09-05-2018, 11:02 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]As gold spills to the ground, a torrent of what he had just compared to a god's blood, Winterwolf almost mimics the tense panic that runs like electricity through the dire wolf. His back arches for a split second the way that a scared cat would, but rounded ears pin back to his skull like a dog. It's overall mixed body language, almost comical, but the smooths it down within a heartbeat or two. Instead of the loose, vibrant panic, there's a chill creeping back in. Like breaking the ice over a fast-moving river and watching it freeze over again. From there everything methodically defrosts — his head lowers, his face relaxes, his body relaxes. Nothing good would come from chastising someone who is already so close to begging for forgiveness (a familiar state of mind, and one he is no longer forced to ignore), so he settles.
He doesn't blame others for fear, especially not when they bowed their heads to avoid him. Scars litter the lion's form, and he walks and talks as if he was meant to control the room. In reality, he had always been meant to hover, never quite fading from attention but never drawing the eye. Frightening, imposing, but easily ignored. Perhaps that wasn't the case for someone who was almost completely his opposite.
Pale eyes flicker between the crowd to perhaps take some weight off of the wolf, head cocking at Bast's recitation. A small smile dances across his face, though the corners of his lips don't stay lifted for very long. The feline reminds him of the old man who had taught him English. Grizzled and bowed with age, smelling of rotting wood and old books, he had talked about the classics for hours, often to the point that Winter would never learn a thing for the entire day. The classics were obviously a favorite. He'd had a fair collection of others, though — some things that made his face burn and some others that made his stomach churn. Sometimes both. He has nothing clever to recite from Ovid either, nothing he could add. Though he does ask, just quietly, "Why?"
Then his attention is back to Danyla with his apology. It takes effort to keep his body relaxed now, his chest feeling tight. "Tel'ema abelas, da’ean. You can learn your own favorites."
He doesn't blame others for fear, especially not when they bowed their heads to avoid him. Scars litter the lion's form, and he walks and talks as if he was meant to control the room. In reality, he had always been meant to hover, never quite fading from attention but never drawing the eye. Frightening, imposing, but easily ignored. Perhaps that wasn't the case for someone who was almost completely his opposite.
Pale eyes flicker between the crowd to perhaps take some weight off of the wolf, head cocking at Bast's recitation. A small smile dances across his face, though the corners of his lips don't stay lifted for very long. The feline reminds him of the old man who had taught him English. Grizzled and bowed with age, smelling of rotting wood and old books, he had talked about the classics for hours, often to the point that Winter would never learn a thing for the entire day. The classics were obviously a favorite. He'd had a fair collection of others, though — some things that made his face burn and some others that made his stomach churn. Sometimes both. He has nothing clever to recite from Ovid either, nothing he could add. Though he does ask, just quietly, "Why?"
Then his attention is back to Danyla with his apology. It takes effort to keep his body relaxed now, his chest feeling tight. "Tel'ema abelas, da’ean. You can learn your own favorites."
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「 I KNEW THAT SOMETHING WOULD ALWAYS RULE ME. 」