#anduna

Maxima smiles openly, nodding briefly as a low rumble leaves her throat. He looked uncomfortable, yes, though not because of the same reasons as many in his place would be. She had come to understand that the reaction of many when called for a meeting with a Magister was very similar to a wild animal watching hunter approach slowly. Some froze, others ran and very few dared to meet them on the same grounds. Uncomfortable, yes, but not because he was standing before a magister, but because of his clothes. She would guess that many would find that offensive; that it should say something about her force of presence, and yet, Maxima felt amused. And relieved.

   “I’m sure that you are more than happy to make the sacrifice for a couple of hours.” she hums, pouring wine into her cup, long fingers reaching for another, and pouring into it as well “If it is any consolation, my dear,” the cup filled with dark red wine is placed over the table that separated them both, the tip of her fingers push the beautifully crafted base towards him “you look fantastic.” a smirk, cup covering red lips as she drinks, though green eyes remain locked on him “Skin raw or not.”

Beyond flattery, it was indeed true. Given how rare it was for her to have meetings with anyone outside of her family and the magisterium, she was glad that this opportunity had presented herself “As much as I like the look of the typical warden, my request likely didn’t come as a surprise.”

send a word & pairing for a drabble || @anduna / @olgeird (idk where to find you)

cheiloproclitic - being attracted to someones lips.

It was hot in the desert by day, cold by night; and dry, dry as old bones, always.

She knew the old ways of surviving. The man whose name was not what he’d said it was (no more than was the name she’d given him the one her mother had given her) knew some of them already; the rest she taught him, by example and by wordless ways. In his dreams. In his waking thoughts. She knew already his eyes followed her when they ought to have watched the sky and the sands; then let him have something worth the following.

She taught him how to find water. How to find food. When to hide from the heat, how to protect oneself from the cold. When to travel, and when instead to sleep. She taught him the rhythms of this place, and how to walk the sands easily rather than becoming mired in them.

And she taught him to navigate the trackless sands by the stars above. They were strange, he had said, those stars. Different in their configuration from the ones beneath which he’d come to manhood. She taught him their patterns here and their names, and the stories behind those names – of which there were many, both stories and names, for each culture in the southern land had its own. She taught him hers, and then others, as many as she could recall. He soaked them in like water into sand, thirsty and never sated, never soaked beyond all capacity for more.

The oasis was a small one, measured by the terms of this place. A spring of fresh water, welling into a pool. A fig tree, and a date palm. Some hardy and scrubby grass, but blessedly green, soothing to an eye worn raw by unending shades of gold and umber. There were small birds, brown and round, in the trees. Britti, she named them to him, sometimes called the desert lark. There were small rosy-pink flowers starring the scrub. Pimchie, she told him, plucking one up, and then another, and tucking them into the darkness of her hair for the scent. So much like home. So much like youth. Both, now lost.

There were figs, green and blushing with ripeness, piled upon her silk-covered lap. She had talked until her mouth was dry, and her throat. And so she slit one open with her nail to show its pink wet flesh, soft, weeping sweetness. She offered it first to him upon her palm; and saw that he was not looking at the fruit. She saw that he was looking, instead, at her mouth.

Smiling, she brought the fig to her own lips instead and bit; sweet juice stained her lips, ran down her chin. She watched his throat as he swallowed, and offered him the fig again, though she’d bitten it herself, though its juices were on her own tongue already. This time his mouth parted and she slipped the sweet flesh through.

The Witcher Saga ( ACCEPTING )@anduna

Maxima’s smile grows, stopping on one side before continuing further on the other. Her lips are bare, at least in appearance, the red dropped for a moment to give way for a pink tone. Light brown curls unfold over the side of her hand that rest against her face, cupping her own jawline as she slowly turns to face Aragorn. Red nails are hidden behind long waves, the shades shifting from deep gold, light brown and auburn. Green eyes narrow with each passing moment, allowing the warmth of the smile to reach the darkness in them.

narnia sentence starters