Wrath, meet Isolde (Raw log)

Isolde●Allard : [It had been...years. The Allard woman slumbered in the quiet cottage, unmoving. Still as death, but still warm with life. The fire that had ravaged both her farm and home had left her invalid. After some time, most had forgotten her. The rumor floated about that she’d died in the fire, burned and savagely scarred by its hungry flames. The rumor perpetuated a single truth— her childhood friend, Linden was responsible for the fire. Scorned by her final refusal of betrothal and finding that she’d given her had to another, Linden set the farm to fire. Her family’s heirloom gardens, the livestock, her bees, the cottage. They were all affected. The animals had been slain and displayed in a macabre fashion along the fenceline. Despite her best efforts, Isolde had been unable to save much of what her family had worked so hard to grow. That night, her skirts caught fire. Her boots melted to her flesh, fire leaving charred skin and burnt hair in its wake. -c
Isolde●Allard : Solomon had laid her to rest in her bed in her charred cottage, calling for aid on the florist’s behalf. She didn’t die, but she didn’t wake either. For months, she slept. In the spring and summer to come her farm overgrew with colorful blooms and dense foliage. Vines crept over the cottage walls and roof, along the fence line and down the once clear pathway to the cottage. The forest around her home was teeming with wildlife— all things living and breathing seemed to thrive around her. But she remained motionless herself. Verdant fields of ferns underlined the tall pines around her home, evergreen despite the winter as it came and went. The bees hibernated, as did the bears and the resting Fallon. In the following spring, Solomon was gone. Leaving Isolde in the care of Henry, her once sproutling turned man-eating Ent. She’d propogated tens of them before her ‘death’, all destined to serve the Deathstalker Empire-c
Isolde●Allard : once reaching their adulthood. Ferocious and protective over Isolde, it was the man-eating plants that now tended her home, farm and Isolde herself. They lumbered about the property, doing things like feeding the two living horses, tending the hives, combing back plantlife to clear paths, and keeping a fire in the hearth in Isolde
Isolde●Allard : -c
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Isolde●Allard : Isolde’s room. She rested on her bed, which had overgrown with vines and flowers. Her flesh was warm, clean and smooth where fire had once scarred it. She had a soft luminous glow to her pale flesh, clearly something more than human, yet prim and meek in demeanor. Untamed waves of chestnut hair curled around the outskirts of her face, mixed into the vines and leaves that surrounded her. She was clothed in fine white linens. Layer upon layer of gauzy, white linen graced her frame modestly. Her chest rose and fell gently as the miserable rain fell in gray sheets outside the cottage. A column of cedary-scented smoke billowed from the chimney, promising warmth and comfort to anyone who approached. But Henry and his comrades posed a far different, more threatening offer. They were just shy of fifteen feet in height, with brilliant orange flames flicking in their woody chests. Menacing eyes of yellow and orange cut into the bleak grey sky around them as they worked, -c
Ðᴙϵɴαı·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : welcome Pol. ]
Isolde●Allard : limbs groaning as they moved through the property. Teeth of bark and silt gnashed in their beastly mouths, appearing generations older than they were. Under Isolde’s wishes, they were leashed predators— hungry for human flesh after years of growth and nothing to feast on. Isolde was a pacifist vegetarian.]
