Rhowen-Prea
04-27-2006, 03:18 AM
(( Tarl used with Tarl's permission. BWAHAHAHAHAHA. ))
The first thing she took note of when she came out of sleeping was the sunlight. Morning sun. The second thing was how absolutely comfortable the linen sheets were against her skin. Rhowen laid on her stomach, one arm stuffed under a down pillow, the other atop it and cushioning her head. The blanket was heavy and the bed was warm. The exposed arm prickled under the cool air, and goosebumps rose at the breeze that came in through the window. The very atmosphere of the day felt beautiful. The third thing was the soft shiffing sound of fabric, clothing, pants, as someone walked past the foot of the bed. She opened an eye lazily. Silver-white hair. Silversong? No...
Stormreaver.
He walked out of the view of that one eye, and she lifted her head to watch him over a shoulder, blue-black tresses hanging haphazard about her face. He wasn't wearing a shirt. It gave her the opportunity to admire lean muscle working under dark flesh as he breathed. He must have felt the eyes on him; he stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. There was no smile. The pair stared at each other for moments dragging into minutes dragging into hours; half a heartbeat later, Tarlithion was pulling a shirt over his head. No words were spoken.
They'd stumbled through the streets of Stormwind, drunk enough to float to Hell. It was impossible to say who was supporting who - she was wrapped around his arm just as surely as he was leaning down into her. They laughed, and he swung his free arm wide and managed to somehow lose his grip on the mug. It crashed and shattered on the pavement.
His tongue let loose a slur of curses fit to curl a pirate's hair, and she only laughed more. The hunter kicked a chunk of ceramic and it clattered loudly down the silent street, and she did her best to quiet him amidst her nigh-girlish giggling. He grabbed the wrist of the hand she pressed to his chest in an attempt to force him upwards, used it to pull her in against him. Lips crashed together in a rough kiss; a strong arm encircled her waist. Her heart had fluttered and died in her chest like a broken bird.
Her wound was still fresh, his would never heal. Where is your pride?, a voice asked her as her eyes shut out the night, you know the things they will say about you, when they know. His attitude was infectious. He distracted her. He was a distraction, and he was big, and warm, and safe, and if she wanted to try hard enough, she could just imagine...
No, there would be no imagining. "I will not replace her for you," she had told him, and nor would he replace anyone for her. It had happened, her "great love" was dead, and there would be no more real joy in her heart. She looked forward to a lifetime off cynicism and hate. The way it was before, it would be again. No great loss.
They parted from the kiss and she exhaled a sigh. His fingers were warm against her face as he brushed the hair away from her cheek, tucked it back behind an ear. The both of them reeked of liquor and desperate sorrow. She'd murmured his name, he'd whispered hers... It was only a matter of course that they ended up in the inn together.
They spent a better part of the night wrapped in each other, in every imaginable position, nothing said amidst the grunts and growls and groans and moans, until he'd finally finished on top of her, and fallen onto her, and she'd wrapped her arms around him and combed fingers through his hair. She lost track of time, laying there. And then he'd gotten off of her, and rolled over, and gone to sleep. She did the same. To her credit, she didn't cry.
The hunter laced up the black shirt deftly, his back to her. She dropped her head back to the pillow and closed her eyes. That little voice that had been so fitful the night before hassled her to say something, do something, but the bed was mindlessly comfortable. It made her weak all over; her muscles were like melted wax, or under a spell. The dozing sleep overtook her. She never fell back into sleep quite completely; it was impossible with his presence, being ever-aware of it.
At long last, he picked up his things, tucked them under an arm. She opened that single eye, the one not pressed into the pillow, and stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something - and closed it again. The air grew thick with awkwardness. Rhowen watched him until he shut the door behind himself.
The first thing she took note of when she came out of sleeping was the sunlight. Morning sun. The second thing was how absolutely comfortable the linen sheets were against her skin. Rhowen laid on her stomach, one arm stuffed under a down pillow, the other atop it and cushioning her head. The blanket was heavy and the bed was warm. The exposed arm prickled under the cool air, and goosebumps rose at the breeze that came in through the window. The very atmosphere of the day felt beautiful. The third thing was the soft shiffing sound of fabric, clothing, pants, as someone walked past the foot of the bed. She opened an eye lazily. Silver-white hair. Silversong? No...
Stormreaver.
He walked out of the view of that one eye, and she lifted her head to watch him over a shoulder, blue-black tresses hanging haphazard about her face. He wasn't wearing a shirt. It gave her the opportunity to admire lean muscle working under dark flesh as he breathed. He must have felt the eyes on him; he stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. There was no smile. The pair stared at each other for moments dragging into minutes dragging into hours; half a heartbeat later, Tarlithion was pulling a shirt over his head. No words were spoken.
They'd stumbled through the streets of Stormwind, drunk enough to float to Hell. It was impossible to say who was supporting who - she was wrapped around his arm just as surely as he was leaning down into her. They laughed, and he swung his free arm wide and managed to somehow lose his grip on the mug. It crashed and shattered on the pavement.
His tongue let loose a slur of curses fit to curl a pirate's hair, and she only laughed more. The hunter kicked a chunk of ceramic and it clattered loudly down the silent street, and she did her best to quiet him amidst her nigh-girlish giggling. He grabbed the wrist of the hand she pressed to his chest in an attempt to force him upwards, used it to pull her in against him. Lips crashed together in a rough kiss; a strong arm encircled her waist. Her heart had fluttered and died in her chest like a broken bird.
Her wound was still fresh, his would never heal. Where is your pride?, a voice asked her as her eyes shut out the night, you know the things they will say about you, when they know. His attitude was infectious. He distracted her. He was a distraction, and he was big, and warm, and safe, and if she wanted to try hard enough, she could just imagine...
No, there would be no imagining. "I will not replace her for you," she had told him, and nor would he replace anyone for her. It had happened, her "great love" was dead, and there would be no more real joy in her heart. She looked forward to a lifetime off cynicism and hate. The way it was before, it would be again. No great loss.
They parted from the kiss and she exhaled a sigh. His fingers were warm against her face as he brushed the hair away from her cheek, tucked it back behind an ear. The both of them reeked of liquor and desperate sorrow. She'd murmured his name, he'd whispered hers... It was only a matter of course that they ended up in the inn together.
They spent a better part of the night wrapped in each other, in every imaginable position, nothing said amidst the grunts and growls and groans and moans, until he'd finally finished on top of her, and fallen onto her, and she'd wrapped her arms around him and combed fingers through his hair. She lost track of time, laying there. And then he'd gotten off of her, and rolled over, and gone to sleep. She did the same. To her credit, she didn't cry.
The hunter laced up the black shirt deftly, his back to her. She dropped her head back to the pillow and closed her eyes. That little voice that had been so fitful the night before hassled her to say something, do something, but the bed was mindlessly comfortable. It made her weak all over; her muscles were like melted wax, or under a spell. The dozing sleep overtook her. She never fell back into sleep quite completely; it was impossible with his presence, being ever-aware of it.
At long last, he picked up his things, tucked them under an arm. She opened that single eye, the one not pressed into the pillow, and stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something - and closed it again. The air grew thick with awkwardness. Rhowen watched him until he shut the door behind himself.