@earthbinder sent: Wordlessly, his great hand comes to rest against Zoen's shoulder. A gesture of good will, greeting, and guidance all at once behind the momentary pressure of his palm; it is accompanied only by slightest of nods, and gentlest of gazes.
METAL TO SHADOW AND FLESH TO FLAME transmogrifies faster than thought beneath that great verdant span. What was a boy is a Wraith ; Thrall might as well grasp a pyre for how much is touched. No claws rise to sink beneath the green skin. Her fangs remain locked in place, far from the fresh warm blood thrumming a beat against her blazing skull. There is no expression to this form’s face, no tells --- simply a long, glacial stillness.
( Twice for flinching, you’ve learned. )
Affection floods his burn-razed brain. Tiris barrels against the orc’s legs in a torpedo of fur and muscle. Ridges of spine press to hip, belly, thighs; a slobbering wet maw noses at pockets shamelessly. Hesitation is a stranger to her shadow; he throws himself in throttling range of anything that’s yet to try.
It’s mortifying. And worse, brave.
Slowly, with a stuttering awkwardness akin to adolescence, she stitches herself back up into a person shape. Fire cools to bone stability. Smoke condenses into blood-black armor. He bears the weight of Thrall’s regard, Thrall’s affection, with all a lord’s majesty, fidgeting only slightly.
If he tries, he can pretend he is merely embarrassed.
“ ‘Lo there, Warchief. ” The nickname came long after the seat was abdicated. Excuses varied, but honestly he’d simply never come up with something cleverer. “ It’s, uh… nice to see you around. ”
Her hands are too empty. Grasping, as ever, for the right choice. Not a blade, for once, something else is called for here. A reciprocal approach. Friendlier. Congenial.
She punches him in the arm.