Polaris☆ : going to get food back later)
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Isolde●Allard : -shakes off moof dust-]]
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Isolde●Allard : welcome back]]
Polaris☆ : thanks)
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: The Imperial Prince of Deathstalker had made the long journey back to Immortalis, carrying with him the memory of Melinoe. Their adventure had been long and arduous, and it was with a heavy heart that Wrath and the Seer had parted company. It was often said that the Age of Heroes was dead, that we lived in a time of tyranny, as evidenced by Wrath’s own father who reigned over this land with an iron fist. And yet the gruff warrior had done something truly selfless, for he’d embarked on this journey alongside Melinoe, with much reluctance. Not because he didn’t care for her, but rather he cared too much and helping her also meant losing her. Nevertheless, the General of the North had given his word, thus had escorted her on a perilous journey into the unknown which had seen them contend with obstacles, beasts and betrayal. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> As Melinoe’s fierce protector, Wrath had vanquished many foes. The blade of his prodigious sword -Widow Maker- marred in the blood of their adversaries. Ultimately, the fulfilment of the Seer’s quest had seen her becoming one of the legendary Fates. Alas, there had been no place for Wrath in that future. Coming to the realisation that it was probably his lot in life. Some people were not blessed with lasting love. Although the renegade put a brave face on it, the knowledge he would live out his so-called immortality alone had been a cruel irony, given his fame and reputation. Surely he deserved more than this for all he’d done for the Realm? Yet happiness eluded him still. Saddled in his steed and staring up at the grey sky as the rain lashed down, drenching his blonde hair and beard. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Clad in furs and leathers, with a steel breastplate bearing the Sigil of Deathstalker. Wrath recalled the final words of Melinoe. She’d seen an unwritten future that was crucial to the Empire’s longevity and as ever, Wrath had a part to play. The tendrils of destiny were fickle, and nothing was ever certain, yet the Seer had implored the Prince to heed her prophecy one last time. To find the sleeping rose, entombed in a bed of vines. Her name was Isolde. A Fallon by all accounts. Wrath knew the family well but was unfamiliar with her story until Melinoe had explained her predicament. The great white steed he rode, known as Sleiphnir, coming to a halt before the charred cottage that had been overrun with forestry. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> However that wasn’t his main concern, rather it was the lumbering anomalies comprised of flame and bark. Gigantic tree-men, realised Wrath. “Ents.” He muttered in grim trepidation. Outnumbered, the odds were hardly in his favour, however the Deathstalker warrior hadn’t come here with ill-intention. Hopefully these guardians would tolerate his presence as he sought Isolde. Dismounting from Sleiphnir, tying the reigns of the horse to a nearby tree, the Emperor’s son advanced towards the structure. Entering the farm and traversing the terrain. Cautiously, Wrath progressed until his path was inevitably blocked by Henry. The bearded warrior looking up at him as they confronted one another. “I am no threat to you. I’ve come for the girl.” Wrath explained. ::
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Polaris☆ : welcome home)
▪Frederik▪Flamel▪ : thanks]
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▪Frederik▪Flamel▪ : wb]
Eryn♛Magnus : thank you)
Ðᴙϵɴαı·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : welcome folks! ]
Eryn♛Magnus : thanks)
Eryn♛Magnus : frederik, do you want to play?)
Isolde●Allard : wh, Freddie]
▪Frederik▪Flamel▪ : thanks much bossman and Isolde]
▪Frederik▪Flamel▪ : I am actually going to play with Casim later on today and I need to finish this work I'm doing. Otherwise I totally would]
Eryn♛Magnus : oh okay)
Eryn♛Magnus : i'm gonna go then! I'm not even at home)
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Isolde●Allard : oof]
▪Frederik▪Flamel▪ : wb]
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Isolde●Allard : Thank ya]]
Isolde●Allard : [The Ents had one collective goal: Prevent anyone from entering the home until Isolde had recovered. Any warmth that exuded the territory came from the sleeping Allard herself, making for a confusing impression on the parts of those passersby. As the hoof sounds of the horse beast approached, the Ents stopped what they were doing, bodies freezing mid-motion as their heads swept in one collective motion toward the sound. A grunt, made first by Henry and then echoed through the property amongst the others, signaled Wrath’s arrival. Simultaneously, the lumbering timbers began collecting around the home, staring menacingly at the approaching Deathstalker. They couldn’t speak, but they understood common tongue. Henry heard Wrath’s words and stared at him in thoughtful silence. Tension built in the air between them. His glowing eyes surveyed the would-be kidnapper. Henry gave a grunt of skepticism, which echoed in -c
