#rhomru

His composure drips like honey from his bones, coating his tongue where he tastes his inhibition like melted sugar – & yet it’s sharp – to remind him this isn’t supposed to be happ ening.  That  part stings, ACHES like a bruise under the skin. Because he knows it’s a joke  –  but  there’s  an  underlying promise there, hidden under sheets of primal instinct & want. His mouth goes dry and runs like the ocean at the same time. —- play it off. “ Very funny. Amazing – “ It’s ripping under his rough skin, the urge to bridge the gap and car be damned.    Stay    in   control. “ I don’t know what’s funnier, how serious you are – or the fact you think i get payed well enough. “ It’s not a no. But he lies to himself that it is.  

                 IT’S A DANGEROUS GAME -- them, this.  they both know it,         they both toe the line of reality and fantasy,           but even so they          continue. two men ( one barely  a man ), a car, and the promise of         more.      ❛ yeah, well a guy can dream, ❜ stiles replies, not at all          dissuaded by the man’s words. ( he never is. ) 

          Weakness was forfeit in the eyes of hungry wolves; never once was Boromir one to falter nor lose sight of the driven purpose- whether he lost sight of himself in the end meant nothing, & how many times had he found himself in the void, with nothing but his thoughts loud enough to turn the dead? He promised himself he would not be so easily cast into the veil of TERRIBLE hatred, of incessant anger that roiled like the sea in the midst of a storm. But her words went DEEP, splintering bone to get to the heart, and there it stayed and festered, his core displayed like a beacon for those in the shadows to strike. His one weakness; his home. His people, his blood kin and kith. And she had muddied each name with her devil tongue. Quick with her words she might have been, but he was faster still in step, and soon a vice like grip was circled around her arm. Oh he hoped it bruised. He hoped she would listen and remember.                                                    ❛ you will NOT speak of gondor-                              of my people- in such a way, or you will                              pay DEARLY. ❜

         A Man may hold a lifetime of hatred inside him, but she harbors centuries of CONTEMPT bred into her by a culture that now exists only in the remnants of another. Once she was of the Pultai, a dynasty who gave rise to the tribal confederation known in the Westlands as the Balchoth. No surprise that the Gondorian commander who stands DEFIANT before her, the eldest son of the Steward, has the same grey eyes as his ancestor Cirion. Never shall she forget that steel gaze once fixed upon her on the green fields of Calenardhon; fields where her people fell to ruin. Hatred mixed with LOSS writhes through her cold veins; disgust combined with REGRET pulsates through her tar-black heart. It is not for servitude to Mordor alone that bile for Gondor drips from her tongue. And when a cord is struck and the viper strikes, she is PLEASED for it. She learns the man can barely hold his temper. His offending wrist is met with her claw; nails fashioned into talons dig into his vambrance, prying his tightening grip off of her.

                     ’ & Shadows rear MONSTERS. your kind belong to                       the dark, and mine to the light- my nerve is my right,                              s n a k e.