STORM WITH SKIN.

on all levels except physical mislyn is 6′5″

god of war

“ sorry. i’m sorry. “   the words are quick, instinctual, a touch more barbed than mislyn means them to be. still, in this light, the hard amber of her eyes seem more like honey, & her voice is quiet underneath the acerbity. mislyn wishes she could pluck all the fear & worry from blanche’s heart with something as easy as words, wishes she were more eloquent a woman. but she can’t & she’s not, & so she does her paltry best to soothe whatever deluge her recklessness has stirred up.

“ i, ah, thought it would be fine. thought i would be fine. which i am, really. but i won’t go off alone again. “   mislyn can see the low flicker of the campfire reflected in the soft obsidian cast of blanche’s eyes, & finds she can’t keep her gaze steady.

she is quiet then, with two small hands encircling one of blanche’s own, holding the pale expanse of it in between her palms. her grip would be gentle if it wasn’t so firm; a simple reassurance that she is alive & well & here & not leaving any time soon. it’s not enough, mislyn thinks & something inside of her chest aches with terrible longing, but she doesn’t reach for anything more.

god of war

“ is that so ? ”   her voice is all but flat, carrying with it the faintest undertones of curiosity. had it been anyone else, she likely would have taken offense, would have bristled & reared; but it’s cyras, so mislyn does her best to keep the sharpness out of her voice, to keep her features from twisting. she settles for something that might border on aloof if not for the uptick of her brow.

she doesn’t think herself infallible ( quite the opposite, really ), but she’s always been a bit of a prideful thing.   “ in fact, i rather think i see things quite clearly. ”