Isolde●Allard : collective agreement amongst the other Ents. They tightened their formation and bolstered themselves forebodingly. The message was clear— No entry. Windchimes jingled in the breeze and the plantlife on the walls of the cottage whispered. Henry glanced down at Wrath’s breastplate, features shifting from forbidding to curious, and then slowly...understanding. He reached out one long branch of an arm, extending a finger as his body groaned under the motion, to point at the sigil on his chest. After hesitating, he tapped it twice, attempting to be gentle for his size desparity with the Nephilim. Henry grunted. It was a question— or at least the sound of one. And then after a moment, a long pause to confirm what he thought, Henry knelt on the soggy terrain outside of the cottage, acquiescing to the Deathstalker. The Ents around them followed suit, some anxiously looking on as Wrath dismounted and prepared to enter the home. -c
Isolde●Allard : No longer small enough to enter the home, Henry would round the cottage to peer through the windows as Wrath made his way in, watching protectively with one glowing eye. Smaller sproutlings made themselves busy throughout the home. They ranged in size from just a few inches tall (newborns) to just below six feet (children). The taller ones outside measured from there to tens of feet (adolescents). The ones inside the home busied themselves until wrath entered. They paused, all glancing at him with degrees of concern. Some went back to their work while smaller ones scattered into dark corners and under dish towels. He was imposing in the small home. He was drenched in the scent of death and vengeance. It appealed to the older Ents and frightened the younger sproutlings. This was the kin of their Emperor— who they were all destined to serve. They regarded him tentative respect because above that, they were loyal to the sleeping Isolde. Her safety had been in their -c
Isolde●Allard : hands for this long. It was all they knew. And now they were to make way so that Wrath could take it up into his arms? They eyed him furtively, though none barred his path. Truthfully, none within the home stood a chance against the towering warlord. But they’d have tried. If they had to. In the room where Isolde lay, a single Ent stoked the flames of her hearth. Her home was rife with her influence. Dry herbs and flowers hung from the rafters from seasons ago. Jars of honey lined the counter tops, neatly organized. Papers were stacked on her desk, written in her neat hand, detailing receipts for floral arrangements. Some were letters to and from her mother. Others were unopened and bore the drunken scrawl of Linden, tucked away and destined to the burn pile. Spools of ribbon were dusty from disuse. The cottage was full of the scent of soil and char. Evidence of the fire hid behind newly sprouted plants. The cobblestone of the floor was worn in front -c
Isolde●Allard : of the fire from her pacing in the years prior. A large window faced out toward the east, casting diluted light over the sleeping Isolde. ]
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: According to what the Seer had told him, the Ents would allow him to pass. However Wrath got the distinct impression this wasn’t to be the case, his steel grey eyes meeting the dubious glare of the looming anomalies, who had branches for arms and magical fire in their woody chests. Burning with life and vibrancy. Beings of Nature who possessed great intelligence and strength, Wrath weighed up his chances of survival should conflict ensue. He might’ve been able to take down one or two of the Ents, but fifteen? There was no way. Yet he wasn’t a General for nothing and he quickly began strategizing. Formulating a plan that would see him using their size and laborious movement against them. However even then, Wrath didn’t like his chances. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Why would Melinoe send him here anyway? There was an ache in his chest when he thought about the Seer. Her absence felt, even now, when surrounded by Ents. The tension gradually mounting while the hollow sound of windchimes conjured an eerie mood that was hard to describe. Like the calm before the storm. The broad-shouldered warrior about to reach for the hilt of his wide blade, when Henry tapped Wrath’s breast-plate. A thorny finger noting the Sigil engraved on the steel. Something resembling recognition in his glowing eyes. “Deathstalker.” Confirmed the second-generation Nephilim. Unexpectedly, Henry relented, thus his kin followed suit. These unusual tree-men kneeling. Melinoe had been right after all. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Realising he was wrong to doubt her, Wrath afforded the guardian and their leader a cautious nod. “I mean her no harm. Nor am I your enemy friends. I go in the Emperor’s name.” Resenting the fact he was affording his father praise or recognition of any kind, but judging the moment well and realising this would resonate with the Ents. “Thank you.” Side-stepping around these great timbers until the Prince entered the cottage. His nostrils flaring as his senses were bombarded by the scent of herbs. Only to be confronted with the smaller sproutlings. “Baby Ents. Of course.” Remarked Wrath, treading carefully around them, perceiving no threat here, the General of the North conveyed an earnest respect in the home of Isolde. