wet. Victory was a palatable flavor, after all.
“Lead on,” he ordered, flushing the waves of dissonance onward before them.