The man dying of thirst rejoiced at mere drops of water, but given enough drops, he wanted a skein. Soon he wanted the rivers at his fingertips.
Valeriya's thoughts were of a similar form when she finally pulled herself away from a window. The Above was a glorious, joyful thing. She did not know that the warmth of the sun could tickle her skin just so. The radiance of warm cheeks was drips to the dying.
But hunger churned new pits in her stomach. When she stalked away from the window, it was with a scowl twisted upon her face. The sky was no longer enough. She needed more.
Illarion swept alongside her pace, robes sweeping quietly at his feet. She glared at him. "Why do you still dress as Khylsty of Below, beloved brother?" She pointed at two passing males adorned in pants and t-shirts.
Illarion clasped his hands together without replying. She scoffed, knowing the answer he didn't need to provide just by looking at his beautiful face. He was still pale, afraid to venture too long out in the sun, but also of those that stared at the brandings across his forehead and nose. The shape of a cross was forever burned into his face. It was the mark of his awakening. He thought he would never blend in with those of the Above and should remain a recluse.
She loathed the idea. In fact, blending in with the Above was what she wanted most dearly. To not just be here but also to belong. She was absently twisting strands of her hair in her fingers when he finally responded.
They spoke a few more minutes before she departed to find Regus. He was curled over the map again. Valeriya's scrutiny was flat. They would seek the places on that map and Valeriya would behold the tops of those green towers for herself, finally. If only Armande could figure out where the damn map led.
"Armande. My beloved." There was a possessiveness in her voice as though the barbs of her tongue spat warning of ownership. Her smile promised violence; her eyes twinkled with delight.
"The one you call Ascendancy suffers as the beast was bid. A strike has been delivered to the heart of him who would call himself tsĭsarĭ of this land. Let us accept the spoils of our victory with a celebration.
"I want to go out."
Valeriya's thoughts were of a similar form when she finally pulled herself away from a window. The Above was a glorious, joyful thing. She did not know that the warmth of the sun could tickle her skin just so. The radiance of warm cheeks was drips to the dying.
But hunger churned new pits in her stomach. When she stalked away from the window, it was with a scowl twisted upon her face. The sky was no longer enough. She needed more.
Illarion swept alongside her pace, robes sweeping quietly at his feet. She glared at him. "Why do you still dress as Khylsty of Below, beloved brother?" She pointed at two passing males adorned in pants and t-shirts.
Illarion clasped his hands together without replying. She scoffed, knowing the answer he didn't need to provide just by looking at his beautiful face. He was still pale, afraid to venture too long out in the sun, but also of those that stared at the brandings across his forehead and nose. The shape of a cross was forever burned into his face. It was the mark of his awakening. He thought he would never blend in with those of the Above and should remain a recluse.
She loathed the idea. In fact, blending in with the Above was what she wanted most dearly. To not just be here but also to belong. She was absently twisting strands of her hair in her fingers when he finally responded.
They spoke a few more minutes before she departed to find Regus. He was curled over the map again. Valeriya's scrutiny was flat. They would seek the places on that map and Valeriya would behold the tops of those green towers for herself, finally. If only Armande could figure out where the damn map led.
"Armande. My beloved." There was a possessiveness in her voice as though the barbs of her tongue spat warning of ownership. Her smile promised violence; her eyes twinkled with delight.
"The one you call Ascendancy suffers as the beast was bid. A strike has been delivered to the heart of him who would call himself tsĭsarĭ of this land. Let us accept the spoils of our victory with a celebration.
"I want to go out."
The Eye of the Khylsty