Thread: ~Clash~

For a long moment, silence held its reign over the pair of them. The prisoner had not expected otherwise, too dazzled by the image before him to think further then to take in this wondrous sight. His eyes danced over every inch of her that he could see, finally coming to rest upon her face. As he watched her, he became aware of a feeling inside him, a warm, loopy kind of joy, swelling up from his gut. He understood it as a rather pleasant reaction of his body to the sight before him, but knew nothing else about it, blind to his own attraction for this beautifully regal visitor. As the lights harsh glare ebbed, his own features came into clearer focus. His body, while thin as a rod, was also possessed of a slightly broad pair of shoulders and chest, long slender arms ending in hands that were bare of even the faintest callous. Feeble though he was,the light-less years had preserved a smooth and unblemished skin. He was mostly hairless save for the winding growth atop his head, and age, though he was only roughly a year younger then the girl before him, had left him without trace of facial hair, a curiously common trait among his people. Even deprived as it was, his color was darker then hers, a tanned brown one would expect from a boy who had worked out under the sun for years on end. The most peculiar feature however, were the tattoos. The same symbol was festooned upon varying parts of his body, a golden band, forming a perfect circle. One of the smaller ones, about two inches in diameter, was half hidden in his hairline, aligned with the center of his face. Another, about twice as large, had been put upon the joint of arm and shoulder, with progressively smaller ones on the side of his elbow and the back of his hand. His right limb was bear of these markings but his similarly sided leg had set much like his arm, upon the side of his hip, knee and ankle. They were a rich dark gold in hue, matching nicely with his skin, their artists skill shone in their rendering of a rather perfect circle. When at last, the girl opposite this curious boy spoke, his mind exploded into a rich joy almost as precious of the sight he so relished. Words! She had spoken to him, and so overjoyed was he to have herd her speak, he did not seem to mind her rather brash greeting. His own reply was at first to take a series of short quick step which would bring his own face rather close to hers. She had broken so many rules of his shadowed and cloistered life, that his curiosity had gotten the better of him. His eyes bright with fascination and a stinging regret for moving closer to the source of the light, he began studying her face in much closer detail, finding delight in every detail he discovered. Finally, it occurred to him that he should answer her question. It had been so many year he had almost forgotten the very basics of conversing. Prisoner of King. He said simply, for that was the one thing he had been told, when he awoke to find himself upon the cold stone floor, already in darkness. The king had spoken to him then, they only words he had herd since that horrifying awakening, until this girl had come. He had told the prisoner that day, that he had been captured, and would spend the rest of his days as his prisoner. Then he had walked away, his footsteps fading as the boy that day had fought back the clawing pain that assaulted him. Tilting his head to examine her face from differing angles, he remembered something from his childhood, a question that every small child knew, and used rather frequently when meeting someone their own age for the first time. He posed it to her now, smiling as he did. Will you be my friend? An observer might have found the whole affair rather ridiculous, and maybe even funny.