Her color is pink. The color of distillates as they dripped down the philters and settled in to the melting wax. She dreamed of something more. She dreamed of something full of life and living and breathing, pulsing with its own will and breath. She dreamed of creating from nothing and found that it was possible with her own two hands. It’s the stain on her fingers from the boiled ingredients splashing with every pour. She just needed better equipment and better funding. Her color is pink because it is the color of victus; life.
His color is copper. It’s gun metal and smoke, the taste of sulfur and fire. It’s the sunsets over the far horizon before going in to a warm hearth with a pot on the kettle. A thick husky voice raw from years of screaming and service, but warm and polished soft with something that he claims isn’t love. It’s the color of his cape- the one later stained with guilt and grief. His color is copper because there’s blood mixed in with his gunpowder, brown and dried.
Her color is green, like a new leaf. It’s the blooming bud of a new sapling, the promise of a new life filled with struggle and reward. It’s her dreams of a family tree not smothered under the boughs of a dark history and tradition. Smiles of warmth and sunshine help the sapling grow in to a strong willow that snaps when the forest around it tries to choke it out. Her color is new green because she is blooming in the tree tops, looking for a brighter tomorrow despite crooked roots in the dirt below.
Her color is light blue. It’s a stark contrast to the blood red of her blade. It’s the soft shadow under her horns, and of the bruising and blush on her skin. It’s the glint of fresh snow, still soft under the sun. It’s the banners of Rimefjell college and frost hall’s outpost. It’s nonabrasive and gentle, it’swell worn books, once navy and azure faded with time and use- pages flipped a thousand times before being flipped again. Her color is light blue because it is the shroud her best friend was buried in.
His color is white. It’s the white strike of metal as it scrapes over the stone. It’s the drifting of clouds over an endless sky. It’s his hide, even when it’s smudged with soot or coal. White is the blind rage and the searing vigor behind the slash of his blade. It’s the sparks of frost off of the blade as it digs in to flesh and the rend of wounds seconds before the blood starts to gush and stain. His color is white because it is the color of lightning as it strikes around his fury.
Her color is red. It’s a bright crimson like a toadstool or redcap. It’s the soft hint of lips and a gentle kiss by the flickering fireside out on the trade road. It’s the canvas of their cart, posted up with small banners to announce their arrival. It’s her love’s blood weeping from sores, and the uniform of the guards as they’re separated. It’s the color of her anger, and of the injustice that separates them. Her color is red because it’s the color of vengeance and resolve.