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Occasionally stopping to glance at the letters. Wondering if they were important, he reasoned it wasn’t his place to read them, so moved on. She could always return and fetch up her belongings once his task was complete. Searching for the girl, Wrath moved through the interior of the cottage, careful not to break anything. For much like the guardians outside, he too was capable of great devastation. Occasionally even clumsy. Yet he’d come here with honourable intentions, aiming to keep his promise to the Seer. Progressing through the hall and then a bedroom, coming upon another Ent and the unconscious woman. “Isolde…” He muttered. It -had- to be her. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> The way the light shone through the window, even on this dreary day, illuminating her delicate features, prompting Wrath to pause for reasons he wasn’t exactly clear on himself. “I have to take her.” He told Isolde’s protector. “She’ll be safe. I promise.” Remembering why he came. His back hunching as he lowered, then lifting the maiden in his strong arms. Elevating her when he stood to his full height again. Heading back the way he came, with the Fallon girl pressed against his chest, carrying her out. Feeling the cool air on his rugged features. >>
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Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Assuming the larger Ents didn’t prevent him, the Deathstalker Prince strode back towards his horse. Gently placing the unconscious beauty over Sleiphnir and covering her with his cloak. Leading it by the reigns, guiding the steed through the woods. ::
Ѵɪᴋᴛᴏʀ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : As somewhere, Gabbie is pacing around going, "I am Gabbie." ))
Isolde●Allard : loooool]
Isolde●Allard : [Isolde was unconscious, but not entirely unaware of her surroundings. She lived and breathed through them, the Ents, the plants, the birds and the bees. Their skepticism was hers, as was their trust. She had no control over them, not really. She could merely dream vividly about things as they occurred. Her memory, of course, was a different thing entirely. It was blurred between the things that happened eons ago when she was of the gods— of swamps, marshes, gardens and flowers: Antitheia. These memories collided with her own as human. As Isolde, the florist of the Deathstalker Empire. Of the Allard family, a quiet and modest estate of farm folk and bucolic heritage. She lay prone in the bed of verdant vines, unmoving in the still silence of the room until it was broken by the gruff sound of Wrath’s voice. “Isolde” he spoke her name and the vines around her shuddered. Some began to pull back from her lithe frame, revealing milky white -c
Isolde●Allard : flesh beneath diaphanous linens. Hidden under petticoats and modestly tailored dresses, Isolde’s figure had long been a secret only known to her. Svelte lines from her jaw, down the length of her neck, over clavicles, dove beneath the collar of her dress’ neckline. Her hips protruded against the loosely spun fabric of her skirts, jutting out on either side of a flat stomach. Her hips sloped gently to either side, resting comfortably on well rounded, springy muscle that made up the bulk of her bustle. Prim, modest and demure, this much of her hadn’t before been obvious. She was known to keep such things to herself, and they might have come as a pleasant surprise to any wandering eyes that wondered what was kept beneath the florist’s rough spun apron. She went peacefully from the bed of flowers to Wrath’s arms, forehead resting against the bulk of his shoulder. The pacifist would have been terrified of the man’s reputation alone, not counting his occupation. -c
Isolde●Allard : She’d no doubt heard of him before her unfortunate fate grasped and took her to the land of Nod. She revered his father, and she’d been nauseated by the ‘trophies’ in his office, no doubt collected by Wrath and some odd personnel loyal to the cause. She’d been grateful for their macabre job....grateful it wasn’t hers and she’d never have to face it. It was with measured irony that she was in his arms now. The same hands that defended their home and left swaths of men slain now held her with caution. The Ents moved around the house to follow Wrath’s movements as he stalked out of the entrance holding their gardener. Several grunted in protest, but Henry rose to quiet them, obviously some sort of leader in their midst. They quieted, but looked on with judgement. Isolde’s figure slumped against the General over the back of his steed. Somewhere on the farm, Nel whinnied distantly. With Wrath’s cloak draped over her to deflect the rain, Isolde remained dry. Her dress draped over -c
Isolde●Allard : Sleiphnir’s back and sides, already semi-transparent in the rain. She breathed evenly, features peacefully unaware as they set out.]
