#* ormir

[nightingalearkyn]

My, my, those eyes like fire

I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre

Come now, bite through these wires

I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired

Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher

Grow back your sharpest teeth, you know my desire

@ormir

[nightingalearkyn]

@ormir LOCATION: Nornwatch tower (troupe)

The hopes that Arkyn would find some sense of familiarity among the faces of those no longer pristine had lingered the longer they'd walked the caves. Their desperation etched into the grime that settled into the crevice of features young and old did nothing to differentiate one from the next. In time, he wondered who would brave the new world, at the edge of Iskaldrik and with what kind of fervor their intentions swelled. The depths of the caves had not clawed their way into his psyche like so many others, the cries of children and elderly alike, turned around by the endless darkness, trudging through silt and rock, twisting thoughts and ankles all the same. Where some reached for the light as it broke the abyss, Arkyn sought out only the sound of a bird. The chill in the air and the light of the sun offered no warmth at all, and yet still, the jagged-toothed tower offered something more than the demons that followed, still lingering in the pit of the caves. The wind whistled, and somewhere along the gust that picked up the harrowing scent of the blight, he heard the lively twitter that would surpass the attention of very few. The tiny wren hopped from one shark tooth rock to the next, and though the nightingale's attention lay upon the desolate edge that dropped off to darkness beyond, fingertips moved with greater intention. Calloused, cracked digits orchestrated a song that could only be heard by those fluent in silence - a suffix that he soon choked on as that familiarity he might have momentarily sought out appeared before him The dim light of the nearby scones offered little more than the dance of harrowing shadows painting features with the same hollow disbelief that he felt in the pit of his stomach. Ormir. He'd been certain he'd never see the man again; perhaps it might have been best. "You're alive."

The obvious statement feels like a slumber of almost two years of desolate heartache climbing back up in his throat, using each and every rib as a step stool on its way. His once lover - no, it was so much more than that - his hearts fire had always maintained an existence far too close to the fallen King, and as such - Arkyn was sure he'd have fallen along with the kingdom itself. Thoughts that he'd later outwardly claim to have never traipsed over. He clears his throat, "You should head inside, the chill out here is as bitter as any old woman."

[nightingalearkyn]

@ormir notes: were just out here okay

Out of sight, out of mind. A place in which, Arkyn had never been able to hide Ormir. Were it the thought of returning home to him and entwining limb and lips until the sun brought the following day - or the ache that festered until the organ within his chest all but withered, the lord hand, was a fixture. A constant, in all the ways he'd never hoped for. Memory struck of a fleeting glance between them. Caught somewhere between the rush of those leaving the safety of the ground they held and those that sought to follow the King. Knowing, that Ormir would undoubtedly follow drew the withered organ to life until it beat with an echoing, thunderous beat that had barely been drowned out by the storm building overhead - had he heard? Had Ormir heard the screaming? Those of which pleaded, silently with him, to stay. To turn away from the path the King led him - to the certain death that the mountain range promised. It had been fleeting, and yet now, as he moved throughout the street and noted the man leaving the stone cropping, a far nobler lodging than the one he'd found himself, he felt only fury burn through him. "I have nothing to say to you," he bit out, as he passed by. As if Ormir had begged the question of a word at all in the first place.

But, that was not the truth. Arkyn made it a further four steps before his better judgement drew him to an immediate halt. The transcendent feel that prickled within the tips of his fingers begged to tear into his own chest, rip his heart from beneath the safety of it's skeletal cage, and hand it to the Lord Hand. With or without the silver platter. He turned, rounding upon Ormir with a certain ferocity in his step that had kept him quiet ever since he felt the man slipping from his grasp. "You would follow him to certain death." Statement. He doesn't need to beg the question. "Were the King dancing the precipice of the edge of the world, you would be right beside him. Blind to the fact that he draws you ever closer to your end." The slack of his jaw tightens, muscle flexing against grit teeth as he surveys his lost love - because that is what he is, lost. A step closer, "He would offer you the world and only give you the smallest window with which to see it, and you would still love him for it, wouldn't you?"