G W Y N B L E I D D

“ you have great eyes. they’re proud and wild… like a feral beast. ”

ᚦ @whitewxlf​​ | legend of zelda | accepting

There have been a great deal of   ADMIRERS   who have gifted her compliments by the dozen, followers who carve praise into standing stones, royals who have dared to name themselves suitors shroud selfish ambition with empty   FLATTERY.

He is far from a hollow man with hollow words.   His is the kind of   RAW   homage that manages to stun, like an arrow dipped in a poison that catches the nerves with a burning sensation; a thing that whirs the heart, casting emotions into uncharted territory that would make a child turn back.   And she is caught still.   The actions of which her hands had previously been busy with–kindling their campfire, tearing pieces of their rations to feed the wolf pup at her side and herself–now   FROZEN.

Those   EYES   he had made mention of looks up at him.   ( That rush of electricity sends her heart climbing to her throat and lightning always sits on the edge of   IGNITION   whenever she looks at him; it never fails to scare her, never fails to make her feel comfortable, nor does it ever dither, if not   PERSIST. )

TRUTH   that is often kepts hidden behind leather bound pages takes hold of the tongue, and voice low enough, with an expression that softens, makes it so alarmingly   INTIMATE.

❝ I AM FERAL.   And it is this very tempest that damns me to be so alone. ❞

Cold wind brushes at the back of his neck, but that’s not what draws him closer. The chill of the night unnoticed, the low rustle of creaking branches, rodents scurrying in the loose underbrush muted as his attention becomes fixed. 

An uncertain quiet, awaiting his words to take course -- dreading she’ll find offence where he meant none. But iron walls he’s been craved to peer over melt like wax, her steel front dwindling, scattering alike to ash until nothing is left but her.   

His silence a symptom of his awe -- a feeling barely recognised, unable to separate himself from her gaze, desire brewing heavy in his chest, the urgency to reach for her hand, the impulse to argue. Trying to stifle it akin to calming a wild fire, his only water is his certainty that he’d be rebuffed. 

“People fear what they cannot control. Tame is only considered a virtue because it’s mistaken by the cowardly as safety. To live unchecked and unchallenged.”

Criticism pointed at their peers, but as he knows, it’s no cure for loneliness and hardly comforting. He claims to know little about destiny, often denying its existance ( despite it nipping at his heels ), but he doesn’t need the gift of foresight to know she’s not doomed to solitude. She is wild. Ferocious. Thunder made flesh. Herself. Everything that he admires. Though, selfishly content to have her company to himself a little while longer.

Some find comfort in the familiar,

   “But... For whatever it’s worth, I’m here.”

@caelmewedd || always answering

Sipping at cheap ale, the Witcher keeps to the far corner of the inn, a distance away from drunken antics. The place seemed disconnected from the continent, his arrival undisturbed, his presence untroubled -- a truce with the ealdorman, if he remains unarmed. Despite the unease without his blades, for a time, he's alleviated from the gravity of much of his thoughts, simply pondering if they knew the difference between ale and what stews at the bottom of a chamber pot.

Savoring a pause between contracts -- before moving onto the rumors of a Wight further north. Quietude suddenly halted, peering through a dull, cracked window.

"Fuck."

The tankard clatters against the stone floor in his haste, indifferent to the murmur of patrons as he bursts through the door, dashing to the field. His whistle brings Roach to ignore the commands of the thief.

Once in reach, he firmly takes the base of the reigns in hand and takes a proper look at the girl -- elvish, young, hardly a poacher as they pranced about with his livelihood. Her age the only thing subduing his ire and holding his tongue from a barrage of curses.