Jαƌϵ·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ has joined the conversation.
Eryn♛Magnus : welcome home!)
Jαƌϵ·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : yo )
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: They came from different worlds and had Isolde been conscious, she would’ve done well to fear him. Though if in her lucid dreams, some semblance of Isolde was mindful of her grim protector, there would be an overriding sense of duty, conveyed from him. Of principle. What some may have called honour. She’d know he was bound by a promise. One Wrath aimed to see fulfilled. The forest was her sanctuary, was where Isolde presumably drew her power from. Why else would these Ents be so adamant she be kept safe? Though Wrath took no solace amongst the trees, his people drew strength from elsewhere. The jagged mountains in the distance, looming and uncompromising in their might. Defiant manifestations of the old gods. And amidst them was Deathstalker Castle itself. A looming fortress that existed here before memory. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> As if the bones of the world had projected themselves from somewhere ancient and deep. Now leading the horse which carried the precious female, Wrath strode with purpose through the trees. The colossal warrior casting a bleak shadow in his wake. His resilience and determination comparable to the bedrock, for he was a mountain in his own right. Looking back over his shoulder at the florist protectively, the Imperial Prince recalled the Seer’s words. He’d been charged with her care and wellbeing in a similar way that Henry had, he realised. A begrudging nod of respect shared between them as Wrath had bid farewell to the Ents and they in turn looked on with forlorn melancholy. Yet Wrath and Sleiphnir weren’t done yet. Their destination now taking them into the Reverie Woods and the home of the Elves. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> The sound of thunderous water growing steadily louder, resounding throughout the woodland until the gruff warrior and his snowy steed emerged in the clearing. A waterfall before them, its crystalline properties culminating in a rippling pool. “This is an old place. A sacred place.” Wrath said out loud, perhaps only to his horse. According to legend, the water’s rejuvenating properties possessed healing abilities, even said to prolong the effects of aging. Pulling on the reigns of his steed, the broad-shouldered warrior lifted Isolde from the saddle, still wrapped in his cloak. Now entering the water, until he was waist-deep. The Fallon girl held protectively against his chest. Gradually lowering her into the pool and cradling her head. ::
Gᴀʙʙɪє Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : I am Gabbie. )
Isolde●Allard : l m f a o ]
Isolde●Allard : [Isolde had, effectively, become his charge in these moments. For her part, she went willingly. Both unconscious and also helpless to resist the threads of fate pulling at both she and Wrath’s paths. As they rode, small puffs of white left her lips, warm on the damp pre-winter air. In her chest, her heart pumped blood at a calm, somnolent rate. Her hands and feet were limp with dreamy weight, hair bundled around her face and against the nape of her neck. Her lips were soft and pink, parted in her sleep as she dreamed peacefully behind him. The Reverie woods stirred at their entry, strange motes of white dust floating down over them as snow might. But they weren’t snow— they were downy puffs of tiny white feathers with opalescent wings. They weren’t faeries, though they might have easily been mistaken for them. They were wooly aphids— airy, small fluffs that drifted down around them as they entered the wood, where the rain had let up. They coated the wood in a fine layer of -c
Isolde●Allard : gleaming white— a symbol of the coming months’ brumal coat. At the slowing of the horse’s pace and the sound of Wrath’s voice, they stirred, disturbed from their wooly duties. Isolde’s breathing changed pace. It caught for a moment, as if in recognition of their location. Her composure regained it’s peaceful quiet once again shortly after, but her body behind him started to warm up, as if to prepare for the oncoming chill of the pool ahead of them. Her weight moved freely into his arms, where it almost seemed to melt against him, limbs heavy. As he entered the water, ripples reached out from around them, disappearing into the edges of the water and rocks. The crisp cool of the air drew goosebumps from her flesh as he lowered her into the cool tides. But still, she remained motionless. Her hair curled in the water, twining between his fingers as he cradled her head. Her breaths came shallowly, exiting as cool white vapor before diffusing between them. -c
