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Thread Title: 「 Can’t Help Falling in Love 」 

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While walking, you wince from a cold gust that rips past you. It stings your nose a bit, and your ears are starting to feel numb. Once it’s gone, and you open your eyes, you notice  a soft, pink petal has landed on the bridge of your muzzle. That’s a bit strange, isn’t it? Where could it have come from? Is it a sign? A blessing or warning?

Thread Participants

OOC partner: Pink
Character 1: Azrael
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Desired skills: Warrior, Seer
No triggers listed

OOC partner: Rosie
Character 2: Imogen
Alignment: Neutral Good
Desired skills: N/A
No triggers listed

[The Royal Bastians of Arbonne | Info & Adoptables]

Imogen was getting used to life on her own, though she readily dreamed about living with a group once more. It was difficult to deny the simplicity of living with the company of only herself, but Imogen did not seek simplicity. She sought extravagance and excellence in all things, never shying away from displeasing others or stirring the pot. A little drama only added spice to life, did it not? Without Koga, her life was definitely more bland. It needed some sal de mer or herbes de provence, and quick!

A cold wind blew, and Imogen shivered. She was used to the cold by now, but it still cut like a knife – and this gust, especially. It blew with such ferocity that Imogen wondered if a storm was rushing in, and she cursed Jesus for somehow cursing her with an existence that required her to weather storms without as much as a tent to shield her – but just as quickly as it came, it was gone.

Imogen hadn’t realized that she closed her eyes, until they were open. Across her field of vision, very close indeed, was a smudge of pale pink. Imogen narrowed her eyes, seeing if she could see what it was. She shook her head from side to side and it fell from the bridge of her snout, floating towards the ground below. Imogen then pressed her coal-black nose into the velvety curves of the flower petal, unsure where it came from. She immediately forgot about the impending storm, and lost any awareness of her surroundings.

If there was someone nearby, la contessa had no idea.

skill: [none]

The wind bites.

It should not be in here. This is a cave. This is the second time this has happened. He doesn't know exactly how to feel, going into a cave to be warm and coming out cold. But there it is, the biting wind, and he shudders. Then, a need to sneeze. That's a flower petal, and Azrael is pretty sure he has hay fever. Ugh. Another weakness of this body.

He doesn't bother with the forgotten petal, eager to keep moving, but there's a woman there, and she wasn't there before. His ears swivel backwards. Women appearing out of nowhere was something Slaanesh liked to do.

(and he can still feel the touch of soft fingers against his scalp, the warmth of the woman's lap, the soft sound of her laughter. "things denied to you when you became a tool and not a man.")

She's pretty, and that's a dangerous thing. Soft things are the sharpest knives against a skin that's used to pain. He backs up, putting more distance between himself and her, but there's not much room before the wall comes close.

By now, the scrambling of his claws against stone would certainly get someone's attention.

[The Royal Bastians of Arbonne | Info & Adoptables]

The flower petal delt divine against her nose. It was almost as if her black nose was ultra-feeling, and the petal itself was made of the finest crushed velvet. The smell was faint, but she was able to perceive it in its fullest splendor; the soft floral effects riding upon the more earthy scent of the tierra firma from which it sprouted. The color was something Imogen rarely saw these days, in Mythris -- it reminded her of the pink-satin sheets that lined the cushions of her bed-chamber, that caressed her skin as she slept for lengthy, lazy hours.

All her senses (even her memory) were so heightened, so whipped up by the gust of wind, that it felt as if she had sniffed those special powders that were so prominent at fêtes. Where once she had thought there was nothing for her ears to behold besides her own snuffling on the ground, La Contessa realized there was something else scrabbling about. She lifted her crown and gaze, her vision soft and taking in all around her, and that was when she saw him.

Bonjour, cher monsieur ("Good morning, dear Sir") she greeted with simple propriety, lapsing into her native tongue with the strange self of aloof-receptiveness that her mind was experiencing. She even proffered a small curtsy ~ which, in the transition from human to wolf, looked something like a dip of her head with a lift & curl of one foreleg ~ smiled at him, then looked back at the flower, suddenly curious about how a wind had been strong enough to bring a single flower petal in the depths of a cave. Were there others? and, once more, wouldn't the frigidity of winter blight out any pale, delicate blooms long before they had even a chance to evolve?

Once against, Imogen seemed lost in thought, thoroughly captivated with the simple wonder that had fallen across the bridge of her maw.

skill: [none]

Every cell in his body urges caution. He is the sort of creature that breaks things, and this woman does not seem like one who needs to be broken. It seems wrong, for the two of them to be in the same room. And yet fate would have deemed it so, scheming to put him in a position like this. He keeps his distance, noticing her mannerisms. He does not speak the language she does. What she had said may very well be a curse.

Yet, from her posture, he does not think it so.

"Do you know where we are?" He had gone into a cave for warmth against a winter wind. He does not know how he stands here now. His posture remains stiff, unnaturally still, as he occasionally glances about the unusually warm chamber they're in.

Is this the work of daemons?