prιde

bold what you apply to your muse.

DEFENSIVENESS:

arms crossed on chest // crossing legs // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // karate chops // stiffening of shoulders // tense posture // curling of lip/baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE:

hand-to-face gestures // head tilted // stroking chin // peering over glasses // taking glasses off — cleaning // putting earpiece of glasses in mouth // pipe smoker gestures // putting hand to bridge of nose // pursed lips // knitted brows

SUSPICION:

arms crossed // sideways glance // touching or rubbing nose // rubbing eyes // hands resting on weapon // brows raising // lips pressing into a thin line // strict, unwavering eye contact // wrinkling of nose

OPENNESS & COOPERATION:

open hands // upper body in sprinters position // sitting on edge of chair // hand-to-face gestures // unbuttoned coat // tilted head // slacked shoulders, droopy posture // feet pointed outward // palms flat and facing outward

CONFIDENCE:

hands behind back // hands on lapels of coat // steepled hands // baring teeth in a grin // rolling shoulders // tipping head back but maintaining eye contact // chest puffed up/shoulders back // arms folded just above navel // leaning against something

INSECURITY & ANXIETY:

chewing pen or pencil // rubbing thumb over opposite thumb // biting fingernails // hands in pockets // elbow bent/closed gestures // clearing throat // “whew” sound // picking or pinching flesh // fidgeting in chair // hand covering mouth whilst speaking // poor eye contact // tugging at pants whilst seated // jingling money in pockets // tugging at ear // perspiring hands // playing with hair //swaying // playing with pointer/marker // smacking lips // sighing // rocking on balls of feet // flexing fingers sporadically

FRUSTRATION:

The tips of her fingers are glowing, as if super-heated, fingers curled to create forges in her palms. Willow is a strange sort, with a nervous smile and hair like a chandelier. It’s not every day, that she gets to meet someone else who works so carefully with fire. Granted, she often finds herself battling temptation when it comes to matters of pyrotechnics. 

“I’ve, never been able to do that. Not with fire at least.” There are the shadows, but they take a great deal of her concentration. 

So, she settles for her name.

“Willow. Willow Clarke. What about you? Have a name?”

     ☁ ❝ Do you mean… You eat leaves and vegetation within the forest? ❞

It was never a big deal back home, but then he hadn’t needed to resort to stationary forests either. Somehow they’d all gotten by hunting Wildetrees, which tended to cluster on the plains in lieu of forests where they might lose sight of each other.  

“It would be a really bad idea because a lot of people and Pokemon live there, myself included. Though… I can’t help but wonder what you mean by ‘eat the forest’.”

“Do it.”

She… has no idea what he means but she definitely wants to see it happen..

He blinks, unsure he heard her right.

     With the amount of disasters that regularly strike just outside her front door, Fionna is earnestly surprised things still manage to grow there. The small patches of char caused by the pride are, in the long run, negligible– and will likely yield something interesting, if left alone. Hoisting Cake up to keep a good grip, she moves to set her sister on the couch, making a little ‘shhh’ motion at BMO when the small machine pops up over the arm. While Flame Prince is distracted by the decor (and now that she thinks about it, he never really got to see much but her room, did he?) she drops her backpack gingerly. Unbuckling the spare pouch from around her hips, she sets it beside Cake so her sister will she it when she wakes– they’d worked hard for the contents, after all.            When her attention turns back toward the flame elemental, she’s greeted by gesturing, which draws her attention to his chest and–            –oh crackerjacks, he’s half-naked again.            She’s not sure where his shirt’s gone, but at least it’s not just the loincloth this time, she reasons as she tries to parse the motions he’s making. This would be much easier if Cake were awake to translate, but before she can get too far in attempting to figure it out herself, his motions change and… Marshmallows? Cocking her head at him, Fionna takes a step closer, then peers at the one he’s holding in hand, eyes widening as she realizes it’s toasting between his fingers. With a laugh, she gets (some, she thinks) of the current topic at hand, and presses her thumb and index finger into the marshmallow as if to take it from him. 

         “Yeah,” she assures, laughter bubbling up, and holds out her hand to take the rest of the bag before the container suffers the same fate as the marshmallow in his grip. “I do, actually. Thanks, FP.” 

She's got that expression again, one that he can only guess is of embarrassment. It's not something he understands, and it's half the reason he feels so bad about damaging the gift. The other half, of course, being how much effort Cake put into it. It doesn't last long though, replaced instead by definitely not understanding the point he was trying to get across. FP frowns hard, unsatisfied and frustrated. It felt like part of his brain was nearly empty, and he always had to struggle to grab and put the few words floating around in it together. How long would it take to fill it up?

She’s not sure how she makes these things. The fire comes rather naturally, crawling over her arm and with a shake of her shoulders, spreads across her body like a second skin. Cloaked in the flame, she grins from beneath it. 

Flames and her go hand in hand, in her forging and destroying and surviving. She’s an ancient thing, a guardian and a victim of her island.

“Yeah, born human, still human.” Willow flexes her fingers, curling them into her palm. “I’ve never met a flame I couldn’t work with.” 

Though she says that, he’s still hesitant to touch her--for fear of hurting her as well as a general respect for personal space. No matter how much his curiousity asks of it, he refuses.  Delphos grins, opening his own palm to manipulate a tiny sphere of fire. His influence here was weakened for some reason, but it seemed limited to combat. He presses his fire into hers, allowing them to intermingle and change. The fire grows cool, red, and warps into the muddled shape of a small dragon. He’s not a great artist yet, but it’s distinguishable enough. The dragon flares its wings and coughs up a weak fireball before disintegrating into the original two flames. He takes a step back again. 

“Just watch.” Her voice is steady, though, she carries a little bit of excitement, a bit of youth in her words. “It’s real cool.” With that, she snaps, and flame erupts in her right palm, crackling happily against her hand, curling about like a good friend.

She grins, waving a hand around her own head as she speaks.

“I like the look, really. It reminds me of something I like to do.”