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Isolde●Allard : Something in the water stirred beneath, leaving traces of its movement in small ripples that pointed in she and Wrath’s direction. Slick tendrils of seaweed floated to the surface, aged and brown with years of saturation. Bubbles frothed up behind them as thick, ropey vines grasped at Isolde’s wrists and ankles, trying to slip between their bodies to wrap around her torso and yank her under. As a last evanescent puff of air left her lips, she disappeared beneath the surface— eyes opening in shock as she swallowed water and slipped from his grasp. Her lovat hues beneath the water saw the vague frame of Wrath, hulking and protective above the water’s surface, obscured by ripples and she reached for him as she sank. Bubbles rose in the place she’d gone from, and then the waters were still. Nothing happened for long minutes, and nothing stirred to recognize what must have been undoubtedly traumatic for the pair. It were as if she had never existed at all. The waterfall kept -c
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Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : welcome home! ]
ĦarperΩFʀosʈ : thank yous! ]]
Isolde●Allard : throwing water over its edge. The birds went on chirping. Behind him, Wrath’s steed would have whinnied. and when he turned, Isolde would have been standing there beside the animal, as naked as her name day. If he’d known her before, he might have been confused by her comfort with her nudity. Isolde the florist was chaste in the extreme, a painful wallflower. But the at present, the woman seemed unaware of the fact that she was without clothing. She was distracted by the world around her. By the waters she’d come from, almost like birth on their shores. Her hair was wet, clinging to her shoulders, her cheeks and her collarbones. Stormy hues surveyed the man, Wrath, and then his horse at her side. She touched it, feeling the warmth of the animal and its velvety coat fill her palm. She sighed, it had been so long since she had a body. She was at once confused and delighted with this feeling. Two parts of her were conflicted. Who was this -c
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Isolde●Allard : girl she’d been for 25 years, and what was this new feeling vibrating through her limbs? Isolde recognized her nudity as a breeze licked the edges of her frame and she set eyes on Wrath. She met his gaze with somewhat mixed features— both warm and thankful, and also skeptical. “Did you bring me here?” she asked, turning so that the front of her body faced Sleiphnir’s side. She wavered on her feet, eyes surveying his features as he watched her. He was handsome, though there was a lingering part of her that feared him. It was both feelings at once— admiration and skepticism. As the prim florist saw it, he was terrifying. Clearly a man of war, a bringer of death. But beneath that she felt an unrelenting attraction to him. As if , by some unimaginable irony, she was cut from the same cloth,]
Isolde●Allard : .*]]
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : :: The scene had been serene, tranquil. Though Wrath ignored their atmospheric surroundings as the airy motes of white feathers fell like snow, man and horse progressing through the Reverie Wood. A place where unicorns were said to roam. Least if the stories were to be believed, not that Wrath had ever seen one. The vapour produced by the waterfall transitioned into mist, tendrils of wispy fog which spread through the trees as the sky darkened. The stars glistening against a black blanket of eternity. Whilst the moonlight reflected in the rippling tide as Wrath moved through the pool of water, carrying the unconscious florist. Having gently submerged her delicate frame, it would’ve been easy to have been swept up by all of this. Isolde was undoubtedly beautiful, like something from a dream; watching as her hair spread out beneath the water. