#ic;short

[refugii-blog]

[refugii-blog]

        [                  Places various wild flowers in a stolen, chipped             mug  alongside her cot.  Perhaps  if he  lingers,            he'd  be  given  the  gratification  of  seeing  a             blossoming  smile upon  view  of  his  present.

                                                                                          ]

[refugii-blog]

⇋ sokkarang liked for a starter ⇋

   "Where is it, Sokka?

                                 I know you took it."

[refugii-blog]

"If you're going to read bedtime stories, you should do it out for everyone to hear, Bubbles—- some kids might get jealous."

[khets-blog-blog-blog]

+ amxzonian

{ ;♔☾< } ——            the king had dark and squinted eyes to protect him from blowing sand, one hand rested on the golden khopesh across his back, feet a distance apart to hold his weight. a leopard skin was displayed across his shoulders with his long brown hair brushing against the fur, beaded with gold. no less than twenty guards stood inches behind, stone-faced and brandishing the finest bronze-arrowed bows, all readied for his command.

            "--we have expected you for a time," he spoke coldly, taking her light skin and dark hair for the appearance of an assyrian, the fear from the north, the people he guarded his kingdom against. "though from the threat your people promise to be, i did not expect to receive from them a lone woman as a messenger."

[apates]

+ amxzonian

            she is not a particularly delicate woman herself, and the sense to recognize that in others is undeniable. her lips twitch upwards out of their neutral frown, eyes fix the stranger in mild curiosity.

            a short, welcoming word is all she offers, clasping her fingers together. "--salve."

[apates]

                  the knuckles on her left hand grow white from the pressure of her grip, nails scratching harshly on the brass handle. she can smell the tinny odor of it. it has turned darker, spotted green from disuse, and she can feel the substance scratch off under those long nails; hears it whine like a creaking door.

                  the solitude would be the death of her.