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Surely any man would’ve been tempted by her, however Wrath understood his purpose in this, conveying a stoic detachment. His role had been to save her, to bring her here. A promise to be fulfilled. The seaweed and the vines which snaked at her limbs came as a surprise to the Deathstalker. Before he knew what was happening, Isolde had been pulled beneath the rippling tide. The warrior reaching out in vain, trying to save her though to no avail. “Isolde!” He called out. He hadn’t come this far, just to see her drown. Melinoe hadn’t told him this would happen, only to bring her here! Wrath desperately sought to reach out, however lost sight of the florist during the heavier rainfall and the darkening of the water as night befell them both. “No!” But she was gone. >>
Ɯɍλτн·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ : >> Instinctually, Wrath reacted the only way he saw fit, diving after her, trying to swim. Yet he couldn’t see, and those very same vines were now snaking around his own limbs. Seizing at his muscled arms. The colossal swordsman reluctantly breaking free and returning to the surface of the pool, gasping for air. As he did, he saw a woman standing on the bank. It was Isolde! “…I don’t understand…How…” Advancing hurriedly in her direction. The waterfall crashing in all its thunderous glory behind him, while the naked Isolde beckoned him like a ghost. Wrath pushing the wet hair from his face. “I did,” he answered breathlessly. Coming to stand before her tiredly. Then as she wavered on her feet, the towering behemoth seized her by the waist protectively, if only to steady her. “My name is Wrath,” introducing himself. “Prince of the Empire.” The strange compulsion to kiss her. Though Wrath resisted. ::
Isolde●Allard : [Isolde seemed unaware of her own presence, which was within her character. Unassuming and teeming with reasons not to be. Like a magnet, she felt the draw between them pull Wrath from the water and back to her. His warmth was intoxicating, and she shivered. His advance came quickly, as unexpected as her sudden reappearance at his horse’s side. She blinked several times, clearing the water from her lashline as it obscured her vision. As he collected her by the waist, she felt her weight steady. She was small beside him, withy at the waist and fit from years of farming at the shoulder. Lissome and graceful, the girl hadn’t ever been quite able to put the muscle behind her work as other farm hands had— it simply wasn’t in her genetics. Her cheek rested against the horse’s flank as she watched Wrath, lovat hues surveying his face, now that it was closer. As he spoke, the dawn of recognition flickered -c
Isolde●Allard : across her features. A familiar kind of power radiated from her, but the prim florist remained unaware of it. Nearby plantlife became verdant and springy, drooping fronds stiffening to their summer finest under the bleak drizzle that drenched the surrounding forest. “You’re...” she breathed, lifting her head as she brought a slim hand to her chest to keep herself parted from him. The sigil on his chestplate ought to have been enough, if not for the resemblance to his father. Even a simple farmgirl wouldn’t have missed such details. But something far more ancient in her had been adjusting to its new surroundings, awakening inside of its vessels after 25 years of dormancy. It had distracted Isolde until this moment. “You’re a Deathstalker.” she managed, hardly believing the position she was in. And he brought her to the pool? Why? And where, exactly, were they? Questions swam inside of her head, but as they popped up, she found herself able to vaguely recall the details, -c
Cαsιм·Ɗϵɑτђsταᴌᴋϵᴙ has returned.
Isolde●Allard : having dreamt them. He smelled familiar: warm, like campfire, wool and leather. Like soil and like blood. A little more human than the rest of them, like home. The rough feeling of his calloused palm on the depression above her hip should have been uncomfortable, She would have expected it to, if she’d had considered it beforehand. But it wasn’t. It cupped against her flesh like it belonged there, shaped to fit. She could feel anticipation building between them, and her modesty won over, helping. move the conversation along into the interest of decency. “Where are my clothes?”]